Judicial Whispers (3 page)

‘That’s just about all there is to do, isn’t there?’ said James angrily. ‘He leaves us stuck here in this hole from one weekend to the next, expecting us to stick to his stupid rules, and be all bright and cheerful and eager to please when he turns up on a Friday night! I’m fed up with it. He’s not the only piece of excitement around here, whatever he thinks.’ James rammed his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘I met this bloke when we were in Ryecot. I’m going to ask him back.’ His voice was dogged.

‘Don’t be a berk, James. You know what Leo said.’ Sarah began to pour the cheese sauce carefully over the last layer.

‘What’s the point of having a place like this for the whole week if we can’t share it with a friend or two? I need a bit of company.’

‘Thanks. What about me?’

‘Well, like you said, that’s just work, isn’t it?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to ring that bloke now.’

‘Fun for me,’ murmured Sarah. ‘I’d better see what’s on telly tonight.’

‘If you’re very good,’ said James as he left the kitchen, ‘we might let you watch.’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Sarah to herself, as she stared admiringly at her lasagne.

She was watching the late-night film when she heard Leo’s car pull up in the driveway, the beam of its headlights brushing the curtained windows with a faint arc of light. She thought of James upstairs in bed with his friend. Leo’s bed. She knew she had at least thirty seconds in which to call up to them, warn
them, and that James might just, possibly, be able to get him out through an upstairs window in time. She couldn’t be bothered. She heard the car door slam, then his feet on the gravel, and snuggled a little lower in her armchair. She was fed up with James, anyway. Always whining round the place. And with him out of the way, who could say how things might develop? Maybe she could make her position that little bit stronger. A man like that. Life would become divinely simple. She’d never wanted to settle down, but if it could be someone like Leo … Some hope, she told herself, and smiled wryly at the television screen as Leo opened the front door.

‘Hello,’ he said, as he came into the room.

‘Hello,’ she replied, and smiled winningly, briefly, at him round the side of the armchair. Then she stared at the television again. Her heart was thudding a little at the thought of Leo finding James. ‘A midweek surprise,’ she murmured. ‘Just as well I made some lasagne this afternoon. I was going to put it in the freezer for Saturday.’

‘Good.’ Leo rubbed his face and gazed blankly for a few seconds at the television screen. ‘I need a drink. No – I think I’ll go upstairs and change first.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll fix you a drink while you’re up there. You’ll need it,’ she added under her breath.

It was difficult to concentrate on the film with doors banging and voices shouting and feet thumping on the stairs, but at last they died away. She heard the front door close. Leo came into the room.

‘I’ve poured us both a drink,’ she said. ‘Yours is over there.’

Leo picked it up. ‘James is packing,’ he said. He crossed the room and switched off the television, then turned with a sigh to Sarah. ‘I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘that you’re next.’

She smiled the impudent, tantalising smile that he had always liked. ‘Oh, well. All good things come to an end.’ She raised
her glass. ‘Cheers, anyway.’ She took a sip. ‘Can I at least stay tonight?’

Leo pushed back a stray lock of grey hair, then tugged his tie loose. He sighed, the anger gradually dying away. That bloody boy. He had known it was a mistake to let it all go on this long. It should have ended ages ago.

Sarah put down her glass and rose, moving forward to embrace him, pressing her body gently against his. ‘After all,’ she said softly, ‘two’s company. And three
was
a bit of a crowd …’ She kissed him, parting his lips gently with her tongue. As he put his arms round her waist she felt some drops from his glass of whisky fall on the back of her skirt. His hand was shaking. She knew that his anger at the discovery upstairs had left a little legacy of excitement. Weird old Leo.

‘All right,’ he replied. ‘Just for tonight.’ He had always preferred her to James, anyway. She was far more inventive. He would be sorry to see her go, in a way. ‘You go first thing in the morning,’ he added, more firmly.

‘First thing,’ she agreed. Probably just as well, really. She had enough saved for a couple of weeks in Cyprus with Alicia. And there was always tonight. ‘First thing,’ she repeated with a smile, before he closed his eyes to kiss her properly.

