Judicial Whispers (8 page)

In the gallery in Cork Street, people drifted around admiring the paintings, sipping wine and talking in low voices. Anthony stood with his father and Rachel near the gallery door, impatient to leave. He listened absently to their conversation, thinking how much his father had changed over the past three years. All his life Anthony had known him as a superannuated hippy, living in various squats around London, moving from one fad to another, chemical, religious and artistic, without any apparent aim in life. He’d just been a long-haired, penniless embarrassment. Now look at him, thought Anthony. He eyed his father, a lean, angular figure clad in a pair of Gap denims, nubuck boots, and a hand-painted silk jacket bought on the Maximilianstrasse. He made Anthony feel stuffy in his City suit. Chay’s hair was cropped, his chin silvery-grey with designer stubble, and he wore a silver earring in one ear. Two years ago he had jumped bail on a drugs charge, gone into ‘spiritual retreat’ in California, begun work again on his paintings, and emerged into the LA sunshine hailed as a genius among postmodernists.

Anthony couldn’t decide whether luck, talent or lack of critical discernment in the art world was more responsible for his father’s success. Still, even if he was not entirely admiring of Chay’s work, he was ungrudgingly pleased for him. The poor guy had had a lifetime of failure – mainly through his own fault – and it was good to see him successful. And though he would never have admitted it, Anthony was not averse to basking a little in the reflected glory of his father’s cultural acclaim.

He and Rachel were getting along pretty well; she seemed to know something about modern art and was discussing Mark Rothko’s work earnestly with Chay. Perhaps I’m a bit of a philistine, thought Anthony, as he wandered a few feet away to inspect a very large exhibit, described in the catalogue as ‘
Nostalgia
(fibre glass, epoxy resin, acrylic paint)’. It looked to Anthony like nothing more than three badly painted clouds and a tree house. Yet he had read reviews of this work in the Sunday papers, one of which had described it as ‘massively confrontational’ and another as ‘perhaps under-motivated, but wonderfully uncompromising’. Even Rachel had thought it marvellous. Perhaps I should try and learn more about it all, if Rachel likes it, thought Anthony. Leo, he recalled musingly, collected modern art.

He turned to look at Rachel and smiled; though still talking to Chay, her slender body seemed poised to move in Anthony’s direction, as though drawn to him. She and Chay walked slowly over to join him.

‘Anthony, I’ve had a wonderful evening. I’ve just been telling your father that I think the exhibition is stunning.’ Her eyes were shining with genuine warmth and pleasure. Anthony smiled at her, then at Chay.

‘Not bad, Dad,’ he said, aware that it sounded childish and slightly ungracious, but unable to find anything else to say. He just wanted to get her away, have her to himself.

‘I’m glad you came,’ said Chay. He turned to Rachel. ‘Anthony doesn’t generally take much of an interest in my work,’ he added, ‘but I’m glad he managed to bring someone a little more appreciative along this evening.’

Oh, get you, Dad, thought Anthony. What a class act, and all because he obviously fancied Rachel. Looking at his father’s fashionable person, set against the backdrop of a chic London gallery, Anthony felt a little spurt of jealousy. ‘Perhaps you’d
both like to come to supper one evening?’ Chay asked, still looking at Rachel.

‘Yes – we’ll see. Great. Thanks,’ said Anthony, and glanced at his watch.

‘Well, goodnight,’ said Rachel, and shook Chay’s hand; Anthony could have sworn he held it for longer than was absolutely necessary.

‘Goodnight,’ said Chay.

‘I’ll call you, Dad.’

When they were out in the cold air of Cork Street, Anthony took a deep breath. ‘At last,’ he murmured.

‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’ asked Rachel in surprise. She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat and dug her hands deep into her pockets. Anthony was annoyed that he couldn’t even take her hand.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied. ‘Well, I mean, it’s all right, that sort of thing. But I can’t say it does a lot for me.’

‘Philistine,’ said Rachel.

‘Just what I was thinking,’ replied Anthony, and smiled.

‘Anyway,’ added Rachel, ‘I thought it was heaven.’

