An Immoral Code (10 page)

Five minutes later, when it was beginning to seem to Sir Neville that his powers of self-restraint were being quite impossibly tried, Lord Justice Manfred appeared, incongruously attired in a pinstripe jacket and waistcoat, and leather motorcycle leggings. He greeted Sir Neville and sat down in an armchair, and it was only the creaking of his trousers and the surprise in Sir Neville’s gaze that caused him to glance down.

‘Good grief!’ he exclaimed. ‘Back in a moment. Quite forgot.’ He left the room, and Sir Neville ground his teeth, wondering if Manfred’s arrival permitted him to order his drink, even though he had subsequently disappeared. He decided that, although on a strict view it might, an even stricter interpretation would require the arrival of both of his fellows, not just one.

Manfred, who was a middle-sized, energetic man with a schoolboyish face and thick grey hair, reappeared a few moments later, his legs now decently clad in pinstripe trousers. On his way through the room he halted a passing steward and ordered a drink for himself, then came over and sat down again in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. He glanced at the empty table at Sir Neville’s elbow. ‘No drink? Dear me, I would have ordered you one with my own, if I’d realised.’

‘I had decided to wait until you both arrived,’ growled Sir Neville. His varicose veins throbbed again, and he lifted his leg slightly to ease the pain, wincing. The steward returned with Lord Justice Manfred’s drink, and at that moment Bertrand Howell appeared in the doorway. He saw his two colleagues by the fire, raised his copy of the
Financial Times
in greeting, and strode over. Sir Neville sighed with relief and gestured to the
steward. His mood brightened as he ordered Scotch for himself and a dry Martini for Lord Justice Howell.

‘You just missed Guy coming in in his motorcycle leggings, Bertrand,’ he remarked jovially to Lord Justice Howell, who glanced with mild disapproval at Lord Justice Manfred as he sat down.

‘Damned silly thing, riding that scooter about town. Don’t see why you can’t take taxis like anyone else.’

‘Penis extension, if you ask me,’ smirked Sir Neville.

But Lord Justice Manfred, settling back easily in his chair and sipping his drink, merely smiled tolerantly. ‘Do I detect a note of envy? Some of the most attractive young members of the female Bar strike up conversations with me on the strength of that motorbike.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, we didn’t come here to discuss my BMW. I’ve got dinner in fifteen minutes, so let’s hurry this up.’

‘Right,’ said Lord Justice Howell, swirling his dry Martini and popping the olive into his mouth. He chewed, then popped the stone out of his mouth and flung it into the fire. ‘Perfectly clear to me that the claim isn’t time-barred. All the hogwash Fry came up with about the Names having constructive knowledge of their losses when they got Capstall’s letter – utter tripe.’

Sir Neville glanced at Howell’s drink, then at Manfred’s gin and tonic, which he was sipping very slowly. He would ask whichever one of them finished his drink first to write the judgment, he decided. He certainly had no intention of writing it himself, even though he would read it out on behalf of all three of them. He always liked that bit. He glanced again with faint misgiving at Howell’s drink, realising that it had arrived moments later than Manfred’s. Was that strictly fair? Oh, well, rules were rules.

Lord Justice Manfred rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘I go along with what you say about the letter, but there are the
accounts, you know. I can’t help thinking that the Names could have seen from those that the position was deteriorating year by year, and that the reserves and reinsurances were clearly inadequate.’

Sir Neville raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, I think we can work our way round that, you know. The point is, it’s a political thing, this decision. I mean, we all know someone who’s out of pocket through this Lloyd’s business. What about your brother, Guy?’ he asked, glancing at Manfred. This caused Lord Justice Manfred to take a sudden gulp of his gin and tonic.

‘Yes,’ admitted Manfred cautiously. ‘He’s suffered pretty badly.’ Surely Sir Neville wasn’t suggesting that they base their decision on whether or not they sympathised with the plight of the Lloyd’s Names? That would be a little too much.

Lord Justice Howell said nothing, but nursed his Martini and thought of his sister-in-law, whom he’d had to bail out so that her boys could remain at Eton, and of several of his friends at home in Gloucestershire who were facing complete ruin.

‘I have to tell you,’ said Sir Neville, ‘that I’d be inclined to decide this case as a matter of policy, if I had to. Those people at Lloyd’s can’t just be allowed to walk away from this mess, and I certainly wouldn’t allow a technicality to prevent the Names pursuing a just claim.’ He met Lord Justice Manfred’s enquiring gaze with utter serenity, and went on, ‘Fortunately, however, I don’t believe we have to decide it on that basis. I regard Fry’s decision as wrong in law. I believe he was unnecessarily restrictive in his interpretation of the requirements of Section 14.’

