An Immoral Code (6 page)

‘… and you know, they say we should have realised what we were getting into, but frankly, Mr Cross, when I joined Lloyd’s it was mainly to have somewhere new to lunch. One has to trust one’s agents and underwriters, and so forth, or where is one?’ Anthony nodded as she talked, and let his mind wander back to that moment when Sarah and he had begun to tear one another’s clothes off, laughing and kissing at the same time. The recollection was extraordinarily erotic, and its physical effect on him obliged him to shift his stance as he listened attentively to Mrs Hunter.

On the other side of the room Fred excused himself to fill glasses, leaving Leo and Charles Beecham together.

‘I think we all feel a lot better after talking to you today,’ Charles confided to Leo. ‘Losing Ellwood was something of a blow. I suppose it must be rather daunting for you, stepping into his shoes at this stage.’

Leo smiled and surveyed Beecham’s boyishly attractive features. He had found himself glancing at the man occasionally during the meeting, and wondering. There was something faintly effeminate about him, about his mannerisms, his blonde curling hair. ‘I doubt whether you found me particularly reassuring,’ he replied.

‘On the contrary,’ said Charles. Leo returned Charles’s smile and wondered whether he was right, whether he could really read an unmistakeable sign of interest in those grey eyes, or whether the chap was just naturally friendly. He felt stirrings of excitement. Absurd, and distinctly bizarre, to be
attracted to one’s client. Dangerous, too. But just the kind of situation which Leo relished. Not that there was any question of developing anything at present. Yet it added a distinct spice to the proceedings, to consider the possibilities. At that moment Anthony, who had made his escape from Mrs Hunter, approached them.

‘I’m going to head off now, unless you need me,’ he said to Leo.

Leo glanced at his watch. Please, thought Anthony, don’t say you want to go back to chambers to go over things. But Leo merely nodded and said, ‘Fine. I’d suggest discussing matters tonight, but I’ve got some things I have to do.’

Relief swept Anthony. In under an hour he would have her in bed, and be able to relive every incredible second of last Friday night. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘see you tomorrow.’

During this exchange Charles Beecham had turned away to reply to something which Freddie had said to him. Standing alone, Leo let his gaze rest speculatively on Charles’s lanky figure for a moment. Then his thoughts turned to that evening, the appointment he had to keep, the thing he had to do. He felt a heaviness, a longing for it to be over and done with. He finished his glass of wine, gathered his papers together, said goodnight to those who remained, and went down in the lift. In the taxi on the way to Islington, he tried to rehearse what he was going to say, but found it impossible. It was bad enough having to do this, without working out beforehand how to. But the thing had gone on long enough. It had been an amusing diversion at first, but now it had grown stale and Leo was bored. It had to end.

He found Francis in the middle of cooking a meal for them both. The table in his small living room was carefully laid, dark blue linen napkins and tablecloth, white plates, shining glasses, candles … Francis always went to such trouble. But it was his nature to attend meticulously to detail. In this he reminded
Leo vaguely of Rachel. In fact, they were rather alike. Although Rachel was dark and Francis fair, both were slender, hesitant, hiding their vulnerability beneath cool exteriors. Leo recalled how casual and indifferent Francis had seemed when they first met. But that pose had been dropped long ago.

Leo stood in the middle of the living room, surveying the table, only half-listening as Francis talked to him from the kitchen about his day, something about an argument he had had with some women from the personnel department. He looked up as Francis came through from the kitchen, still talking, a glass of wine in either hand.

‘Francis, I can’t stay,’ he said abruptly.

Francis halted, seeming to sway slightly as he handed Leo his wine. Leo took it, but did not drink. He could tell from the look in Francis’s eyes that Francis had read the expression on Leo’s face and understood instantly. Leo knew he should feel wretchedly guilty, but such feelings had been expunged from his repertoire of emotional responses long ago. When it came to Francis, and all the other young men like him, it was purely a matter of sex. They could dress it up with candlelit dinners and pretences of shared affection, but for Leo it was nothing more, nothing less. This had been simply an affair of a few months, and now he was ending it.

‘You haven’t taken off your coat,’ said Francis faintly, and watched as Leo set his untouched glass down carefully on the table.

‘I told you – I can’t stay.’

Francis gazed at Leo’s handsome, impassive face and tried to find some trace of compassion there, but saw none. He tried to smile. ‘Not even for dinner? I cooked …’

Oh God, thought Leo, not tears. ‘Francis,’ he said, ‘whatever was between us is over. I never pretended that there was anything in it – it was you who built up the – the—’ For once, the normally articulate Leo was lost for words.

