An Immoral Code (25 page)

Anthony turned down the heat beneath the pasta which he was cooking and glanced at his watch. Then he picked up the bottle of wine which he had opened, plus a couple of glasses, and wandered through to the living room. Camilla was sitting sideways on the sofa, her knees drawn slightly up, almost defensively, staring at the paper, unaware that her skirt had slid back to reveal the tops of her black stockings. That, together with the slightly troubled, childish look on her pretty face made her look extremely – if unintentionally – erotic. Anthony handed her a glass of wine and sat down next to her on the sofa. Camilla sat up awkwardly, pulling down her skirt, the newspaper sliding to the floor.

‘Cheer up,’ he said, taking a sip of his wine and stroking her cheek. He leant over and kissed her softly on the mouth, then drew back, contemplating her. ‘You are,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘incredibly sexy. Did you know that?’ They looked at one another for a few seconds, and then Anthony took the wine glass from Camilla’s hand and set it down on the floor next to the sofa. ‘Come here,’ he said, drawing her towards him and kissing her with greater intensity.

Oh God, thought Camilla, this was too nice, far too nice. And clearly Anthony thought so, too. He unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse and kissed her skin just above her breasts, his breathing growing harder, and Camilla, in spite of herself, arched her body slightly towards him at the pleasurable sensation. Why was it, she wondered, that her body seemed to respond so effortlessly, so easily to everything he did, when her
mind was doing frantic, unconnected things somewhere else? She could feel his hands sliding inside her clothing, over her breasts, and with a little moan she lay back on the sofa beneath him, let him kiss and touch her. Then she heard herself say, for some reason, ‘What about the pasta?’

‘Oh, sod the pasta,’ muttered Anthony, and began feverishly to try to unfasten her clothing.

Camilla struggled into something of an upright position. ‘No, really,’ she murmured, ‘won’t it burn? I mean – shouldn’t you …’

Anthony stopped what he was doing and looked at her. She could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his half-unbuttoned shirt as his breathing slowed. ‘What
are
you going on about?’ he asked.

Camilla said nothing, tried to straighten her hair, and Anthony pushed her gently back on the sofa, resuming his kissing and exploration of her underwear. But again she pushed him off. ‘Don’t,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t?’ Anthony propped his head on one elbow and looked at her in astonishment. ‘It’s not the pasta that’s bothering you, is it? Come on, what’s up?’

‘It’s just …’ Camilla let out a sigh and met Anthony’s gaze. How absolutely lovely he looked, she thought, with his hair all rumpled, that little pulse beating in his neck. What on earth was wrong with her? Maybe she should just tell him, get it out of the way. She drew in her breath and said, ‘If you want to know, I really don’t think this is such a good idea. I mean, it’s just … I’m not, you know, very experienced.’ He said nothing. Oh, God, thought Camilla, this was coming out all wrong. What did she sound like? She put her hands over her eyes so that she would not have to look at him and said quickly, ‘Actually, I’m quite scared of this. Of you. I’m frightened that I won’t be any good. And everything has been so nice between
us up till now, that I just think it would be awful if we made a mess of things.’

There was a silence, and then Camilla could feel his body shaking against hers. She realised he was laughing. He pulled her hands away from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, still laughing. ‘But you are so sweet. You really are.’ She watched him uncertainly as his laughter died away, leaving only a smile so thoroughly filled with affection that she began to feel distinctly better about everything even before he spoke. ‘I don’t want you to worry about anything at all. There is absolutely nothing
to
worry about. Don’t think about it. Do what comes naturally. I have to say that, until you started going on about the pasta, you were doing it very well indeed.’ He kissed her lightly. ‘Would it help,’ asked Anthony gently, ‘if I were to tell you that you are the most desirable, the most fantastic turn-on anyone could imagine? And that I want you very, very much?’ She nodded, and he kissed her again, drawing her against him so that she began once more to feel that familiar, dizzying heat spreading through her body. Only this time her anxiety had subsided, and she returned his kiss hungrily. Anthony drew his mouth away from hers. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I shall go on telling you all night, because it’s true.’

Half an hour later she was lying face down on the rumpled sheets of Anthony’s bed, inert, drowsily happy. She smiled and shivered as Anthony drew his fingers lightly across her shoulders, then dipped his head to kiss the curve of her back. He lay down, his head next to hers on the pillow, lightly lifting strands of hair from the side of her face so that he could look at her properly. She was wonderful. Soft and voluptuous, eager and wonderfully unspoilt. He lay looking at her, and thought how completely he loved her. Nothing could be more worthwhile than the amount of time he had spent getting to know her, learning gradually that he wanted her in a way which he had never wanted anyone else before.