Howell took a long swallow of his drink. Down to an inch, noticed Sir Neville. He glanced at the ice cubes that cluttered the bottom of Manfred’s drink. Did they count? he wondered.

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Lord Justice Howell. ‘In my view, you can’t say that Capstall’s letter amounted to constructive
knowledge that the risks reinsured weren’t reasonably quantifiable. Fry simply wasn’t entitled on the facts before him to say that the claims were statute-barred.’ He lifted his chin and tossed back the remainder of his drink.

Watching him drain the glass, Sir Neville felt a faint relief that he did not have to concern himself with the issue of the ice cubes. He liked to be strictly fair, and those ice cubes would have worried him.

For a moment Lord Justice Manfred thought of expressing his reservations. Then he thought once again of that brother of his. ‘I must go along with you. I think that has to be right, as a matter of strict law.’

‘Excellent,’ said Sir Neville, and smiled at Lord Justice Howell. ‘And since you stated your own conclusion so very succinctly, Bertrand, perhaps you would be kind enough to write the judgment for us all.’

The next morning Camilla came into the clerks’ room in a state of faint excitement. ‘Two hundred pounds,’ she said to Felicity. ‘A hundred from my mother, and the rest is my savings.’

‘Excellent,’ said Felicity. Her phone began to ring. ‘See you at twelve on the dot.’ As she picked the phone up Felicity had a heavy feeling in her heart; she hoped she hadn’t taken on a hopeless cause in Camilla. Well, they would see.

As she was talking on the phone, Leo passed the door of the clerks’ room, unbuttoning his overcoat, stuffing his leather gloves into his pocket. Felicity looked up and glimpsed him just as she was putting the receiver down.

‘Mr Davies!’ she called. Leo turned back from the stairs.

‘Morning, Felicity. What news from the front line?’

‘That was the registrar at the Court of Appeal. They’re ready to give judgment in your Names case.’

‘Really? What day did you give them?’ Leo felt a quickening
of excited interest, as he always did when a judgment was due.

‘Well, I didn’t. I mean, I would have said next Friday, but you said you were keeping the morning free in case those Indonesian people wanted a conference.’

Leo waved a dismissive hand. ‘Forget them. Ring the registrar back and say Friday is fine.’

‘Righty-ho.’

Leo went on up to his room, smiling. That was a good sign – an early judgment was an indication that they’d decided in the Names’ favour and just wanted them to get on with the rest of the litigation. He paused at Anthony’s room to tell him the news.

At lunchtime Camilla and Felicity took the tube to Oxford Circus and went into Dickins & Jones. Felicity scanned the store directory. Evening wear, third floor.

‘Come on,’ she said to Camilla, and they headed for the escalator.

On the third floor Camilla wandered in a state of unhappy uncertainty amongst the racks of dresses, fingering yards of chiffon and stroking folds of crisp taffeta. ‘Everything costs a fortune,’ she moaned.

‘We’ll find something,’ said Felicity, peering amongst the dresses and price labels. ‘What size are you, anyway?’

‘Fourteen, I think,’ said Camilla. ‘Though sometimes I’m a twelve.’

A birdlike assistant approached them, hands folded together as if in prayer. ‘Can I help you, ladies?’ she asked brightly.

‘Just looking, thanks,’ said Felicity firmly.

Frowning in concentration, she continued to scour the dress racks, while Camilla gave up and sat down on a chair. She might as well just wear her black dress. She could see nothing here which suited her, or which she could possibly afford. After
five minutes Felicity reappeared with a dress over each arm. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly, and headed for the fitting rooms. Camilla followed her through and stared at the dresses which Felicity was hanging up in the cubicle. One was cream coloured, made of a silky material, which fastened over one shoulder. The other was of plum-coloured velvet, with a low, curving neckline, which swept round to the back, just off the shoulder. She touched its softness.

‘Try the other one on first,’ said Felicity. She liked the plum-coloured one best, too, but she wanted to get the other one out of the way. Camilla gave her a nervous glance. ‘Go on!’ said Felicity. ‘I’m on my lunch hour – we haven’t got all day!’

She stood outside the cubicle to fend off any approaching assistants, and waited until Camilla reappeared. She gave her a glance. It was interesting to see that, beneath that awful suit, Camilla had a very good figure, with a narrow waist, a full bust, and pretty shoulders. But the dress was all wrong. ‘No,’ said Felicity. ‘Try the other one.’