The grounding of the MV
Valeo Trader
off Almirante on Monday, the 8th of September, was of significance to several people, but Felicity Waller, as she rummaged through her knicker drawer in her Brixton flat, was not one of those immediately affected by the event. Her ultimate involvement would be of the most peripheral nature, largely confined to the misfiling of relevant documents and the photocopying of a series of nautical charts in the wrong order and at the wrong size setting. But as the vessel, with its cargo of lemons, minneolas and bananas, lay with its hull resting on a sandbank in the Pondsock shallows some thirty-two miles west of its putative position (based on the chief officer’s navigational chart), bathed in the gentle glow of a Pacific sunrise, Felicity was troubled by nothing greater than the task of finding a pair of run-free tights for work.

The possibility of the tights being clean, too, did not enter into it; she merely wanted a pair without rips or holes. She wished to make an especially good impression that day.

‘Bleeding bloody hell,’ murmured Felicity, as she pulled from the drawer the only remaining undamaged pair, lime-green Sock
Shop originals. She glanced across at the crimson Lycra skirt and black sweater which she had salvaged from the weekend laundry bag (which she hadn’t managed to take to the launderette) and thought that at least she would look colourful. That might cheer her new boss up a bit. As she scrambled into yesterday’s knickers and hooked herself into a greying M&S bra, 36D cup, she told herself she would not go to the pub tonight. She’d stayed too long last night, she admitted to herself, ruefully surveying in the mirror her round, pretty face, smudged and drawn with lack of sleep and the remnants of mascara. Why couldn’t she stick to all the good resolutions she made?

Today was the day she had intended to turn over a new leaf. They were giving her a second chance at work (which was decent of them, even if they were a load of old wankers), by letting her work for this new partner who was starting at the firm. Some young woman. She’d meant to go to the launderette last night, have a bath and wash her hair, get to bed early, get up first thing, have a decent breakfast for a change. It was to have been the dawn of a new Felicity, punctual, clean, orderly, a credit to this Miss Dean person she would be working for. If only Vince hadn’t brought that dope round …

So much for my good intentions, she thought, and gave the bag full of dirty washing a kick as she went through to the kitchen to plug in the kettle and find a fag. She scratched with her fingernail at a little blotchy orange stain on the hem of her black jumper as she waited for the kettle to boil. What could that be from? she mused, trying to remember what she’d eaten over the weekend that had been orange.

She made two cups of tea and padded along the corridor of the tiny flat to her brother’s room.

‘Gordon Bennett!’ she muttered, putting the mug of tea down on the floor next to the bed, and moving across to open the curtains and one of the windows. ‘Smells disgusting in here!’
She poked at the lumpen human shape beneath the bedclothes. ‘I’m off in a minute. Don’t spend all day hanging round here watching videos with Vince. Get down the Job Centre.’

The heap under the bedclothes groaned and shifted. Felicity sighed and left the room. She hesitated in the hallway, then went into the living room. On the wicker sofa lay another heap of humanity, its ragged brown head protruding from beneath an unzipped sleeping bag. Felicity stood looking down at it, and then said, ‘Good morning, Vince.’

Vince pulled the sleeping bag down from his face and smiled at her. Even first thing in the morning, when he was hungover and unshaven and his hair was matted and sticking up, that smile melted her heart.

‘Mornin’!’ He suddenly reached out a hand and tried to pull her down towards him, but she gave him an indignant kick and pulled away.

‘Get off!’ she exclaimed. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘I want you, is what I want,’ replied Vince, crinkling his eyes and folding his arms underneath his head as he surveyed her.

‘Now, now,’ replied Felicity. ‘What about Carol? What would she say if she heard you talking like this?’

‘Carol’s blown me out,’ said Vince, still smiling. ‘So.’

‘Oh, yeah? You need a good blowing out, you do. I’ll get you a cup.’

She went back into the kitchen, took a swift draught of her tea, and thought about this. How wonderful if Carol had given him the push. Then again … she needed someone like Vince like a hole in the head. That’s the way it goes, she thought as she waited for the kettle to boil again. You fancy someone for months, you begin to get the idea he fancies
you
a bit, and then it all happens at the wrong moment. It was important for her to clean up her act for the next couple of months, make a good start with this new boss. If she lost this job (and she very nearly
had, what with that business on Sandra’s birthday when she’d had one too many Malibu-and-Cokes at lunchtime and fallen asleep at her word processor), then they would be right in it. Rent not being paid, bills not met. Oh, no, tempting though he was, Vince was one of those things that would have to be put on the back burner.