She looked back at him, trying to fathom the faraway look in his eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’ she murmured.

‘I’m thinking,’ said Anthony, shifting slightly and turning his head to stare at the ceiling, ‘how stupid I have been up till now. How I have always got things the wrong way round.’ He looked back at her. ‘But now they are just as they should be.’

She smiled. He had been absolutely right. She had worried about nothing. Clearly sex with someone you really loved was very different from any other kind. Anyway, she had taken him at his word and had done what came naturally, and it had been wonderful. And in spite of her own sense of awkwardness, Anthony seemed to like her very much without her clothes on, so that was all right. In fact, it was more than all right. She felt prized, desired, perfect … and then suddenly remembered what Anthony had been doing in the kitchen before all this.

‘I’m still a bit worried about that pasta,’ she remarked.

‘Oh, bugger,’ said Anthony, and leapt out of bed.

Rachel went to Mr Rothwell the next morning with her proposal for attending the conference in Sydney. She had discussed it with Leo the previous evening and he had seemed perfectly happy for her to go, so long as Jennifer was able to work during the evenings. In fact, he had been enthusiastic and supportive in a way which quite cheered her up. Now, as she sat before Mr Rothwell in his office, she felt confident, buoyant.

‘… so I thought I could present a paper on mycotoxins in cargoes. I’ve noticed that it’s something which exercises our Japanese clients when it comes to food cargoes, and there doesn’t seem to have been much coverage of it so far. I’ve been studying the Working Party’s latest report, and I think it would make an original topic.’

James Rothwell swivelled his chair from side to side and regarded Rachel thoughtfully. Ever since that confrontation with her at the end of last year he had felt rather wary of her. That cool, beautiful composure of hers had always daunted him, and the business of salary differentials had added a certain guilty unease. Still, she hadn’t mentioned it again. No doubt she
realised that it was only a point of principle, and that she and her husband earned enough money between them to make it not worthwhile fussing over. He was somewhat surprised, however, that she was so keen to travel to this conference, and leave her baby for a week. Perhaps there was some hidden agenda. He mulled over her suggestion for a few seconds.

‘All very complex and scientific, though, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly,’ said Rachel. Her manner was not exactly eager, since she was too contained to manifest that kind of emotion, but her voice took on a certain intensity. ‘There’s an enormous amount of scientific literature on the subject, and the governments in different countries all seem to issue different guidelines. I think it would be useful to provide simplified background information and some advice on what shipowners should do if they run into problems over mould growth in cargoes.’

James Rothwell nodded. It would be quite impressive to have someone from the firm covering this kind of area, and Rachel was sufficiently meticulous to ensure that any paper she presented would be of the highest standard. Those looks of hers would go down well, too. Her Japanese clients had brought in a great deal of useful extra business, and this could be a way of courting some more. The firm could do with some Pacific Rim expansion. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If you think you can get it together in two weeks’ time. I understand you’ve got quite a heavy caseload at the moment?’

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure I can handle it.’ She would just have to find time after Oliver was asleep.

Rachel left Mr Rothwell’s office, mentally calculating the amount of office time she could set aside for working on the paper, and found the phone ringing in her room when she returned. ‘Hello?’

‘Rachel? This is Charles. Charles Beecham.’ At the sound of his voice she smiled with pleasure and sat back in her chair.
‘Sorry I couldn’t call back the other day. I had to spend all afternoon doing a voice-over for this series. Anyway, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. And you?’

‘I’m being run completely ragged at the moment, if you want to know the honest truth. I’ve been banging backwards and forwards between the studio and the British Library for the past two weeks. I’m trying to research my next series on the history of China. I thought I knew quite a lot about it, but in fact I know practically next to nothing. Which is not good news for someone who’s meant to be presenting an authoritative historical perspective.’ He wondered if he was babbling. ‘Anyway, it would do me a large amount of good to see you. How’s your work going?’

‘Very well, actually. I’m about to start putting together a paper on mycotoxins in food cargoes,’ replied Rachel. It struck her for the first time how much she liked Charles’s voice, which seemed to be racy yet relaxed at the same time.

