A Calculating Heart (14 page)

‘What kind of stuff?’ Felicity stared at him fearfully.

‘Talking. Like it’s my head, my brain, but it’s other people.’

‘Voices?’

‘I don’t know. A bit like that. And I get scared. I just don’t want to be alone.’

‘Have you been taking that ketamine stuff you told me about?’ demanded Felicity. In one of their heart-to-hearts, Sandy had admitted to his sister that he’d taken ketamine, a horse tranquilliser that induced powerful hallucinations. Felicity’s reaction had been a mixture of terror and extreme anger. She had made him promise never to touch anything like that again.

‘No,’ said Sandy sullenly.

Beneath her exasperation, Felicity felt a mild disquiet. ‘Sandy, I have to go to work. If you don’t like being on your own, then get a job. Any job. Maybe if you stayed off the booze and the dope, you wouldn’t get in this state. I’ll make you some coffee. Sit down.’

As she went through to the kitchen, she added, ‘I meant what I said, Sandy. You’ve got to get a job, or you’ll have to go.’

As she put the kettle on, and glanced in the fridge to see what she could cook for supper, she found herself wondering whether this was true. What
did
she mean, exactly, where Sandy was concerned? If she kicked him out on the street, he would probably just sink without trace.
She couldn’t let that happen – could she? At the moment, she had no clear idea. His talk of hearing voices was a bit freaky, but she just put that down to the vodka and dope paranoia. She closed the fridge and sighed, waiting for the kettle to boil. Why was it that all the men in her life were such a total waste of space?

As she was walking from the Tube station the following morning, Sarah caught sight of Leo and Camilla crossing Pump Court together on their way into chambers. She hated seeing them together. She felt little enough where most men were concerned, but Leo was different. It was so utterly galling to think that Camilla had possession of him, almost a physical pain. Still, she reassured herself, it would probably only be temporary. None of Leo’s relationships ever endured, not even his marriage. This one would end sooner or later, and Leo’s attention would wander back, as it always did. She and Leo had a special connection. They knew each other utterly and intimately, every fault and flaw. She had always had the sense that, no matter what, she and Leo belonged together. It was just a pity she hadn’t been able to put a crimp in things while Camilla had been out of the country.

As she dwelt on these consoling thoughts, Sarah heard steps behind her. She turned and saw Roger Fry.

‘Hi.’ He fell into step beside her. ‘I was hoping I’d see you sometime today.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘I’m going to the Proms tonight with some friends, and
someone’s had to drop out. I wondered if you’d like to come.’

Sarah didn’t much care for the idea of being a stand-in, and she wasn’t madly keen on classical music, but there was always the chance Marcus might be there.

‘Who else is going?’

‘Myself, Marcus, Tony Foreman – do you know him? Yes, I thought you did. Margot Casement from Three Brick Court, and some friend of hers – and you, if you want the ticket.’

‘What’s on the programme?’ Sarah didn’t in the least care, as long as it meant an opportunity to take things a little further with Marcus, but it helped to pretend that she did.

‘Mahler’s Fifth, and some Russian songs – Mussorgsky, as far as I can recall. It’s a while since I made the booking.’

‘Okay. I don’t mind a bit of Mahler. Thanks.’

‘Good.’ Roger gave her a smile. We’re meeting in the Edgar Wallace at six-fifteen. See you then.’

At six-fifteen, after some hasty make-up work in chambers, Sarah hurried to the pub. Her insides had been tight with apprehension all afternoon, not a sensation she was used to. Whatever she might have said to Leo about Marcus’s monumental arrogance, there was no doubt that it was this very quality which made him so desperately attractive. That utterly cool confidence, his almost offhand manner with women, made Sarah feel, for once, the anxiety of having the balance of desire weighted against her. Still,
she and Marcus had been making pretty good headway at the Gray’s Inn party, until the untimely intervention of that friend of his. Maybe tonight they could complete their unfinished business. Roger and his friends were already at the pub when she arrived, but no Marcus. Sarah sipped a glass of wine and chatted to the others, one eye on the door. After twenty minutes, Roger glanced at his watch and suggested they’d better get going.

‘It’s only a few stops to South Ken, but it’s a ten-minute walk at the other end.’

‘What about Marcus?’ asked Margot. Sarah gave her a glance, but didn’t reckon there was much competition there.

