Errors of Judgment (23 page)

Sure enough, at the end of the next game, she came over and kissed his ear, murmuring, ‘Quit while you’re ahead. Let’s go back to yours and play games of our own.’

Anthony swallowed a sigh. ‘OK. Let me cash these in and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’

As he was pocketing his winnings, Anthony once again found Piers’ hand on his shoulder.

‘Anthony, old man – do you have a minute?’ Piers drew Anthony aside and they were joined by Darius.

Darius and Anthony shook hands. ‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said Darius in a confidential manner. ‘My father and I are trying to organise a private poker game here at the casino, something to keep some Saudi friends of Piers amused.
We need around eight players, but of course we can’t have just anyone. You seem to be a pretty handy player, and we wondered if you’d be interested in joining in?’

‘I might,’ replied Anthony. He had been stung by Julia’s remarks earlier, by the implication that he had neither the skill nor the money to participate in anything high-level.

Piers chuckled. ‘I have to tell you, Tony, these boys are absolutely fucking loaded. They throw money around like confetti. And they’re not exactly card sharps. Anybody who’s any good stands to do pretty well out of the evening. I’m certainly going to be playing.’

‘The stakes are pretty high,’ said Darius. ‘Lowest opening bet in any game is two hundred.’

Anthony smiled. ‘I think I can manage that.’

‘No, of course. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you were good for it. Just letting you know.’

Anthony considered for a moment. There were risks – he knew to his cost how losses could mount up in one evening – but it was a one-off game, and if tonight was anything to go by, he might come out of it pretty well. He could even make a killing. He nodded. ‘OK, count me in. When is it?’

‘We were thinking next Saturday. Probably kick off around ten, make it an all-nighter.’

‘Bring Gabrielle, if she wants to come,’ added Piers. ‘Julia will be there, and some of the other girls. Galina, probably Connie and Abigail. Gabrielle knows them all. Hate to sound sexist, but it’ll be an all-male game. You know what the Saudis are like. But it should be quite a party. Plenty of food and champagne on the go. Fun for all.’

‘Fine. I’ll see if she’s interested.’

Anthony mentioned the game to Gabrielle later, when they were in bed. ‘I said I’d play. Do you fancy coming along?’

‘I don’t mind, if Connie’s going. I’m not a huge fan of Galina – Darius’s girlfriends are always weird. Like they’re just for decoration. Julia’s all right, in her way.’ She propped her head on one hand. ‘How long do you give that marriage?’

‘Piers and Julia? I think in many ways they’re perfectly suited.’

‘Really? That’s not the way it comes across to me. He can be really foul to her, you know. And it’s perfectly obvious she has an eye for other men. You included.’

‘Julia and I were over a very long time ago.’ Anthony reached up and drew her mouth towards his. ‘I love no one but you.’

Gabrielle wondered if now was the moment to tell him about Leo. No – the timing wasn’t quite right. She would wait for another opportunity.

Leo found himself in a hideously restless mood that evening, and he knew exactly where it was leading. The club he ended up in at two in the morning was one he hadn’t visited for over a year. Some of the faces were familiar, but there was no one there he would have called a friend. It wasn’t that kind of place. He bought himself a drink and stood at the bar, watching the men cruising, eyeing one another. Even those who were obvious couples threw out stray glances. The place was loud with music and conversation, the thump from the dance floor at the far end relentless.

A part of Leo wondered what he was doing there, but another part of him knew exactly. Idly he eyed a knot of attractive young men drinking at a nearby table. He
recognised one of them as Joshua, and his gaze froze. Forgotten feelings of fear, love and desperation suddenly flooded him, confusing him. It took him a moment to understand that what he was experiencing was nothing more than a conditioned emotional response, the merest remnant of love.

Leo waited for his feelings to subside, studying Joshua with the fascinated detachment of one long since cured of his passion. His features were slightly pouchy now, not as delicate as five years ago; his red-gold hair still curled at his collar, his eyes still held their implacable beauty, their Garbo-like expression. He was talking to a dark-haired young man, glancing around occasionally. And of course, after a few seconds he saw Leo.

Joshua smiled, but without surprise – Leo guessed that Joshua had perhaps seen him come in, and had waited to choose his own moment of connection and acknowledgement. Leo could not bring himself to smile, but he knew that his own expression must be one of vulnerability. How could it be otherwise?

Joshua rose and came over. He leant on the bar and surveyed Leo with a smile. ‘Hello, Leo. How are you? You look as good as ever.’