‘The romance?’ supplied Francis. Leo said nothing. ‘The friendship? How can you deal with people in this way, Leo, pretend that there are no feelings?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ replied Leo. ‘It’s just that we don’t have the same kind of feelings, and those that I had are gone. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re not.’ The young man’s voice was slow and soft.

No, thought Leo, I’m not. He looked away. ‘There’s no point in saying anything more. I have to go.’ He turned, opened the door, and left.

Francis watched as Leo closed the door behind him, and listened to his feet on the stairs, descending unhesitatingly, their sound dying away. How very final and brutal, thought Francis. He leant against the table, looking down at Leo’s wine glass. For a moment he imagined himself sweeping away the carefully laid plates, glasses and candles with one movement of his arm, hearing the satisfying crash and observing the ruins of his carefully planned meal lying shattered on the floor. It would have been a fitting gesture, something to complement the devastating effect of Leo’s announcement. But Francis knew that it was not in his nature. Instead he sat down on one of the chairs, put his face in his hands and wept.

When Leo got home, Rachel was in the kitchen, Oliver sitting in his baby bouncer alternately waving and sucking a wooden spoon. He began to kick even more vigorously when he saw Leo. Rachel murmured hello without turning round, and as he glanced at her, it occurred bizarrely to Leo that he could simply go through the same routine that he had just done with Francis, and end it all. I can’t stay. It’s over. There is nothing between us. But that wasn’t true. In this case, it simply wasn’t true. He bent down and picked up Oliver, marvelling at the slight compactness of his body, and kissed the fat, silky folds of his neck.

‘Mmm. You are one good thing I have done in my life,’ he murmured, and Oliver dribbled happily onto the collar of Leo’s suit. He carried him over to where Rachel was stirring some pasta and kissed her lightly on the side of her face. She did not turn round. Look at us, thought Leo, a happy nuclear family. He went over to the fridge and took out a chilled bottle of wine with his free hand. ‘White all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, fine,’ said Rachel.

Leo set the bottle down and then flew Oliver above his head, making him laugh, and swooped him towards Rachel, who smiled and kissed him in mid-flight. She glanced at Leo, who was making Spitfire noises at Oliver.

‘You’re in a good mood.’

‘Am I?’

The large kitchen table was already laid, and Rachel put out the pasta and salad in dishes. Leo put Oliver back in his baby bouncer and Oliver immediately started to howl. When Leo gave him back his wooden spoon, Oliver flung it at him. Rachel fished in a drawer and brought out an egg whisk. ‘Give him this.’

‘Is he all right with it?’ asked Leo, handing it to Oliver, who was instantly placated and started to gnaw the egg whisk, goggling at Leo.

‘He’s fine. Come and sit down.’

Leo opened the wine and sat down opposite Rachel. She had both elbows on the table, the tips of her fingers pressed together, and was staring at the tabletop. Leo knew that attitude. Here comes something, he thought, and felt an odd sense of panic.

‘I have something to tell you,’ said Rachel. As he poured the wine, Leo was suddenly conscious of the warmth and security of his kitchen, of the little unit within it, and of the threat that her words seemed to contain. He thought for an instant of Francis, and for the first time felt a flash of pity for him. Or was it for himself?

Seeing that he was not going to say anything, that he was simply waiting, Rachel sipped her wine and went on. ‘I’m going back to work. I’ve arranged it with the office. I start in two weeks.’

Leo felt a curious sense of relief and anticlimax, and his feelings impelled him to a burst of honesty. ‘I thought for a moment,’ he said quietly, ‘that you were going to tell me you were leaving.’

‘I don’t think that’s an option,’ replied Rachel. ‘Not right now.’ She helped herself to salad and passed him the bread.

What did she mean by ‘not right now’? wondered Leo. He supposed it meant that she had formed some notion of going, eventually. Did he want her to leave? In some ways. In some ways she cluttered his life, obscuring its former easy enjoyment, and in some ways she was his life, she and Oliver. For no particular reason he thought of Charles Beecham, of how once the prospect of any relationship with another man would have been simple and excitingly pleasurable. Because of Rachel, and the need for evasion and lies, it couldn’t be, not now. I am simply not used to making sacrifices, thought Leo. I am too old. He glanced at Oliver, who gazed back at him steadily and trustingly as he kicked and sucked his egg whisk.

‘I have something to tell you, too,’ he said, looking back at Rachel.

