A Calculating Heart (27 page)

And Adriana, when she discovered he was not to be bought? She could, if she wanted, make life quite unpleasant. By becoming involved with her, he had rendered himself vulnerable. A woman who would go so far as to scheme the scuttling of her own yacht, and pursue her false insurance claim even though she had been the instrument of a boy’s death, might go to considerable lengths to exact revenge on the person who exposed her. Love, or whatever it was she felt for him, simply wouldn’t come into it.

The best way of protecting himself, of course, was to ensure that he wasn’t implicated in the disclosure of her fraud. Ideally, he needed to find a way for Adriana to expose it herself. But she had already given her evidence. He pondered this all the way to the Temple, and could find no solution.

By the end of the afternoon, Leo had examined the problem from every angle, but was getting nowhere. At this rate, he was going to have to confront Adriana. Perhaps it would help to talk to Anthony. There was no one else in chambers whom he would sooner trust with the details of his dilemma, and no one else upon whom he
would more readily depend to find an intelligent solution. He was going to have to give him a somewhat abridged version of events, making no mention of his intimate involvement with Adriana – he knew from experience how much Anthony detested his libidinous lifestyle, to say nothing of the dim view he would take of his treatment of Camilla.

He was just about to get up from his desk, when the phone rang. It was the surveyor, following up on the weekend’s inspection of the foundations at 2 Gratton Crescent.

‘Good news about the subsidence. It’s not as bad as I thought. In fact, I reckon you could just leave it, not even bother with underpinning.’

‘Really? That’s a relief,’ said Leo. ‘So, a clean bill of health?’

‘Looks like it. I’ll send my report out today.’

Leo rang the estate agent, and by the end of their conversation it had been agreed that contracts could be exchanged over the next few days, and the house would be Leo’s by the end of the following week. He put the phone down, reflecting that the timing was fortuitous, since Camilla would be home at the weekend. Would she be pleased? He had no idea. For some reason her enthusiasm for the house had never been as great as his. At any rate, he could set about creating something more like a real, home for Oliver. Given the indecisive state of Rachel and Charles’s relationship at the moment, that might be just as well. This brought Anthony to mind,
and the problem he had been about to put to him just before the phone rang. He got up and went downstairs to Anthony’s room. He knocked on the door and looked in. ‘Busy?’

‘Just about to knock off.’

‘Can I talk to you?’

‘Sure.’

Leo closed the door and paced around the room for a few seconds, hands in pockets. Anthony watched him, conscious of the acute pleasure that Leo’s presence always brought, even when he looked grim-faced and thoughtful, as he did now. It somehow eased his spirit just to see Leo’s face and form.

‘Some problem?’

‘It should be straightforward, but it’s not.’ Leo sat down, picking up a couple of paperclips from Anthony’s desk and twisting them. ‘The
Persephone
hearing’s almost over, it looks like we’ll get judgment in our favour, and today I found out that my wonderful client has been lying all along.’

‘The Papaposilakis woman?’

Leo nodded. ‘She scuttled her own yacht. Paid the master to start the fire on board.’

‘She told you this?’

‘Hardly.’ Leo explained the circumstances of Captain Kollias’s accident, and subsequent events at the hospital.

‘Hmm. Not a happy situation.’ Anthony leant back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘But it’s not the first time it’s happened to you. Wasn’t there that
mad Pakistani who doctored the log books in his speed and consumption claim a couple of years back? You just grit your teeth and confront her, tell her you have an obligation to the court, and so forth.’

‘Normally, I would. In this case, I’d rather not.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s a volatile creature. Frankly, I’d rather not be the instrument of her downfall, to put it in dramatic terms. I’ve had quite enough of Greek women turning their wrath on me. I want her exposed, but I’d rather it came from some other angle.’

Anthony pondered this. ‘Well, you could always get Rachel to take a statement from the master, and maybe then
she
could speak to the Silakis woman—’

‘Hold on a moment,’ said Leo. His mobile had begun to ring. He took it from his pocket and answered it. He listened for a few moments, then said, ‘I see. I really am so sorry. Thank you for letting me know … Yes-yes, I’m glad I had the chance to speak to him. Thank you, Mrs Kollias. I really am very sorry.’ He clicked the phone off and looked up at Anthony. ‘It sounded like you had the beginnings of a good idea there. But unfortunately that was Captain Kollias’s wife. He died a short time ago.’