‘Now that,’ said Charles, ‘sounds fantastically boring. Just the thing to take my mind off the Shang dynasties in twelfth-century BC. I feel I need to go into a catatonic state just to wind down. Why don’t we have lunch together, and while you talk to me about those thingies in cargoes I can drink too much wine and let my eyes glaze over.’ And feast themselves upon you, he thought. He had had several vivid and erotic fantasies about Rachel since she had stayed at his house over Christmas, and on the more metaphysical side had felt distinct pangs each time he passed the window seat in his drawing room. With any luck, he told himself, relations between her and her husband might have deteriorated even further. Not a charitable thought, he knew, but sometimes one had to press the worst kind of hopes into service in the cause of a successful seduction.

Rachel laughed. It was wonderful, talking to a man who
amused you. Leo had once, when he had cared to. Thinking of this, she remembered the deal which they had struck about leading separate lives. There could be no harm in having lunch with Charles, could there? Yet she knew that even having to ask herself that question was an indication that she did not entirely trust her own feelings where Charles was concerned. And she was well aware that Charles’s intentions regarding their relationship were not of an entirely platonic nature. Still, it would simply be a question of making sure the thing stayed purely friendly. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’d like that.’ She flipped through the pages of her desk diary. ‘Next week doesn’t look too busy.’

‘No,’ replied Charles firmly. ‘Now that you’ve said yes, I want to see you as soon as possible. Waiting till next week would be pure torment.’ No harm in a little positive flirtation, thought Charles. Can’t pretend to be too platonic and matey, or the signals get distorted. She’s got to fancy me a bit, after all, even if she thinks we’re just good friends. ‘In fact, today – no, can’t do today. Tomorrow. How about tomorrow?’

Rachel laughed, a little taken aback. ‘Well, it’s a little sudden, but I suppose …’

‘Excellent,’ said Charles briskly. ‘Caprice. You know Le Caprice? Let’s say twelve-thirty. How’s that?’ They might not have a table at such short notice, but he’d just have to pull rank, play the Channel Four celebrity card. In fact, he’d pop into the restaurant personally on his way back from the studio later today. A smile known to work miracles should be put to good use.

‘Fine,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ll see you then.’ And Charles, in his mercurial fashion, hung up and was gone.

That evening, Sarah was sitting in her favourite wine bar with a handful of friends. It was eight-thirty; she knew she
should be preparing for that tutorial on letters of credit and documentary transfers tomorrow morning, but she couldn’t be bothered. If she smiled seductively at Benjamin, that swot with the overactive sebaceous glands in her tutorial group, he would let her copy out his work and, with a few subtle amendments, she could pass it off as her own. He had been getting a bit iffy about that lately, and she might have to resort to something a little more tantalising than smiling to keep him sweet. Not an appetising thought, but anything was better than staying home working every night. Not that she had any intention of failing her Bar finals. She would wait until the exams were four weeks away, and then get her head down. As these thoughts passed through her mind, she turned and glanced with mild interest at the newcomer to the group whom someone was introducing, casually appraising him with her habitual half-smile. He was tall, with a lazy, sardonic face, and dark hair which fell over his eyes, which he pushed back every so often with his hand. He sat down next to Sarah with his drink. He put out his hand and she shook it.

‘You’re a solicitor? Which firm do you work for?’ asked Sarah.

‘More Church,’ replied the man. ‘Know it?’

‘Vaguely,’ replied Sarah, raising her glass to drink, aware that she was being subjected to an appraisal every bit as arrogant as her own. She noticed that the man had a pleasantly drawling voice of the public school variety, which she always found something of a turn-on. To her it betokened a superb indifference, which she preferred to everyday demonstrations of polite interest. Those bored her. She added, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Richard Crouch,’ he replied.

‘What kind of work do you do?’

‘Oh, shipping, commercial stuff … Actually, I’m involved
in the Lloyd’s litigation at the moment. Acting for a firm of auditors, Marples and Clark.’

Sarah’s glance narrowed imperceptibly. ‘You mean this Capstall thing – where the Names on his syndicate are suing the managing agents, and everyone else in sight?’

Richard glanced at her in slight surprise, but without adjusting his pose of casual unconcern. ‘Are you familiar with the case?’

‘Hmm.’ Sarah smiled and let her glance slide away. ‘You might say that.’ And as she thought of Anthony, not without a tiny pang of bitterness, one of those coincidences of thought and event occurred, and she looked towards the doorway and saw Anthony himself coming into the wine bar with Camilla. They went to sit at a table near the window, while Sarah and her friends were tucked further back in the smokey recesses, but still she could see him quite clearly. Her pulse quickened slightly at the surprise of encountering him. She had imagined they might bump into each other before now in the confines of the Temple, but this was, in fact, the first time she had seen him since they had spoken on the phone. Her attention distracted from the man at her side, she watched as Anthony said something to Camilla, then reached out and put his hand over hers before getting up and going over to the bar. Sarah turned away quickly, anxious, for some reason she could not presently fathom, not to be seen by either Anthony or Camilla.