‘Thanks. I’m well.’ Leo was interested to note that five years had given Joshua composure and maturity, but also an aura of self-awareness bordering on affectation. He still seemed, as he had at nineteen, ready for anything, but in quite a different way. ‘You look well, too,’ he added. ‘How’s life treating you?’

‘Pretty well, actually. I like to think I’ve moved on and up in the world since I knew you.’

‘No longer a struggling artist?’

‘I’m working as a set designer.’ He nodded to the table. ‘I’m with some friends from the theatre. Why don’t you come and join us for a drink?’

Leo sat down at the table and Joshua introduced him as an old friend. Leo imagined the others knew very well what that meant. They were polite, guarded, sizing him up. The dark-haired man to whom Joshua had been talking extended a hand and Leo shook it, noting its slender strength. His entire body was lean and toned, with remarkable poise. This, thought Leo, was exactly the kind of distraction he had come looking for tonight.

‘This is Sergei,’ said Joshua. ‘He’s a dancer with the Barinov Ballet Company. They’re in residence at the theatre where I work.’

‘You like ballet?’ asked Sergei. He had a Slavic face, with sharp cheekbones and a full mouth, and large, liquid eyes. Leo thought he looked like trouble, and felt stirrings of interest and desire.

‘I do. Not that I go very often. I prefer modern ballet to traditional. That said, I rather like Matthew Bourne’s take on the classics.’

Sergei smiled, pleased. He asked Leo what he did, and Leo told him. They chatted for a while about London, which Sergei was visiting for the first time, and Leo could sense a chemistry. Joshua was talking to the others, his attention elsewhere, possibly deliberately. Leo felt he had Sergei all to himself.

‘It’s interesting that you work in the law,’ said Sergei. ‘It is one of the institutions I admire most in your country.’

‘You should visit the law courts some time,’ said Leo.

‘I would like that,’ said Sergei. ‘Maybe you could show me around?’

‘Maybe I could,’ said Leo. ‘Shall I give you my number?’

‘Please.’

They exchanged phone numbers. Leo was just wondering how to detach Sergei from his friends and invite him back to Chelsea, when Sergei suddenly said, ‘I have to go. I have rehearsals in the morning.’ He rose with exquisite grace, gathering up his jacket and kissing a hand to his friends. ‘
Spokoynoy nochi, malyshi
.’ He turned to Leo. ‘And goodnight to you, Leo. I hope we meet again.’ The promise in those large, lovely eyes was unmistakeable.

‘I hope so, too,’ replied Leo. He watched him go, wondering if it would look too crass to follow him; wondering, too, if that was what Sergei intended. As he drained the remnants of his drink, trying to make up his mind, Joshua seemed to read his thoughts.

‘No point in going after him,’ he murmured. ‘He really means it about the rehearsals. I’m surprised he stayed up as late as he did. A dedicated professional.’

‘It was the last thing on my mind.’

‘Really? Remember, you’re talking to someone who knows you very well.’ Joshua surveyed Leo, thinking how little he had changed in five years. The features were still sharply handsome, the gaze of his blue eyes still intense, and even the silver hair wasn’t ageing – quite the opposite.

‘You think so?’

‘Of course I do. And no one changes. Not really.’

‘You have.’ Leo lifted his glass, then realised it was empty.

‘Have I?’ Joshua seemed happy at the prospect of talking about himself. ‘Have another drink. I’ll buy.’

‘Thanks. I’ll have a Scotch.’

Joshua went to the bar. While he was waiting to be served he considered the situation, remembering the hold he had once had over Leo. It had been fun for a while, wielding so much emotional power, with such easy material gains. Leo had everything – wealth, status, possessions – yet it had been Joshua, with nothing to his name but some scrappy artistic talent and superb good looks, who had been in total command of the relationship. But the affair had eventually taught Joshua a strange truth – that freedom, even when it meant hardship and uncertainty, was better than the ease and comfort of belonging to someone you didn’t love. Not that he hadn’t been fond of Leo. Looking back, he wished he’d been more appreciative of the efforts Leo had made. Or at any rate, kinder to him. With several relationships with older men behind him – and the tender, fretful concern of a certain middle-aged choreographer hovering somewhere even now – he had a better understanding of what impelled their generosity.

He took the drinks back to the table and sat down.

‘So, tell me how I’ve changed.’

‘You’ve grown up. That is to say, you’ve lost the charmingly ingenuous air you once had.’

‘You mean I’m not naive any more.’ Joshua meant to be lightly sardonic, but Leo took the remark at face value.

‘Evidently not.’

Joshua was conscious of being looked at critically by Leo – it was a new experience. Only in that moment did it occur to him that Leo was no longer in love with him. Why would he be? It was just that his youthful vanity had expected it.