With this resolve, and adopting her new persona as competent and sensible secretary to one of the thrusting new partners of Nichols & Co, solicitors, she took Vince his tea with a cool, polite smile.

As she struggled out of his arms and pulled down her sweater five minutes later, she made one last effort at salvaging her dignity.

‘Don’t think,’ she said, standing up and patting her curly hair down, ‘that you’re going to get the chance to do
that
again in a hurry.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Vince with a smile. ‘Did you know you’ve got amazing legs?’ He lay back and yawned.

Felicity glanced at her watch. ‘God, I’m gonna be late! Help! Listen, don’t you go leading my brother astray. He’s going to be looking for a job today, right?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Vince reached up and pulled Felicity back down onto the sleeping bag.

While Felicity was busy making herself late for work, Rachel Dean, who was to be the fortunate recipient of Felicity’s secretarial services henceforth, was herself getting ready for her first day at Nichols & Co. She sat in the quiet of her pretty little kitchen in her Fulham flat, eating muesli and drinking Earl Grey tea, while the discreet voice of Radio 3 issued forth the news, followed by Haydn’s Symphony No. 29. She glanced at her watch, rose, and rinsed out her bowl and cup and saucer. She was a slender, fine-boned girl, quite tall, with a graceful hesitancy of movement. She was wearing a new suit for work
that day, fine grey wool with a faint pinstripe, a cream-coloured silk blouse, and her black, sleek hair was drawn smoothly back from her face.

She went into her bedroom – the bedroom which she herself had decorated in rose and white when she had bought the flat a year ago, working away at this and all the other rooms painstakingly at weekends, until each was perfect and to her liking – and shook out her bedding. Then she folded her silk nightdress and slid it beneath her pillow. She picked up her briefcase from beside the desk, on which stood a small computer and word processor, and went through into the living room. She surveyed its immaculate silence for a moment, then left the flat and went down to her car.

Little pangs of nervousness kept leaping up in her stomach as she drove to work. She felt just as she had on the first day at her new secondary school when she was twelve, fifteen years ago. But what was there to be nervous about? She had ability, she knew. That was why they had given her this partnership. It was only a salaried partnership, but time would change that. If she worked hard enough, got a big enough client base, they were bound to give her a share of the equity in a couple of years’ time. Nichols & Co had no female equity partners – she was determined to be the first. She lifted her chin slightly as she thought of this, and turned the car smoothly in to Commercial Road. The motivation was pride rather than ambition. And besides, what else was there in her life apart from work?

She parked her car – a smart little blue Fiat with a spotless interior; no litter of maps, paperbacks, cassettes and sweet wrappers – in the back streets of Shoreditch, and reached the offices of Nichols & Co in Bishopsgate at nine o’clock precisely. She gave her name to the receptionist, who smiled sweetly and said, ‘Oh, yes. You’re starting today, aren’t you? I’m a bit of a friend of Felicity, your secretary. She’s ever so nice.’ Rachel
smiled a small, chilly smile, still trying to quell the unreasonable little starts of nervousness inside. Well, thought Nora, this one’s a bit of an ice queen. And she stabbed a red-enamelled nail at one of the buttons on the switchboard.

‘Hello, Denise?’ said Nora, with practised nasal resonance. ‘Is Mr Rothwell in yet? Only I’ve got Miss Dean here. She’s starting today. Yes, that’s right.’ The vowels stretched like elastic. ‘Right. Thanks ever so.’ Nora flipped a switch and smiled up at Rachel. ‘If you’d like to go up to Mr Rothwell’s office – fourth floor – Denise will meet you at the lift. Mr Lamb will be joining Mr Rothwell and he’ll show you your office.’

Rachel thanked her and went over to wait for the lift. Nora ran an expert eye over Rachel’s trimly clad figure. Good legs, nice face. Definitely more of a looker than the other three women solicitors in the firm. Only a matter of time before the office wolves got to her. And, thought Nora, as she patted her stiffly lacquered chestnut hair, there were more than a few of them about, as Nora herself could testify.

‘Good luck, dear,’ murmured Nora as the lift doors closed on Rachel. Then she turned back to the flashing light on the switchboard, cancelled it with a smart flick of her crimson fingernail, and sang into the mouthpiece, ‘Good morning, Nichols and Co. Can I help you?’