‘Oh?’

‘The affair I told you about – I’ve finished it.’

She said nothing for a moment, broke her bread into pieces and chewed it rapidly. Then she said, ‘Oddly enough, I feel rather sorry for him – whoever he is.’

Leo grimaced at this, and then laughed. She looked at him in surprise.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can’t think of any other woman capable of saying that, on being told that her husband has just
discarded his homosexual lover. You are truly extraordinary.’

Rachel smiled faintly. He didn’t realise that she had already decided that it didn’t matter whether he had affairs or not. She might love him, but now it was simply a question of biding her time. ‘Don’t you want to know what arrangements I’ve made for Oliver when I start work again?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said Leo, picking up his fork, realising that he had hardly even taken in what she had told him earlier. ‘Yes. Go on. Tell me.’

From the bed, Anthony watched Sarah as she stood at her dressing table, putting on eye make-up. She was wearing only a short blue silk camisole and, as she moved, her blonde hair grazed her naked back, the curving flesh of her legs gleaming in the low light. Exhausted though he was from making love to her, there was a sensuality, a vulnerability about her pose that made him wish she would stop what she was doing and come back to bed.

He yawned and folded his arms behind his head against the crimson pillows. ‘Do we have to go to this party? I really don’t feel like it, you know, and I have to be in chambers early tomorrow to go over a few things with Leo.’ He yawned again.

Sarah smiled at him in the mirror. ‘Leo, Leo, this wonderful Leo … He plays the tune and you dance to it, don’t you? What’s the big attraction?’

Anthony glanced up at her a little sharply, and Sarah realised that her words had touched him on the raw. She smiled again, and brushed more mascara on to her lashes with deft strokes. It amused her to think that Anthony had no idea that she and
Leo had ever been just as intimate as she and Anthony currently were. More so, in some ways, if one took into account Leo’s odd predilections. She wondered if he and Leo had ever been lovers. It seemed unlikely, judging by Anthony’s character, but one never knew what lay beneath that apparently straightforward and simple exterior. It wouldn’t be like Leo to pass up someone quite as delectable as Anthony. Then again, they did work in the same chambers, and Leo liked to draw a very clear line between his public and his private life. She knew all that from experience.

‘We’re in the Court of Appeal next week,’ said Anthony. ‘You know that. It’s only three days away, and it’s vitally important that we win this point—’

‘Oh, everything’s so
vitally
important with you, Anthony!’ mocked Sarah, imitating his tone. ‘You’re so serious!’ She dropped her make-up and returned to the bed, leant down and kissed him. Then she drew away and looked at him speculatively. ‘I know what you need,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Something to pep you up.’ She smiled and went into the bathroom. She returned with a small mirror and a little cylinder of tissue paper, twisted at either end. She sat down on the edge of the bed and untwisted one end, pouring a trickle of white powder in a careful line onto the mirror. Then she fished in her bedside drawer for a piece of paper, rolled it into a little tube and held it out to Anthony.

‘There you are,’ she said, flicking back her blonde hair from her shoulder.

Anthony looked up at her. He didn’t take the paper from her.

‘Is that coke?’ he asked.

Sarah smiled. ‘Of course it is!’ she said, and waggled the little tube of paper at him. ‘Go on.’

He shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Come on. It won’t kill you. Just make you feel a bit zappier.’

‘Sarah, I’m a barrister. I don’t do drugs,’ replied Anthony indifferently, then added, ‘And if you have any ideas of being called to the Bar, you shouldn’t either.’ He turned away from her, pushing back the sheets and leaning over the other side of the bed to grope on the floor for his underwear.

She shrugged, bent down and snorted up the line of coke, holding her hair away from the mirror with her free hand. Anthony watched her as he stood up and began to button his shirt. She glanced up at him, wiping a finger beneath her nose and sniffing. ‘Oh, don’t look like that! That reproving, censorious look!’ She laughed and picked up the mirror.

‘I’m not looking like anything,’ replied Anthony mildly. ‘I just don’t see why you need it.’

His tone irritated her. ‘Oh, why does anyone need anything?’ she snapped at him. ‘Why do you need bottles of wine in El Vino’s? It’s no different, you know. If anything, it probably does you less harm.’

‘Christ, you sound like my father,’ sighed Anthony. ‘Come on, if we’re going to go to this thing, you’d better get dressed.’

There was something in his voice that made her feel defensive, as though she had been put in the wrong. The balance between them had tilted, and Sarah did not like it. Deciding to make amends, she came round the bed and put her arms about him.