‘Probably got held up in chambers,’ said Roger. ‘He can make his own way there. We can’t hang around for him.’

They arrived at the Albert Hall with fifteen minutes to spare, and loitered in the foyer.

‘Why don’t you give Marcus a call on his mobile?’ someone suggested.

Roger tried. ‘He must have it switched off. No point in leaving a message. He knows what time the concert starts.’

So they left Marcus’s ticket at the box office and took their seats. Sarah carefully engineered it so that she was next to the empty seat. She glanced around hopefully as the audience murmur subsided and the orchestra tuned up, but there was no sign of Marcus. Sarah resigned herself to the knowledge that he wouldn’t show up now, and that she was going to have to sit through an entire evening of Mahler and some dreary Russian songs, all for nothing.

‘I’m rather annoyed with Marcus,’ said Roger as they left the hall two hours later. ‘If he’d known he was going to have a problem with this evening, he could at least have let me know.’

Too right, thought Sarah, whose sense of disappointed expectation had left her feeling dismal and frustrated. She was also bored out of her skull.

‘What about a drink?’ someone suggested. Sarah had been on the verge of going straight home, but a drink was better than nothing. They found a wine bar, and after a couple of drinks, Roger suggested finding somewhere to eat.

Tony declined, saying he had to be in Uxbridge the following morning, and Margot and her friend said they had to get back to Hampstead.

‘That leaves you and me,’ said Roger, when the others had gone.

Sarah was about to make her own excuses, but she really was hungry, and besides, she felt in need of a bit of flattering male company to ease her bruised and disappointed ego.

‘Where do you suggest?’ she asked.

‘I think there’s a little Italian place near the station,’ said Roger. ‘Let’s try that.’

Dinner with Roger was more amusing than Sarah had expected. She’d assumed from his generally unkempt aspect and often vague manner that he was a bit of an anorak, but his appearance belied a quick and engaging mind. To Sarah’s relief, he wasn’t much inclined to discuss 5 Caper Court and the personalities therein.

‘It’s not that I don’t like the place,’ said Roger. ‘I do. I get clerked better than I did at Wessex Street, for one thing, and it’s smaller, which I prefer. But at the end of the day it’s just somewhere to work. I’m not into chambers’ politics the way Maurice is. But then, he’s got this inbuilt need to control. Anyway, look – I said I didn’t want to talk about chambers. I’d rather talk about you.’ He took off his glasses and polished them on the edge of the tablecloth, giving Sarah a smiling, short-sighted glance as he did so. ‘Does that sound corny?’ She noticed for the first time that his eyes were greeny-grey, and surprisingly soft and gentle.

‘A bit. What in particular did you want to know about me?’

Roger replaced his glasses and considered this question for a few seconds. ‘I’m interested to know what kind of person lurks beneath your smart, ultra-cool exterior, and what lies behind that knowing smile you always wear.’

Sarah tossed her blonde hair. ‘Maybe what you see is what you get.’

‘I doubt it. We’re all somewhat vulnerable. That’s the only time people get really interesting. When they reveal themselves.’

‘Don’t think I’m going to get too revealing after a pizza and a glass of Chianti.’

‘What about a coffee, then, and maybe another drink? I don’t mean here. My place is only five minutes away.’

Sarah wondered if this meant what she thought it did. On the other hand, it could mean nothing. She was curious to know a little more about Roger, who was turning out to
be different from her expectations, and after all, if he did try to make a pass, she knew how to deal with it. Years of practice. So she said yes. And when she did so, she thought Roger looked mildly surprised. Since his expression was so often one of bemusement, it was hard to tell.

When they reached the large Kensington mansion block where Roger lived, Sarah said, ‘I think I have a pretty good idea what your flat’s going to be like.’

‘Oh, really? What?’ He led the way through the hall and upstairs.

‘You.’

‘Which is like—?’ They ascended the last steep flight of stairs leading to the top floor. Roger put his key in the front door.

Sarah paused. A mess? She couldn’t be quite that rude. ‘Much like your room in chambers, I imagine.’

He opened the door and turned to her. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but he merely smiled. ‘By which you mean, a complete shambles.’ He switched on a light and gestured ahead. ‘After you.’