While Rachel made polite small talk with Mr Rothwell, Felicity stood wedged between a glum body of office workers all the way from Clapham North to Moorgate. She’d hoped she might get a seat so that she could do her make-up, but now even the possibility of a quick sprint to the Ladies at work to do it there seemed to be receding.

‘Come on, come on!’ she muttered under her breath as the train ground to a halt between Borough and London Bridge. Minutes passed like ages. The rest of the passengers sighed,
shifted their weight, rattled their newspapers. No one looked at anyone else. Eventually the train lurched forward, and at nine-ten Felicity was struggling breathlessly up the stationary, out-of-order escalator at Moorgate.

She scuttled through the revolving doors of the offices of Nichols & Co at nine-twenty. ‘Morning, Nora!’ she called out, and Nora fluttered a manicured hand back at her and replied, ‘Morning, Fliss! I’d go up the back stairs if I was you, love, because Mr Lamb’s going round like a bloody Dalek, checkin’ on everyone.’

‘Ta.’ Felicity dodged up the stairs just as the lift doors opened, and took them two at a time to the third floor. She hovered by the fire door, waited until the coast seemed clear, and then sped across to her desk. Four pairs of eyes, those of Felicity’s fellow secretaries, watched her as she stuffed her coat and bag hurriedly under her desk just as the figure of Mr Lamb, the office manager, appeared from the lift. He came over to her desk, smiling unpleasantly and tapping his thigh with a sheaf of papers. He was a squat, balding man in his mid fifties, obnoxiously officious, and with a personal relish for humiliating the more attractive young female members of staff.

‘Good morning, Felicity,’ he said. His voice had a nasal Essex twang which Felicity particularly disliked. He stood tapping his thigh for a few more seconds. Here it comes, she thought, and tried to quell the heaving of her chest after her sprint upstairs.

‘Morning, Mr Lamb,’ she murmured.

‘Not a very auspicious start to the week, really – would you say?’

‘Sorry, Mr Lamb?’ Felicity looked up at him with wide brown eyes, her voice soft and surprised.

‘I happened to be coming out of the lift as you were making your way up the back stairs. Twenty minutes late. Bit of a record even by your standards, wouldn’t you say?’

‘The train got stuck at London Bridge,’ replied Felicity, and began to open her desk drawer as though preparing to start work.

‘Yes, your train
always
seems to get stuck at London Bridge, doesn’t it? I really don’t understand how nobody
else’s
train ever gets stuck.’ Mr Lamb seemed to be enjoying his own heavily sarcastic humour.

‘Yes, well, sorry, Mr Lamb.’ Felicity stuck her chin in the air and looked straight at him.

‘Apart from being late,’ continued Mr Lamb as he surveyed her, ‘I think it would be an idea if you managed to make yourself rather more presentable for the office.’ Felicity’s ample bosom heaved slightly with indignation, and she thought she caught Mr Lamb’s eye flicker to it. ‘Since this position as Miss Dean’s secretary is by way of being something of a second chance for you, I’m surprised that you haven’t tried to smarten yourself up a bit.’ There was a pause, in which Felicity sat glaring at her keyboard. ‘As I say, not the best start to your week. Fortunately for you, Miss Dean is with Mr Rothwell at the moment, so you’ve got time to hang your coat up and make yourself look a bit tidier. Comb your hair, I’d suggest.’ He turned on his heel and strode off up the open-plan office.

‘Yes, Mr Lamb, no, Mr Lamb, sod off, Mr Lamb,’ murmured Felicity, and pulled her coat from beneath her desk and went to hang it in the cupboard.

Felicity was aware, as she walked back to her desk, of the watchful eyes of the other typists focused on her. She was not popular with them. They were all middle-aged, moralistic, and spent much time discussing knitting patterns, diets, and their grown-up children. Felicity was very much an outsider. They were not overtly unfriendly to her, treating her with a sort of caustic tolerance, but her very obvious sensual attractions had an almost animal effect upon them, so that their voices would
fall and their glances slide away when she arrived. Her blowsy cheerfulness and rude banter made them uneasy. They did not approve of her clothes and had suspicions about her lifestyle. They took satisfaction in the fact that Mr Lamb did not approve of Felicity either, but they knew that his disapproval masked an aggressive fascination with the swing of her hips and the curve of her breasts.