‘We could stay in, if you’d rather. Get a takeaway, go back to bed, watch a movie … do lots of interesting things.’ She kissed his throat where his shirt was still unbuttoned.

Anthony looked at her, and realised that his mood had been altered by the small incident of the cocaine. It was not that he disapproved, it just didn’t interest him. He generally thought less of people for doing it, although he knew that was unfair. Whatever it was, he no longer had any desire to stay in with her. He felt that the pleasant intimacy of the past hour had been dissipated, and they might as well go to the party.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’d rather go out.’

At the party, Sarah compensated for her dented ego by behaving with carefree ostentation. She drank too much, smoked a couple of joints just to show Anthony that she didn’t care, and danced in a manner bordering on indecency with a good-looking Italian in snakeskin shoes which Anthony thought were the last word in rotten taste. He saw her as he wandered through from the kitchen with a drink, and watched, leaning against a wall. The music was heavy and insistent, the room was darkened, and someone had set up some fairly ineffective strobe lighting. Most of the people, it seemed to him, were in their late teens or twenties, and he felt he did not belong. He was too accustomed to spending time with people older than himself, and to moving in a more sophisticated world, to enjoy this kind of thing much. He preferred dinner with friends, or agreeable drinks parties where people could talk without having to shout over an insistent din, and drink and eat without being choked by cigarette smoke and jostled. There wasn’t any food here, either, except for a few sad little rectangles of cold pizza and some cheese cubes on a tray in the kitchen, and Anthony hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.

The music stopped and Sarah came over to him, smiling and out of breath. ‘What about getting out of here and going for something to eat?’ he asked.

‘Why? Aren’t you enjoying it?’

‘I’m rather bored, if you must know. I didn’t even enjoy this kind of thing much when I was a student.’

‘God, Anthony, you must have been born middle-aged! Why don’t you dance with me?’ Some slow music had started up and Sarah put her arms around his neck and started to move sinuously against him. As they danced, Sarah suddenly noticed Camilla. She had just arrived and was talking to some people in the doorway. She looked a bit better than usual, thought
Sarah, although that top she was wearing made her tits look enormous. At least she’d brushed her hair. Sarah smiled into Anthony’s shoulder. It was just a matter of timing, waiting until Camilla had seen them. She chose her moment, saw Camilla turn and glance in their direction, and she raised her mouth to Anthony’s and kissed him at some length, running her hands over his buttocks as she did so.

Camilla hadn’t realised that Sarah would be at the party – she hadn’t seen her since that evening in the Edgar Wallace. But there she was, looking unmistakeably lovely. Then suddenly Camilla recognised the man whom Sarah was kissing, and her heart contracted with pain. It must have started that evening, when she introduced Sarah to Anthony in the pub – they must have been seeing each other for three weeks. So like Sarah, thought Camilla, trying to look away and pay attention to what someone was saying to her. Any man she wanted, she got. It had been like that at Oxford. She slept with whomever she chose, and although Camilla had always been brought up to believe that that was the way you got a bad name for yourself, it never seemed to affect Sarah. She wasn’t seen as an easy lay, but as someone who knew what she wanted and just took it. Camilla wondered whether Sarah and Anthony slept together, and this prompted a painful image which she immediately tried to push from her mind.

The music ended, and Sarah glanced innocently in Camilla’s direction. ‘Oh, look, there’s Camilla,’ she said brightly.

‘Really?’ asked Anthony, turning. Because she was Jeremy’s pupil, Anthony always thought of Camilla as a sort of schoolgirl, and he didn’t really expect to see her at parties. It was ridiculous, he realised, considering she was twenty-two. Seeing Anthony looking in her direction, Camilla lifted her chin and smiled. Anthony, with Sarah at his side, crossed the room to talk to her.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you out of office hours.’

Camilla could feel her face flushing, and wished that it was something she could prevent by exercise of sheer self-control. But she couldn’t.

‘Hi,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t expect – that is … I didn’t know you knew Lesley – I mean, you know, the girl whose party it is,’ said Camilla, wishing she could appear self-possessed and cool. She had so often fantasised about meeting Anthony by chance in some social situation like this, somewhere where she wouldn’t be wearing her fusty black suit from chambers, and could dazzle him with an as yet unseen image. And here it was happening, and she still felt awkward and naive, and Sarah stood smiling at his side.