‘Honestly?’ Anthony stopped and turned to look at her.

‘Honestly what?’

‘Was it honestly heaven standing around looking at meaningless pictures with titles like
“Puffin Number 8”
and
“Still Life in Exodus”
and saying how wonderful they were?’

She stared at him. ‘I wouldn’t say a thing was good if I didn’t think so. It’s not all some kind of joke, you know.’ Her look of icy reserve had returned.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Anthony, wishing he’d never spoken. He felt suddenly far away from her. He sighed, stepped towards her and ran his hands down the sleeves of her coat and into her pockets, where he clasped her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just spent the whole evening wanting to be alone with you.’

Rachel stiffened at his proximity. She should not have suggested this evening. It was not fair to go on seeing him. He would want a closeness she could not provide. She sensed he wanted it now.

Stiffly she pulled her hands from her pockets, his with them, and turned to walk slowly on.

‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ he asked, anxious to prolong the evening, not to let it end on this note.

‘I don’t think so, thanks. I had more than enough wine at the gallery.’

‘Can I see you home, then?’ He felt about fourteen, trying to work out this coldness in her. She behaved as though he were a cipher – not even a trace of physical understanding between them. How could she fail to read his behaviour, his words?

‘No, it’s all right, thanks.’ Her voice was bright, but distant. ‘I’ll just find a taxi.’

‘Rachel—’ He stopped and held her by her arms, looking into her face. The street was deserted. Her eyes were defensive. There was an unresponsiveness about her that disarmed him utterly. He thought of similar situations with other girls, their warm eagerness, and wondered whether he wasn’t just entirely mistaken in all this. He leant towards her; her features were so still that he put his hands gently on either side of her face. Her body was completely motionless.

When he kissed her, she was saying to herself, it’s all right. Don’t be stupid. It’s absolutely all right. But she felt her muscles tightening, her mouth shrinking away from his. Still his lips sought hers. In an attempt to steady herself, prevent herself from falling backwards, she grasped his arms just above the elbows with both hands.

For Anthony, the whole thing was beyond comprehension, as with frustrated longing his mouth tried to find hers. He could feel her shudder faintly, and taking his face from hers, he let her go abruptly. Her arms fell to her sides.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘What?’ Her voice was faint, her head cast down, the street light shining on the blackness of her hair.

‘That I offend you.’ His voice was cold, hurt.

She gave a little laugh, still not looking up. How could she laugh? God, he felt a fool.

‘You don’t – offend me,’ she replied, and lifted her head. In spite of her laughter, her face was serious, her eyes studying his. How beautiful and hurt and childish he looked. This was such a mistake. She wanted so much to be what he wanted. She drew in her breath. ‘Here,’ she said. And she reached up and kissed him lightly, hoveringly. He put his arms around her and kissed her back hungrily, but all he could feel was a complete stillness, right to the core of her being. It was as though there was nothing there.

She stood rigid as he released her. When he stopped kissing her, it was as though it was, for her, an utter relief. He gazed at her. There is something here that I do not understand, he thought. The almond eyes, their blue brightness very still, gazed back at him; her lips were slightly parted, and tendrils of dark hair blew about her cheeks. The light carved her face into soft planes of shadow and ivory.

‘Rachel—’ he began. Don’t ask me, she thought. But he merely sighed, picked up her hand and kissed it. This is not worth going on with, he was thinking. At that moment a taxi swung round the corner from Burlington Gardens, and Rachel looked up with relief.

‘Thank you for this evening,’ she said to Anthony as she raised her hand to the taxi; then, before turning away, she added, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me too,’ murmured Anthony to the shadows, as he watched the taxi purr off up the street.

Anthony was standing in the clerks’ room a week later, fiddling with the computer and trying to work out how his fees stood, when Mr Slee put the phone down and turned to look up at him.

‘That was Miss Dean from Nichols and Co,’ he said, ‘fixing a con with you for herself and a Mr Nikolaos.
Valeo Dawn.
’ He turned to make a note of it in Anthony’s diary. ‘Four o’clock on Friday.’ He glanced back round. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that with the computer,’ he added reprovingly. ‘It doesn’t help.’