‘Well … That’s that, then. It’s down to you.’

Leo sat in gloomy silence for some moments. ‘I suppose I could simply seek not to rely on Captain Kollias’s evidence when I make my submissions …’ He sighed. ‘No, that’s not going to work, either.’

‘You could always ask Rachel to do the dirty deed for you, anyway.’

‘How do I explain that away? The woman’s my client, after all. I’m going to have to give this some more thought.’ Leo stood up. ‘This is between you and me, by the way. I’d rather Rachel didn’t know until I’ve sorted it out in my mind.’

Anthony nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘Speaking of Rachel, how are things between you two?’ Anthony hesitated. It was inevitable, he supposed, that Leo should be interested. ‘Fine,’ he said.

‘I saw you together in Bewley’s at lunchtime.’

‘Did you?’ Anthony watched Leo pace the carpet, wondering what was coming next.

‘It’s getting serious, isn’t it?’

‘Look, I’d really rather not—’

‘I know. You’d rather not discuss it with me. You don’t think it’s any of my business. But technically, it is. She’s the mother of my son. What happens in her life affects Oliver. What I really want to know is whether this is going to cause a bust up with Charles.’

Anthony sat in silence for some moments. Leo was right. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘He’s coming home tomorrow. She’s going to tell him.’

Leo nodded. ‘And then?’

‘I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.’

‘Well, let me know when you do. I need to know what’s happening in my son’s life.’

Anthony gazed at Leo. He was evidently angry, but
Anthony wasn’t quite sure why. Leo certainly didn’t love Rachel, so it couldn’t be jealousy on his part. Then again, on some subtle level, perhaps it was. Perhaps it was simply that he didn’t like two people to whom he had been so close becoming intimate, excluding him. With Leo, one could never be sure what was going on. Anthony spoke evenly. ‘I imagine Rachel will let you know everything you need to know when she decides to.’

‘Fine. Good. I’ll let you get on. Thanks for the chat.’

‘Any time.’

Sarah’s flatmate, Lou, was sitting in her bathrobe by the open window, running her fingers idly through her damp hair and sipping a mug of coffee. She glanced over her shoulder at Sarah, who was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper.

‘So are you going to come or not?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘You might as well, since you don’t seem to be seeing that weirdo Rupert anymore.’ She swallowed the remains of her coffee. ‘Thank God.’

‘Roger.’

‘Whatever.’ Lou went to the sink to rinse her mug. ‘Anyway, you’ll be missing a good party if you don’t come.’

‘I said I might.’

‘Well, get your act together if you
are
coming. I’m going in half an hour.’ She went through to her bedroom to get changed.

Sarah closed the paper. She resented Lou calling Roger a weirdo. She’d only met him once. He wasn’t weird at all. In fact, compared to everyone else, with their hang ups and obsessions, he was remarkably sane. She wished he would ring. He’d been at an arbitration all week, and so she hadn’t seen him around chambers, but each day she’d expected him to call to apologise, or to come to her room at the end of the day to suggest a drink, the way he used to. Nothing. Not a word. Okay, she was fine with that. The relationship had probably been on its way out, anyway. In her experience, as soon as someone said they loved you, things got boring. So it was just as well. She might as well go and find something to wear to this party.

Roger lay on his bed in his T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, listening to some moody Oscar Peterson and thinking about Sarah. He gazed up through the skylight window, letting his mind dwell on her features, her lovely body, that trick she had of smiling and glancing sideways, flicking her blonde hair over one shoulder … It was his theory that if he did it often enough, that sensation of pain, like a hot wire, would dull eventually.

Maybe he’d been wrong from the beginning. Wrong in thinking that beneath those defences lay a vulnerable, uncertain girl, much in need of love. Perhaps it had been a mistake to think he had touched her enough to make her admit her own pretensions. She didn’t want to admit them. She didn’t want to be touched. She wanted to stay safely in her world of easy seduction, of soft and cynical options, of
material things and people. Okay. But still … she had her pride. Not a good thing to have dented it. He should call her. Saturday night, and they could so easily have been here together, on his bed, like those other times. He reached out for the phone, then stopped. It was up to her. She could come back if she wanted. If he had been right, and she was in love with him – if everything he read in her eyes and her smile was true – then she would simply turn up on the doorstep. Things that were meant to happen had a habit of happening. That was what he believed. He closed his eyes.