She walked into the hall. ‘No, I didn’t mean that at all.’ She looked around. The flat seemed pretty small – so far as she could see, just a bathroom and a kitchen leading off the short hallway, and another room. Roger led the way into it. It was a large attic room, and it was indeed a mess. Sarah burst out laughing. ‘I take that back. It’s exactly what I meant.’ She looked round. In the corner was an unmade double bed, and next to it a music deck and speakers, and stacks of magazines and CDs. A clutch of unironed shirts
on wire hangers hung from the knob of the door of a large wardrobe, sweaters and crumpled clothes spilling from its drawers. Shelves of books lined the walls, and the floor was carpeted with a number of worn, overlapping Persian rugs. A workstation with a computer stood against the opposite wall, and the area was littered with piles of papers and floppy disks. An armchair and a long sofa heaped with shapeless cushions stood in the middle of the room, facing the television, and beneath newspapers and yet more books there sat what appeared to be a coffee table.

Roger dimmed the central light, then switched on a couple of lamps, filling the room with a pleasant glow.

‘Have a seat. I’ll make the coffee.’

Sarah wandered around the room with curiosity, inspecting the books and CDs, searching for the usual clues. But Roger’s interests didn’t seem narrow enough to provide any. His taste in books was eclectic – apart from the standard number of legal textbooks, the shelves contained everything from fiction, plays and poetry to philosophy, travel and archaeology. Two shelves were devoted entirely to film books. His musical tastes seemed similarly catholic – a heavy sprinkling of REM and Red Hot Chilli Peppers amongst the Mahler, Beethoven and Mozart, plus a good deal of John Coltrane and Earl Klugh.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ called Roger.

Sarah went through to the little kitchen. It was uncluttered compared to the living room, but Sarah put this down to the non-cooking bachelor tendency. ‘No, thanks, no more alcohol. Just the coffee. Otherwise I’ll never get up
in the morning.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I hate getting up early. I really am not cut out for this working life.’

‘No?’ Roger handed her a cup of coffee and took a carton of milk from the fridge. ‘I rather thrive on it.’ Sarah held out her coffee and he poured in a little milk.

‘That’s because you like law. I can’t stand it. I only took it up because of my father, and that was a big mistake.’

Roger shut the fridge and followed her through to the living room with his coffee. He cleared a little space among the books and newspapers for their cups. Sarah curled up on the sofa. Roger took off his jacket and tie, chucked them on the back of the chair by the workstation, and sat down in an armchair.

‘What did you think of the Mahler?’ he asked.

‘Not my favourite composer, but I enjoyed it. Thank you for the ticket. I really should pay you.’

Roger made a dismissive gesture. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ He nodded in the direction of the CDs. ‘We could have a little more, if you like.’

‘I’m not that much of a fan, to be honest. I noticed you’ve got some John Coltrane. I’d rather hear that.’

This seemed to please Roger. He got up and put on a CD. Low, smoky jazz notes filled the room. Roger sat back down. He sipped his coffee, then observed mildly, ‘You only came this evening because of Marcus, didn’t you?’

The directness of this startled Sarah. ‘Perhaps. Partly. It doesn’t matter.’ She picked up her coffee and frowned. ‘Why do you always do this? I think it’s really strange, asking about me and Marcus.’

‘Sorry. We were going to talk about you, weren’t we?’

‘Were we?’

‘Well, I was.’ Roger leant back his head and stared at the ceiling through his glasses.

‘Go on, then. Since you hardly know me, this should be interesting.’

‘I have my theories.’

‘About me?’

‘Yes. It comes back to what I was saying earlier, about vulnerability, and the cynical, sophisticated exterior you present to the world.’ He glanced at her. ‘You really shouldn’t, you know. It doesn’t suit someone as young as you are.’

Sarah gave a derisive laugh. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa. ‘Sometimes I don’t feel so very young. In fact, most of the time I feel quite world-weary.’

‘See? I think it’s a facade. A hard exterior hiding the hurt little girl within.’

Sarah stared at him over her coffee cup. ‘You are so corny. D’you know that?’ Roger shrugged. ‘Go on, then,’ said Sarah. ‘Let’s hear more of your theories.’

‘I think you play this cool, know-it-all number because you’re too afraid to let people near you, in case they find out you’re not so assured and confident after all. You come on like you couldn’t care less about anything, but it’s just a form of cowardice. You say you don’t like work, you don’t like the law, because at least then it doesn’t matter if you fail. You’re lazy and off-hand about things, and about
people, because enthusiasm and emotion are give-aways. And you don’t want to give anything away, do you?’