Obediently Camilla retreated behind the curtain, and after a few moments of rustling and zipping, reappeared. She was smiling. She knew she looked good. Even with her dark red hair straggling over her shoulders, she looked sensational. The rich colour was perfect against her creamy skin, and the fitted contours of the dress showed off the curve of her breasts and the slenderness of her waist. Felicity smiled back at her. ‘Terrific,’ she said.

‘It does look quite nice, doesn’t it?’ said Camilla, with the shy satisfaction of a woman who knows how good she looks. She glanced uncertainly back in the cubicle mirror. ‘Don’t you think this colour is a bit funny with my hair? I’ve never gone for purples or reds, you know – I always thought it wouldn’t look right with red hair.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Felicity. ‘It’s perfect. You’re going to buy
that.’ She felt immensely pleased with herself for having singled out that dress, and in record time, too. They’d have to hurry to get back to chambers by one-thirty.

Camilla bent her head and fumbled for the label at the side of the dress. She looked up at Felicity in despair. ‘It’s Jasper Conran! It’s three hundred pounds! I can’t afford it!’

But Felicity had thought it all out even before taking the dress off the rail. ‘Yes, you can. I’m lending you a hundred. I earn a fortune as a clerk, compared to you pupils. Pay me back when you can.’

There followed a few moments of debate, which Felicity eventually won, and Camilla went back into the cubicle to change out of the dress. She reappeared in her baggy black suit, the white blouse wrongly buttoned, the velvet dress draped reverently over her arm. At the cash desk Felicity watched Camilla watching the woman smooth down layers of tissue paper between the folds of the dress as she wrapped it up. She’s like a child, thought Felicity fondly. She realised that she very badly wanted Camilla to look as good as she possibly could on Thursday night. I’m a right little matchmaker, she thought, and smiled conspiratorially at Camilla as they went back towards the escalator.

A week later, Rachel arrived home late from work and found Leo slumped on the sofa, watching television, with Oliver lying slumbering against his chest. She looked across at them both from the doorway, saw Leo yawn, and thought what a cosy domestic picture it made. She wished that the truth did not have to be so different. She kicked off her shoes in the hallway and padded into the room.

‘Thanks for coming home early,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know that Mr Rothwell had arranged that meeting with these Japanese clients for six. I think he thinks it’s just like the old days. I’ll have to speak to him. The plan is that I should be able to leave at five-thirty every night.’

‘That’s all right,’ replied Leo. ‘I’m just pushing paper around until we get this judgment next Friday.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Anyway, Jennifer would have done a couple of extra hours. She said so. She wouldn’t have minded. What’s the point of having a nanny if you can’t get a bit of flexibility out of her?’

‘Exploit her, you mean,’ sighed Rachel, and sank into an armchair. ‘She’s got her hours, and I like to keep to them, if
possible.’ She yawned. ‘Anyway, what do you think of her?’ This was safe territory – domestic conversation, a means of maintaining contact without actually having to address deeper issues, such as their relationship, and where it was going.

Leo tried to pull himself into a sitting position, and Oliver stirred and cried weakly. Rachel held out her arms and Leo plucked Oliver gently from his chest and passed him over to his mother. Then he sat back down, rubbing his face with his hands. ‘Jennifer? She seems very competent. I don’t talk to her much, I’m afraid.’

‘Why not? She’s friendly enough.’ Rachel stroked the blonde wisps of baby hair and kissed Oliver’s damp, hot temple. He was waking up, and she would have to go and prepare his bottle in a minute.

‘Is she?’ Leo’s expression was vague. ‘She always seems rather watchful, sort of guarded, when I’m around.’

‘You probably scare her. That aloof look of yours.’ Oliver began to howl fitfully, and Rachel stood up with him. ‘Come on, let’s find you a bottle.’

‘There’s one in the microwave,’ said Leo. ‘I made it earlier. I’m a good father, if nothing else.’

‘If nothing else,’ murmured Rachel to herself as she went through to the kitchen. She pressed the buttons on the microwave and watched the bottle revolve, jiggling Oliver against her shoulder to soothe him. She felt depressed. She felt depressed by this charade, this appearance of humdrum, happy domesticity. They were both living some kind of a lie, each waiting for the other to do something to resolve it. If only she could turn to someone – it should be Leo, it should be Leo to whom she could turn. But there was no one. Perversely, it would have comforted her just to be able to have his physical love, but they had not made love for weeks. She told herself that this was her decision, that it was part of the process of weaning herself from him, but
he himself had made no overtures. He seemed recently to have retreated into himself, as though there was some private area of thought into which he escaped. It had always been like that, she told herself, but lately it had been more intensely so. She took the bottle out of the microwave and shook it, then put it into Oliver’s greedy little fingers. If it were not for the fact that he was at home every evening, she would have assumed that he had another lover.