Anthony walked to the window and looked morosely out across the courtyard at the driving rain. He had no special wish to see Rachel again; he wanted to try to forget about her, wishing the thing had never begun. Still, she had instructed him, and that meant he had to see her. Why did he have to go about starting things up with every attractive woman he met? It only complicated life.

Leo came into the clerks’ room in his shirtsleeves, his new half-moon spectacles perched at the end of his nose. He really thought they made him look rather distinguished.

‘Here you go, William,’ he said, passing some papers to
Mr Slee. He glanced at Anthony. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re worried about meeting me in court next week, eh?’

Anthony looked at him. Good God, those new glasses of Leo’s really made him look his age. Anthony was rather taken aback. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I happen to know we’re going to win. Lewis is bound to uphold the award.’ For the first time, he and Leo were on opposite sides in a case, and Anthony found it an enjoyable novelty. It gave them a common interest that seemed to set their relationship back on its old amiable footing.

‘Ha!’ said Leo. ‘I admire your optimism. But,’ he added ruefully, as he joined Anthony at the window to inspect the weather, ‘I rather suspect you’re right.’

There was a pause, and then Anthony said, ‘Tell me – how do you get out of a case once you’ve been instructed in it? I mean, can you?’

‘Don’t they teach you that sort of thing at Bar School?’ asked Leo. Then he added, ‘I don’t know. The situation has never arisen with me. I think the answer is – you can’t. Not unless you have some formidable, really earth-shattering excuse. Anyway, you’d make sure William got you out of it – isn’t that right, William?’ Leo turned and grinned at Mr Slee.

Mr Slee looked grimly at Anthony and sighed. ‘I don’t think it’s something we want to start thinking about,’ he said. ‘Not quite at this stage.’

‘No, I was only joking, really,’ said Anthony. ‘Just something that’s turning into a bit of a drag.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Leo. ‘How nice to feel you can pick and choose. I must go and do some work.’ He left Anthony staring out at the rain, cursing himself for the fact that, despite everything, he was very much looking forward to seeing Rachel again. Try as he might to suppress the feeling, he was now impatient for Friday to arrive.

When Mr Slee showed Rachel and Mr Nikolaos into Anthony’s room that Friday, Anthony was uncomfortably aware of his own nervousness. It seemed to him that it had been tacitly accepted, at their last meeting, that whatever he had tried to start with her had been an utter failure. As a result, he felt stiff and awkward at the prospect of meeting her. But when he saw her, saw her calm, lovely face and gentle smile as he said hello, it all receded. He was more than glad to see her, just to look at her. She was wearing a suit of pale grey, and a high-necked white shirt that made her neck look very slender. Her black hair was swept back into a knot, and she looked infinitely more elegant than he had ever seen her. But it didn’t matter what she looked like, he reminded himself – she was not for him. He only wished she didn’t have to look so bloody wonderful.

They sat down opposite Anthony’s desk, where the papers in the case were neatly arranged, Mr Nikolaos perching nervously on the edge of his chair. Anthony gave him a brief, reassuring smile as he surveyed him. He was a small, stout Greek in his mid fifties, not very well dressed, and seemingly full of pent-up agitation. Poor guy, thought Anthony, as he began to expound to Mr Nikolaos how things stood for him – Rachel had already told him about Mr Nikolaos’s other minor disasters.

‘… so the main difficulty that we face, as Miss Dean has no doubt already explained to you’ – he put this in just as an excuse to glance in her direction, let his eyes rest for a moment on her mouth, slightly pursed as she inspected some document, and on the soft darkness of her eyelashes and brow – ‘is in establishing that the vessel was not unseaworthy, but that the explosion was caused by some act or default in the navigation or management of the ship.’

Mr Nikolaos was nodding attentively, listening carefully to everything Anthony was saying.

‘Which will give us,’ continued Anthony, ‘a defence under the Hague Rules. So it really is an evidential issue.’