‘Don’t you think you played a part in my loss of innocence?’

The ghost of a smile crossed Leo’s face. ‘That was lost well before you knew me. Why do you think you ever said hello to me in the first place? I wasn’t talking about your heart and soul. I was merely talking about your expression, your features.’

At these words, Joshua’s hand strayed unconsciously to his face. He stroked his chin, gazing reflectively at Leo, working on what he had said.

‘I’m not so very different.’ The flicker of anxiety made him look vulnerable, younger.

Leo was suddenly struck by a vivid memory – Joshua in his leather jacket, holding the rucksack hastily crammed with his belongings, turning round in the doorway to look at Leo before shrugging off his hand and leaving, walking out of Leo’s life for good.

Leo swallowed his whisky quickly. He had no wish to revisit that pain. ‘Not so very. I think I am, though. Not so good at these late nights. I have to go.’ He stood up. Joshua looked at him for a hesitant few seconds, and Leo could tell from his face that he was rapidly debating whether there was anything to be gained here. ‘There’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed, Joshua. You still have a beautiful transparency.’

He left the club, hailed a cab and headed home, cold in his heart.

Caspar and Darius Egan had gone to considerable trouble for Piers’ Saudi friends, setting aside a lavishly furnished suite of rooms on the first floor of Blunt’s for the occasion. In one room a blue-baize-covered poker table had been set up for the game, and in an adjoining room champagne was cooling in silver buckets, alongside a selection of spirits, beer, and an array of glasses. Platters of cold food had been laid out – crayfish in aspic, blinis, smoked salmon, caviar in bowls of ice – with warming stands ready for hot food to be served later. Next door was a large sitting room, whose windows overlooked rain-soaked Mount Street, lit by discreetly placed lamps, and furnished with deep leather sofas and low tables, with a large plasma television screen on one wall. Off this room was a bedroom with an en suite bathroom in between.

When Anthony and Gabrielle arrived, Darius, Piers and Julia were already there in the sitting room with the three
guests of honour. Darius’s Russian girlfriend, Galina, had brought along a trio of other Russian girls – Valeriya, Dina and Katia. All were dressed in tight-fitting short dresses and eight-inch hooker heels, and all wore expressions of ineffable boredom.

Everything about the young Saudis suggested wealth, but of a crude, unsubtle kind. They wore bespoke suits that were a little too sharp, silk shirts, and handmade Italian shoes, and sported Rolex Oyster watches and a profuse amount of gold jewellery. The air was heavy with the smell of Clive Christian No. 1 cologne. Darius introduced them. Farid Al-Rahman was a tall, well-built man in his mid twenties, with a patchy beard on a strong jaw, and a smile made disarming by the smoked glasses he wore, which hid the expression of his eyes. His younger brother, Hakim Al-Rahman, was a corpulent youth who looked barely out of his teens. He didn’t get up to shake hands, but stayed lounging on the white leather sofa, grunting a greeting and extending a flabby hand studded with heavy gold and diamond rings. The third, Gabir Al-Wadhi, was a wiry man with a heavy short beard and bright eyes that glittered under heavy brows. He seemed the senior of the trio, and introduced himself as the cousin of the other two. He excused Hakim by saying, ‘He has taken a holiday from his manners as well as his morals.’ He threw the boy a chiding glance. ‘Hey, Hakim?’

Hakim ginned and shrugged, and took another swig of his drink.

Darius turned to Gabrielle. ‘Glass of champagne?’

‘Lovely,’ murmured Gabrielle, and sat down on a sofa opposite the Russian girls.

Darius, Piers and Anthony wandered into the adjoining room.

‘What would you like?’ Piers asked Anthony.

‘Just a beer, thanks.’ Piers uncapped a Becks and handed it to him. ‘What was all that about taking a holiday from his morals?’

‘Normal rules don’t apply, is what he means. Back home, these boys can’t drink or gamble, and they don’t get much of a chance to sow their wild oats. Whereas over here – well, let’s just say they like to take advantage of our ludicrously low moral standards.’

At that moment Anthony heard a familiar voice behind him, and turned to see Ed piling into the suite with a number of assorted male and female friends. He was as ebullient as ever, pulling off his scarf and unbuttoning his overcoat, and exclaiming about the filthy weather outside.

‘Anthony! I heard they’d roped you into this evening’s shenanigans. You must be bloody mad. Brought a few friends along to witness the carnage. Now, lead me to the champagne!’

Anthony felt reassured by Edward’s presence; somehow it lessened the tension. He wanted to have a good feeling about this game, but it was difficult. He didn’t care for the Saudis, and deep down, he didn’t care for the Egans. Still, he was committed now.