She went back into the living room with the baby and sat down on the sofa, a little way away from her husband. ‘What are you watching? I thought you always watched the news at nine o’clock.’

‘Oh, it’s just some documentary series that I started to watch last week. About the Crusades. It’s rather interesting.’

On the screen a lanky blonde-haired man was pacing about a barren, unrecognisable landscape, with buildings in the far distance, and talking.

Leo enjoyed watching the object of his own private desires. It amused him to reflect that to the outside world he appeared a brilliant, well-respected QC, married, with a young family, the last person in the world who would be engaged in the protracted seduction of another man, the eminent and celebrated historian,
Charles Beecham. He absorbed Charles’s attractive, lean features as the camera pulled away again. It was more than a mere physical attraction, Leo told himself. Charles was his own age, someone on his own intellectual level, with compatible tastes and interests. The ideal partner. Not that he wanted a long-term partner. Marriage was bad enough. But how enjoyable it would be to be in love again.

‘He makes it sound interesting,’ murmured Rachel, breaking his train of thought. ‘But I doubt if it is.’

‘No, you’re probably right,’ said Leo, reflecting that this was true. He was hardly interested in the Crusades, merely in being able to watch at his leisure as Charles smiled, moved and talked his way through the programme. It was becoming the most perfect kind of infatuation.

Rachel looked down as Oliver sucked the dregs of his bottle. He had fallen asleep again and she could tell from the limp heaviness of his body that she could put him in his cot without disturbing him. The ache of depression which had begun earlier was still with her. She stared unseeingly at the screen and wished that she could turn to Leo and hold him, be held. But he sat as though closed off from the world, and she knew that there was no approach that she could possibly make. It would not help, even if she did. Anything that happened between them now would only be part of the pretence, and she must live with the reality. She stood up, cradling Oliver, looking down at Leo. He did not look up, and after a moment Rachel left the room.

‘Don’t you ever do any work?’ asked Anthony, after he had finished listening to Sarah’s account of her day, which seemed to have been largely spent shopping, lunching, and skipping lectures.

She leant away from him and picked up her glass of wine from the coffee table. They were sitting together on the sofa in
Anthony’s flat, idly watching television and talking. ‘Of course I do. Well, occasionally. I prefer to leave it to the last minute. Get the fear up. Anyway, that’s what I did at LMH and I managed to get a two-one.’ Anthony remembered his own Bar School year, the standing room only at popular criminal procedure lectures, the poring over notes, essays finished in the small hours, the practicals, the tutorials – his recollection of endless study, coupled with a chronic lack of money, seemed to bear no resemblance to Sarah’s carefree existence. ‘Don’t worry,’ added Sarah, running her fingers through her blonde hair, ‘there’s five months till the Bar exams. Loads of time.’ She sipped her wine.

‘I’m glad you’re so confident,’ murmured Anthony, flipping through the television channels.

‘Well, it’s different for me,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ve got connections. I don’t need to do particularly brilliantly. Just well enough.’

Arrogant as this sounded, Anthony had to acknowledge that it was probably true. As the daughter of the Recorder of London, she would probably find a tenancy effortlessly. She’d be a good barrister, too. She was sharp, eloquent and fearless. Ruthless, too, he imagined. Reflecting on this, he said, ‘You shouldn’t be specialising in commercial work, you know. You’d be far better off at the Criminal Bar.’

‘No, thanks!’ said Sarah. ‘I certainly don’t intend to hack around for the first few years. I want to be where the money is. Anyway,’ she added sweetly, nestling against Anthony and sliding her hand up his thigh, ‘I thought you were going to take me on as your pupil?’

‘Ha. Somehow I don’t think that would go down very well in chambers.’ He turned and regarded her, then kissed her briefly. He imagined – no, he knew – that this relationship would be over well before Sarah even sat her Bar exams. He was bored already. Bored? Well, disappointed. Disappointed as he always was, when he found that the object of early infatuation did not
turn out to be the woman of his dreams, the sympathetic, totally compatible, amusing, kind creature for whom he seemed to be constantly searching. What would they do at the end of this evening? Go to bed, make love – even the thought of that held only minimal interest. When he found himself thinking in this way, Anthony felt a certain self-disgust. He did not like to be the kind of man who discarded girlfriends when things became familiar and stale. How on earth did he imagine he would ever stand being married? Yet he had the notion that one day he would marry. He liked the idea, the theory. But he knew that any wife would have to match up to his ideal, and that ideal apparently didn’t exist.