‘But how can they say this vessel is unseaworthy?’ demanded Mr Nikolaos. ‘You see the surveyor’s report—’ He rose and half-crouched over Anthony’s desk, grubbing the report out excitedly from among Anthony’s papers, flicking through the pages and muttering. ‘There! You see?’ He stabbed a stubby finger at the page and read aloud: ‘“The fire, which started at the aft end of the number two generator, had involved a massive release of oil. Analysis of the oil in the bilge showed that the majority of the oil there was lube-oil. In addition, the number two generator had lost three hundred litres or so of lube-oil.”’ He looked up excitedly into Anthony’s face. ‘There! You see? It must have been the mistake of someone working with the generator! Is not my vessel was unseaworthy!’ Mr Nikolaos’s breath smelt strongly of garlic, and Anthony sat back slightly.

‘Yes, but the problem, Mr Nikolaos, is in showing that it was in fact an error by one of the crew, and not, say, some defect in the filters.’

Mr Nikolaos sat back down and looked at Anthony with a mixture of hope and impatience. ‘But you will get the evidence to show this was so?’

Anthony hesitated and glanced at Rachel. ‘If it is there, then I hope we shall.’

They debated the surveyor’s preliminary findings for another twenty minutes or so, Mr Nikolaos becoming more and more agitated, until Rachel laid a hand on his arm.

‘
I
think you’re right, and Mr Cross thinks you’re right,’ she said, ‘but we have some further way to go before we can establish it conclusively. I’m going to Bombay to see the master shortly, and maybe we can get a clearer picture then. We have another surveyor making a more thorough examination while I’m out there, and I’m sure his report will clarify things.’

Mr Nikolaos subsided. He looked at Rachel and shook his head sadly. ‘OK.’ He glanced up at Anthony. ‘But we must prove
this thing! I cannot afford to lose this! I have big problems already, Mr Cross, and I’m relying on you—’

‘I understand, Mr Nikolaos,’ interrupted Anthony. ‘I promise we shall do our best.’

When the conference ended, Rachel and Mr Nikolaos rose. As Anthony was seeing them to the door, Rachel turned to Mr Nikolaos. ‘Would you mind if I had a word with Mr Cross? Perhaps you would wait for me downstairs.’

Mr Nikolaos, preoccupied, nodded and left them. Anthony felt his heart beat a little faster as the door closed; she looked at him and said, ‘I’d like to return your kindness in taking me to your father’s exhibition last week. Would you like to come to supper tomorrow night?’

Anthony was mildly astonished. ‘Look,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘don’t you think this is best kept on a – um – professional footing? I mean, I’m clearly not your cup of tea—’ Best to come clean, he thought, though he wished he could find a more appropriate way of putting it.

‘Anthony, this is just a friendly gesture. Please.’

Anthony wasn’t quite sure he knew what this meant, but if she wanted to be with him, then …

‘Yes, all right,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll give you the address.’ And she wrote it down and left it on the corner of his desk. ‘There.’ She smiled at him. It was a smile of such promise that Anthony felt confused. ‘I’ll see you about eight,’ she added.

He sat back down behind his desk after she had gone. David Liphook, with whom he shared the room, came back from court a few minutes later and glanced in Anthony’s direction as he slung his bag into a corner.

‘You look a bit dazed,’ he said.

Anthony raised his eyebrows, still gazing vacantly ahead of him. ‘I am. I’m trying to work out what makes women tick.’

‘I’ve been doing that for ten years,’ said David, from the lofty heights of twenty-six. ‘It’s a waste of time. Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s Friday, it’s nearly five-thirty, and the weekend is full of promise. I’ll buy the first round.’

Anthony sighed and rose, wondering just how full of promise his weekend was.

That evening, Rachel stood before the mirror and stared at her reflection. She dragged one finger across her pale skin, down from her brow and past her mouth; her eyes looked blankly back. There has to come a point, she told herself, when you must make the effort to find your way back to normality. What normality? How could she possibly reach back into her life and find a place where things had been normal? It was a state belonging to others, a condition to be attained. ‘Your healing has to come from within,’ her analyst had said. What did
she
know? How could you heal someone who had never been well or whole to begin with? But you had to make the attempt, you had to climb up, step by step, towards the real world. Then, when you reached it, you would just have to stand teetering there for as long as you could, praying you didn’t lose your balance.