Gradually the other players trickled in, with girlfriends in tow. Two of them Anthony already knew as regular frequenters of the casino – Tom Finnegan, a wealthy young Irishman and crony of Piers, and a German by the name of Klaus Bauer. The other two players were Piers, and a middle-aged Cypriot by the name of Markou, who was a business acquaintance of Caspar Egan’s.

After drinks and some friendly chit-chat, they got down to the serious business of the evening.

‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Caspar, ‘the buy-in is twenty thousand, as agreed. Total pot of eighty thousand. If everyone would like to take their seats?’

Anthony drew Darius aside. ‘You said the buy-in was five thousand.’

‘Did I? Well, we’ve had to up the stakes a bit. Five thousand is small change to our Saudi friends. Even twenty isn’t particularly interesting, but I promised them there would be some pretty girls coming along to liven things up if the poker got dull. Which is where Galina’s friends come in.’ He gave Anthony a dry look. ‘If you want out, just say so.’

Anthony hesitated. Twenty thousand was a ludicrously large amount to gamble, far more than he’d intended, but on the other hand, the higher the stakes, the higher the potential winnings. Apart from which, there was no way he was going to sidle out of this game because of lack of funds, with Piers and Julia looking on.

‘No, I’m in. But I’m only good for five thou in cash right now.’

‘Not to worry. The house will stake you the other fifteen. We know you’re good for it.’

Anthony considered briefly. If he came out even or on top, which he fully expected to, the Egans would have their money straight back. He nodded. ‘OK. Thanks.’

The game started, and the play for the first hour was uneventful. Anthony played cautiously at first, then as he loosened up and grew more confident, his betting did too. The Saudis were unexceptional players. Hakim played
irrationally and sloppily, not much caring whether he won or lost, and kept calling for more drinks. Gabir’s play was temperamental, and he was prone to wild betting, but somehow his luck held. Farid was both a lazy and an unlucky player, and by half eleven he had dropped out of the game, having lost his entire stake. By this time, Anthony had amassed a comfortable pile of chips and was feeling buoyant. Those not involved in the game seemed content enough with the little party they had created for themselves in the sitting room; the players could hear muffled music and laughter, but it seemed to disturb no one’s concentration. Occasionally people wandering from the sitting room to get food and more drinks would drop in to watch the game for a short while, then drift away again.

After steady, successful play during the first hour, Anthony experienced a couple of disastrous hands. He bet too much on what he thought was a promising hand, only to have his two pairs beaten by Klaus’s three of a kind. In the next hand he rashly hoped his five of hearts, six of diamonds and seven of spades might turn into a straight, and again he overextended his bet. When the flop went down, the resulting Jack of diamonds, nine and ten of hearts gave Piers two pairs. As he watched Piers gather in the chips, Anthony suddenly began to feel panicky. His pile was dwindling rapidly. If he didn’t start winning, he would finish up like Farid, bowing out of the game with his entire twenty thousand stake gone, and owing the Egans fifteen thousand. He tried to calm his mind, and focus.

It seemed to work. He won three out of the following seven hands, but the betting was modest, and didn’t recoup him a great deal. Still, the tension began to ease. He told
himself it was just a question of climbing back up again, and not betting over-optimistically on hands which could easily go wrong.

A quarter after midnight, Hakim had drunk himself out of the game, and went to the buffet to console himself with a large plate of asparagus and truffle risotto, and a few more glasses of champagne. He wandered into the sitting room and flopped down on one of the leather sofas next to Valeriya and Dina, slopping champagne over Dina’s skirt. He laughed and wiped his fat hand across her thigh, and she exclaimed,
‘Dura!’
and shoved his hand angrily away. Hakim stroked her thigh again, trying to push his hand between her legs, and she shouted at him again and got up and stalked away.

‘Only a pig does that kind of thing,’ snapped Valeriya.

‘Shut up, bitch,’ replied Hakim indifferently. His drunken attention shifted across the room, to a glass-topped table where Julia was cutting some lines of coke. His eyes lit up, and he got up and went over and sat down heavily on the sofa next to her, watching and waiting eagerly. Gabrielle, curled up in the corner of the sofa, watched the proceedings dispassionately, inching her feet away from Hakim’s fat thigh. She didn’t touch drugs, though she didn’t care if other people did.