She turned back to Richard Crouch. ‘I’m sorry – what were you saying?’

‘It was what you were saying, actually – about the Capstall case.’

‘Oh—’ Sarah hesitated, glanced briefly again at Anthony as he walked back to his table with a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Oh, yes … I …’ She was about to say that she knew someone who was involved in it, and then she was fleetingly touched by malicious inspiration. ‘Actually,’ she said slowly,
mischievously, catching Richard’s eye, ‘I heard something rather interesting the other day about a couple of the barristers who are working on that case.’

Richard’s lazy expression brightened. Like all City solicitors, he relished good gossip. He raised his glass and drank, his eyes on Sarah’s face, and murmured, ‘Do tell me.’

‘Well,’ Sarah leant forward and lowered her voice slightly, ‘apparently the two counsel who are acting for the Names have been having a bit of a fling together.’

He stared at her in mild but genuine astonishment. ‘The two instructed by Nichols and Co? But that’s Leo Davies and – and – what’s the other chap’s name?’

‘Oh, I forget,’ murmured Sarah. ‘They’re in the same chambers. Anthony something.’

‘Cross. Anthony Cross,’ recalled Richard. ‘Good grief. You mean they’re actually …?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘Apparently. It’s what I’ve heard. Quite a passionate affair, by all accounts.’

At that moment another man appeared and tapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘Come on. I booked that table for half eight.’

Richard glanced up at him and drained his glass. Then he said to Sarah, ‘Sorry, have to go. Meeting some friends for dinner. Anyway …’ He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘It was interesting talking to you. See you again, perhaps.’

‘Bye,’ murmured Sarah, half-smiling. She watched him leave. Then she sat back in her chair, musing, wondering how long it would take that little breath of scandal to seep through the ranks of barristers and solicitors working on the Capstall case. If her judgment of Mr Crouch was correct, she imagined it would not be very long.

The next day Charles sat waiting for Rachel in the restaurant, trying to concentrate on the newspaper which he had brought
with him, glancing up each time someone came through the door, his heart taking a little dive of disappointment when it wasn’t her. A number of women diners glanced across occasionally at the lanky, good-looking man in the corner with the greying blonde hair, vaguely recognising his features and trying to place him, but he was oblivious of their attention. He felt exactly as he had done when he was sixteen, and had waited forty-five minutes outside the fish and chip shop in Richmond High Street for the girl he had thought would be the love of his life. Valerie. He would never forget her. She hadn’t showed up. Maybe Rachel wouldn’t show up either. He sighed, returned to his paper, and was just becoming interested in an item about genetic engineering in tomatoes when she appeared. He hadn’t even seen her come in. Suddenly she was just there, smiling down at him, and he scrambled away his paper and stood up, leaning across to kiss her. Heads in the restaurant turned again.

As she sat down, he marvelled at how vivid and compelling the reality of her was. His imperfect recollections of her were insipid by comparison. She was wearing her hair tied back, revealing her long, slender neck, and was wearing some woollen, clinging dress of greyish blue. She looked older, more sophisticated than she had done in shirt and jeans, and Charles felt faintly intimidated by her composure. He had no idea that Rachel had spent twenty minutes that morning deciding what to wear, or that her apparently serene manner now was due to nervous restraint. She had told herself that she had no business worrying about what to wear. It was only lunch with a friend, after all. Why, then, had she felt a faint tremor of guilt as she fastened on the silver filigree necklace which Leo had given her the Christmas before last, when she had supposed him still in love with her?

But any faint troublings of her conscience were eclipsed now by the sight of Charles. He smiled his broad, captivating smile, but without his usual self-conscious intent.

‘You look—’ The appropriate superlative eluded him. ‘Very well,’ said Charles, gazing at her, then glancing away as if in search of a waiter, in case his admiration was too obvious.

‘Thank you,’ replied Rachel. ‘I think I’m a great deal better than when I last saw you.’

Again his heart took a little tumble off the springboard. Oh God, she and her husband were back together again, everything was sorted out, and he was going to have to sit through an agonising lunch listening to a rhapsodic account of how perfect her marriage was. He needed a drink. Forcing a smile, he asked, ‘You mean everything’s all right now? With your husband, I mean?’ It really was ridiculous the effect that she had on him. Charles Beecham, the suave media personality, the handsome Lothario, reduced to a mass of nervous longing by this cool creature.