Rachel dropped her head, looked at her hands spread out upon the dressing table, then looked back up again. She did not see the fine-boned loveliness that others saw when they looked at her. It was just her face, after all. To her, it looked as it always had – hollow and lost, with fear behind the eyes. Sometimes it seemed that her reflection belonged to another person entirely.

When she lay in bed later, she slid her hand beneath her nightdress and drew it up across her stomach to her breasts. Her skin felt very soft. She thought of Anthony touching her thus, and in her imagination it was gentle and desirable, and she herself was pliant and unresisting. But that was not the truth, she knew. She drew her hand outside the covers. If I can just take
a grip on these fears, she told herself, if I can edge the darkness away and remember that he is safe and kind, then it could be all right.

She recalled how she had let him kiss her, and how she had made her mind a black vacuum for the thing to be supportable. But it won’t always be like that; it must get better. She tensed the muscles of her arms, then relaxed them, trying to remember the relaxation technique she had been taught, so that her body and mind might float away into sleep. There is nothing to be afraid of, she said to herself, and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

The next day passed smoothly and brightly, with an unexpected savour of optimism. She went to Marks & Spencer in the morning and bought wine and olive bread and salad, and pasta and cheese and ham and cream. She spent most Saturday mornings shopping, but then it was rather more mundane, unless she happened to be having one of her friends from school or university round for supper, with their boyfriend or husband. Everyone seemed to have husbands or partners these days; everyone seemed to have lives that moved in shining kaleidoscopic patterns made up of weddings and houses and pregnancies and babies, while Rachel felt as though she were standing still, watching it all go by. Occasionally such threesomes would feel a little awkward, but Rachel preferred to entertain at home, instead of having to go to her friends’ dinner parties, her heart sinking with dread at the prospect of meeting the unattached male who was inevitably roped in on her behalf. No, she felt safer at home.

As she carefully mixed wine vinegar into the salad dressing that evening, Rachel thought of those unattached males. She had learnt how to deal with them, to assume the social mask of polite friendliness while turning them in her mind to wooden images, consigned to oblivion as soon as the evening was over, never to be thought of or encountered again. She had adopted a similar
technique with those men who would occasionally approach her in art galleries on Sunday afternoons, friendly, hopeful, lonely. She had learnt to drift unseeingly past and away, learnt how not to look or feel threatened.

But Anthony was different. She could not look past him, or consign him to oblivion. She did not want to. She wanted to be able to keep him close. She had thought over and over about Anthony and this evening, telling herself that if she could do this, then she had taken the first step to overcoming the fears which made her shrink from all intimacy. There are good, kind men in the world, her analyst often reminded her. Not every man is a threat, not every man wants to hurt you. She knew that Anthony was one of those men; she recognised that. So it will be all right, she told herself. Take it moment by moment. But still her hands tightened spasmodically on the side of the salad bowl she was holding as she thought of his hands upon her face. She thrust the thought away.

Anthony got to Rachel’s a little after eight, bearing wine and some flowers. ‘These were a last-minute thought, I’m afraid,’ admitted Anthony, as he gave them to her. ‘The flowers, I mean. They’re from the garage down the road. You see the way they wrap them in this foil stuff to make them look more and better? Sorry.’

‘They’re very nice,’ said Rachel, ‘wherever they come from.’

He followed her through to the kitchen, glancing around with interest at the meticulous feminine order of her flat. He watched her as she reached up to a shelf to fetch a vase for the flowers. She was wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, which clung to her body. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. Anthony had never seen her in anything but business suits, and he found the sight of her in jeans girlish and touching.

‘It’s nothing special, I’m afraid – just spaghetti,’ she said, and handed him the wine and a corkscrew. You could divide
women into two types, thought Anthony: those who opened wine themselves and those who gave it to men to do.