Anthony, a little surprised at the shyness of her manner, suddenly realised that she could have had no idea that he was seeing Sarah, and he felt a momentary awkward unhappiness. He had been unable to ignore the obvious fact that Camilla had something of a crush on him, and with mild conceit he acknowledged that it must be difficult for her to accept that he was going out with one of her friends. He was about to offer to fetch her a drink, when Sarah remarked, ‘That’s a pretty top. From Next, isn’t it? I’ve got one like it, but of course, you have the figure for it.’ The remark sounded entirely innocent, but Camilla felt instantly self-conscious, envious of Sarah’s fashionable, boyish figure.

She could think of nothing to say, and so merely replied, ‘I’m just going to put this in the kitchen,’ holding up a bottle of wine which she had brought. She smiled uncertainly at them both and turned away.

‘Poor old Camilla,’ murmured Sarah. ‘You’ll always find her in the kitchen at parties.’

‘I don’t know why you say that,’ said Anthony. ‘She looks very nice – quite fanciable.’ And, indeed, he had been surprised at how pretty she looked. Very nice legs. He realised that he had
never really thought of her as being female – pupils tended to be ciphers, and their place at the bottom of the pecking order in chambers prevented them from having properly developed personalities, so that one scarcely thought about them much at all. The tone of Sarah’s remark made him want to defend Camilla, because he liked her.

Sarah laughed. ‘Am I supposed to feel jealous?’

‘You?’ said Anthony. He kissed her and realised he was still hungry, and that it was getting late. ‘Let’s go and get something to eat.’

Quite content to have rubbed Camilla’s nose in the fact of her relationship with Anthony, Sarah agreed. Anthony got their coats and waited in the hallway while Sarah said protracted, air-kissing farewells to friends. Camilla was trapped in conversation in the kitchen with a short, sweaty criminal barrister who had pursued her all through Bar School year, and to whom she had not the heart to be unkind. She glanced out and saw Anthony leaning against the front door, patiently waiting for Sarah. He yawned and then looked in her direction. Their eyes met, and he smiled at her, then raised his eyes heavenwards. She smiled broadly back, happiness spreading throughout her whole being at this wordless, conspiratorial exchange. Maybe he wasn’t in love with Sarah, really. And, anyway, the fact that he could share his impatience with Sarah’s luvvie leave-takings showed that he regarded her as a friend, a proper friend. She was still smiling as she turned back to the persistent young man and his account of his recent success at Snaresbrook Crown Court.

Anthony and Sarah found a cheap Italian restaurant a few streets away. Sarah was a little drunk from the party, and by the time she and Anthony had shared a bottle of wine over a plate of pasta, she had that languorous, utterly relaxed hunger that only sex could satisfy. Anthony paid the bill, and as the waiter disappeared she smiled at Anthony and said, ‘Why don’t we
go back to my flat and start where we left off? I feel incredibly randy just looking at you.’

‘I’d love to, but,’ sighed Anthony, ‘I have to go home and get some sleep before tomorrow.’ His mind was already focused on the work that he and Leo would have to do the next day, and he was in that singular, purposeful frame of mind where not even Sarah’s provocative charms could touch him.

‘Oh, come on,’ she said, leaning her head on her hand. ‘You can sleep at mine. Afterwards, that is.’

The table at which they were sitting was small, small enough for Sarah to reach a hand below the table, take one of Anthony’s, and slide it between her thighs. The restaurant was practically deserted, and Anthony had not the strength of will to draw his hand away. As his fingers stroked the damp warmth of her crotch his insides dissolved, and his good intentions almost deserted him. Then he thought of how he would feel the next day if he didn’t get enough sleep, how his inability to concentrate would irritate both himself and Leo. He took his hand away and shook his head.

‘I’m going home.’

Sarah’s desire to be made love to now combined with a fierce wish to have her own way. She was not accustomed to being turned down in this manner, and for such a reason.

‘You mean I’m not as important as a piece of work? Not as important as your wondrous Leo, and his good opinion?’ she asked, her tone sullen.

Anthony had turned away to look for the waiter, anxious to retrieve his credit card and leave. Now he turned back to her, looked at her without expression, and said simply, ‘Not right at this moment, no.’ He did not intend to be rude. But she had asked a question, and he gave a short answer. He knew that his offhandedness had something to do with the fact that she had spent a small part of the meal bitching about Camilla, which he
hadn’t liked, and also with his own growing sense of fatigue. He looked impatiently round for the waiter again.

‘If he’s so important to you, I’m surprised you don’t sleep with him as well,’ snapped Sarah, then added, ‘Or maybe you already do.’