There were now six players left in the poker game – Anthony, Markou, Gabir, Piers, Klaus and Finnegan. All eyes watched as the dealer flicked the cards across the baize. Anthony picked his up. The ace and two of spades. Promising, but everything depended on the flop, the three cards to be dealt next. More spades would be excellent for him, but just as good for any of the other players holding spades. Maybe the betting would throw up some clues. He
watched the other players study their cards impassively. The betting opened. Anthony, Gabir and Piers made modest bids. Klaus gave a shrug and folded his hand. A couple of seconds later, Tom Finnegan and Markou did the same, leaving just three players in the game.

The dealer dealt the flop, and as the six of spades, the ten of diamonds, and the three of spades went down, Anthony’s pulse quickened. The ace, two and three of spades, and the six – a flush draw with the potential for a straight draw, if the next two cards were the four and five of spades. The rational part of his brain knew the unlikelihood of that, but the part that had driven him over the past few months to return, night after night, to the poker and roulette tables, had taken over. In his mind he could see the dealer turning those cards over, false certainty driving illusory hope.

The betting resumed. Piers raised the stakes – but only modestly. Gabir seemed unusually reflective, stroking one thick, black eyebrow. Anthony tried to read his face, wondering if he was merely bored, or had something in his hand that merited concentration. As he studied the faces of his fellow players, he was vaguely aware of an increase in the noise and laughter from the food and drink room. Presumably staff from the casino kitchen had brought up the hot supper. He realised, with surprise, that he was hungry.

People began to drift in from the next room, curious to see how the game was going, as though the slightly heightened tension of the game was infectious. Klaus and Tom Finnegan were exchanging discreet banter, but Anthony scarcely noticed. The game was like some kind of cocoon, his own concentration soundproofing him against external realities.

After a moment or two’s thought, Gabir raised Piers. Anthony, with a growing conviction that luck was with him on this hand, matched him briskly. Possibly too briskly, he realised, after he had pushed the pile of chips forward. He waited anxiously for the dealer to turn the fourth card. As the ten of spades went down he felt an almost dizzying sense of astonishment and relief. His instincts had been proved right. Now he had an ace-high flush, on the cards already down – only two pairs of ten could beat him.

Piers’ own feelings on seeing the ten of spades were akin to Anthony’s. He already held the ten of hearts and nine of clubs, and the cards which had just been dealt gave him three tens. What were the odds of anyone else having a better hand? Outside, surely. Then again, if either of the others held spades, they had a good chance of having a flush, which would beat his hand. Maybe some confident, tactical betting would give him a better idea of who had what. He stacked up a hefty pile of chips and pushed them forward.

Gabir pursed his lips, his dark eyes shifting back and forth from the cards in his hand to those on the table. He counted out four careful stacks of chips and eased them across the baize, doubling Piers’ bet. Piers knew at that moment that his speculation had been right. Gabir must be holding spades, and he must have a flush. He glanced across at Anthony, whose expression was unreadable, his gaze focused.

Anthony felt his nerve give a little as he tried to rationalise Gabir’s bet. The guy had more money than sense, so the amount he gambled didn’t necessarily reflect the realities of his hand. Also, he had occasionally made
wild bets throughout the evening merely to amuse himself, so far as Anthony could tell. Either he was bluffing, or he just didn’t care. Or maybe he held a flush himself. Even if he did, Anthony reckoned it couldn’t beat his own.

Gabir stifled a yawn, then shook himself, frowning at the cards as though trying to concentrate. The gesture made up Anthony’s mind. He couldn’t sit with the best poker hand he’d ever held in his life, and not go with it. The Saudi simply couldn’t hold better cards. With a deliberate gesture, he drew all his chips together and pushed them into the middle of the table, going all in.

Piers was momentarily taken aback. Either Anthony’s move was naive recklessness, of the kind that had made Anthony such a useful customer of Blunt’s, or it was a clear signal that he held an exceptionally strong hand. Either Anthony or Gabir could be bluffing, but from the cards on the table, and from the way the betting had gone, one of them held a flush. His own chances of coming out on top depended entirely on the next card being the ten of clubs – insanely remote odds. He glanced up, and saw Julia on the other side of the table. She was watching Anthony, her gaze intense. Piers saw and read the expression in her eyes. That she should still feel anything for that lower-middle-class waste of space filled him with contempt and anger. He looked back at the cards. He knew the sensible thing to do would be to fold. But suddenly Piers wasn’t feeling sensible.

‘I’ll call you,’ he said to Anthony. Then he pushed all his own chips into the centre of the table.

Suddenly everyone became aware of the sound of shouting, and some kind of commotion in the next room. People began to look round and murmur. Anthony sighed
inwardly; the chances were that Edward had started some drunken piece of nonsense, as he was prone to do. Klaus and Tom Finnegan got up and left the table to go and see what was going on. Anthony’s attention returned to the game, where the dealer was about to turn the final card.