‘Stop,’ said Sarah suddenly, taking the remote control from his hand. She flipped back a channel. Charles Beecham was now in some sort of echoing, domed interior of oriental design, and saying,
‘… with the aid of reinforcements from Genoa and newly constructed and quite formidable siege machines, they took Jerusalem by storm on July the fifteenth, and massacred virtually every inhabitant. In the eyes of the Crusaders, the city was purified in the blood of the defeated infidels.’

‘I love watching this,’ said Sarah. ‘Well, not it. Him.’

‘I know him. He’s one of the Names on the Capstall syndicate,’ said Anthony in surprise. He had never watched the documentary series, and knew Charles’s face only from the Lloyd’s litigation. He watched for a few moments with interest. ‘Leo brought him along for a drink after the hearing last Tuesday,’ he added musingly.

Sarah reflected on this. She could well imagine Leo and this man sharing a drink. He was just Leo’s type. She knew Leo so well, knew all his weaknesses, the kind of thing he liked. She smiled to herself, wondering if the renowned Mr Beecham was gay. Possibly. Hard to tell. Suddenly she turned to Anthony. ‘Let’s switch this off and take the wine to bed.’

‘In a minute.’ Anthony was still watching the documentary. It was a habit with him, ingrained since university, to attend when being given information, even if it was irrelevant. At last he dragged his attention from the screen. Sarah had unbuttoned her shirt, and was pulling it slowly from her shoulders. She was wearing nothing underneath, and she took his hand and ran his fingers lightly over her nipples. He felt instantly aroused and kissed her, closing his eyes as she flickered her tongue inside his mouth. Sex, he thought. Even if she wasn’t the love of his life, there was always sex. And that, he reflected, was certainly better than nothing at all.

‘Hold still!’ said Felicity, as Camilla wriggled impatiently in front of the mirror. ‘I can’t do the thing up unless you hold still. There.’

Camilla ran her hands over the soft velvet of the bodice and looked at herself. She would never have dared to buy anything as wonderful as this if she’d been on her own. And she couldn’t have done her hair like that. Felicity had twisted it up, securing it at the back of her head in a way that looked expertly careless, leaving a few reddish wisps which curled at the nape of her neck and brushed against her cheeks.

‘Are you sure it’s going to stay up?’ she asked, putting up a nervous hand to the back of her head.

‘It won’t if you keep on doing that,’ said Felicity, standing back and admiring her handiwork. It was six-thirty on Thursday evening, and they had come back to the flat in Clapham, which Felicity shared with Vince, to prepare Camilla for her great night. Felicity folded her arms and stared at Camilla. Not bad. Bloody brilliant, considering the way the girl usually looked. Felicity still thought it would have been better if Camilla had let her go the whole hog, though. But she’d refused to have her nails painted, and had drawn the line at too much make-up. ‘I want to look a bit like me,’ she had protested.

‘What do you think?’ asked Camilla. Anxiety and the little bit of eyeshadow and mascara which she had permitted Felicity to apply made her eyes large and luminous, and it seemed to her as she observed herself in the mirror that the mouth through which she spoke was someone else’s. She still had her doubts about the lip liner, though Felicity had assured her it was necessary. ‘I don’t look – well … over the top?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘You look knockout. I still think you could have done with more make-up, mind. But I reckon our Anthony’s in for a bit of a surprise.’ Felicity grinned with satisfaction.

Camilla bit her lip and felt a dissolving sensation inside. It hadn’t started out like this. She had only wanted his company. But now that Felicity had done what she had done, things felt different. The reflection that gazed back at her from Felicity’s wardrobe mirror was lovely, and she actually felt an absurd shred of hope. But it was ridiculous. He had Sarah, and, anyway, she was still only a pupil in chambers, lowest of the low. It wasn’t as though he could ever regard her in any other light, no matter how she looked.

‘Right. Come on. Taxi time,’ said Felicity. ‘You want a quick drink to steady you up?’ she asked Camilla, glancing at her.

‘No, thanks,’ replied Camilla quickly. The last thing she wanted was to turn up at Middle Temple with a red face.

They had agreed to meet on the steps outside Middle Temple Hall, to avoid the crush inside. Anthony lounged against the stone pillar in his dinner suit, glancing around. A stream of guests were making their way into the cloakrooms to divest themselves of wraps, shawls and coats, and the air was filled with wafts of perfume and the sound of well-bred voices raised in laughter and conversation. Anthony greeted a few people he knew as they drifted past, and glanced at his watch. In the hall,
people were taking their seats. This kind of thing always started promptly, and Camilla had only five minutes if she was to make it for grace.

A young woman with red hair was coming up the steps towards him, a coat over her shoulders, lifting her dress from the stone steps, and Anthony looked past her across the gloom of Fountain Court to see if he could glimpse any sign of Camilla.