Three hours later, dressed in her slinky Anna Sui number and her newest and absolutely favourite Jimmy Choos, Sarah was beginning to wonder why she’d bothered. She’d been standing here talking to – no, listening to – this banker in his hand-pressed Levis for what seemed like an age. She should have known by now how deceptive the promise of a party could be. Here they were – the same old Sloaney faces, the same predatory glances, the same old blah-de-blah. If Roger had been here, he wouldn’t have been able to stand this bunch of fakes for five minutes … She took another slug of white wine, annoyed that he had slipped into her thoughts. The trouble was, being with Roger was one hell of a sight more amusing than being with this lot. She realised she was beginning to feel a little drunk; she’d lost count of the number of glasses of wine she’d had – three? Four? She sighed inwardly and adjusted the smile on her face as she pretended to listen to whatever this jerk in the jeans was saying to her. Then she glanced across the room and saw,
with stomach-tightening pleasure, Marcus, in a black
open-necked
shirt and looking like sex on legs, standing aloof and sultry at the edge of the room. When had he arrived?

‘… so I’ve spent ten thousand on the renovations, and netted a fifteen-thousand profit, which isn’t bad going. Of course, you have to be a good judge of an area.’ The banker felt he was making pretty good headway here. ‘So tell me, whereabouts do you live?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah with a cool smile, ‘I’ve just seen a friend. Would you excuse me?’ She drifted off, leaving the nonplussed banker in her wake.

Marcus saw her coming.

‘Well, well.’ He bent his head to kiss her cheek lightly. God, thought Sarah, he smelt fantastic. Marcus looked her up and down with a considering smile. ‘May I say you look very lovely out of context? Chambers, that is.’

‘Thank you.’ In that moment, with Marcus’s slow-burning smile directed at her, Sarah felt radiantly sexy.

‘So—’ Marcus cast a lazy glance round the room ‘—this all looks incredibly tedious. How many of these people do you know?’

Such fabulous arrogance couldn’t work on anyone else, thought Sarah. ‘A few. But you’re right. It is fantastically dull, so far.’

They stood talking for a while, Sarah doing her best to maintain a semblance of cool. Someone refilled her glass; she scarcely noticed. Marcus, as he talked and sipped his drink, watched her with veiled amusement. She was working so hard to try to appear composed and serene, to
conceal her availability. Availability so potent, it was like a scent. She’d been giving off exactly the same signals at that deathly chambers cocktail party a few weeks ago. What had got in the way that night? Anyway, she was certainly unfinished business. He could give this party half an hour or so, see what else turned up, or he could simply save himself the bother and make the most of this opportunity.

He glanced round again, then back at her. ‘I thought I might regret coming here this evening.’

‘And now?’

He reached out a hand and touched the necklace at her throat. ‘Now it’s all beginning to seem worthwhile. But I’d still rather get out of here.’ His finger strayed to her collarbone and stroked it lightly. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

Certainly a fast worker, thought Sarah. Not that she minded. Just the touch of him sent little currents of desire through her body. She raised her eyebrows nonchalantly. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Good,’ murmured Marcus. ‘Let’s go.’

When the night air hit her, Sarah realised she’d probably drunk more than she should have. But she was fine, really. Just right, in fact. She felt a delightful, tipsy shiver of anticipation. She glanced at Marcus, who walked silently next to her, and for an uneasy moment had the impression that he was momentarily oblivious of her presence. She had no sense of connection. Still, she certainly intended to make one.

‘My car’s round the corner,’ said Marcus.

‘You drove?’

‘Of course.’ They stopped, and he opened the door of his sleek Alfa Romeo. ‘Taxis really aren’t my style. I make it a rule never to have more than one drink at any party.’

They drove through the night in the direction of Docklands. Sarah made a couple of remarks by way of conversation, but Marcus’s offhand replies suggested his mind was elsewhere. Sarah gave up and lay back, tipsily contented.

Eventually Marcus pulled up in front of electronic gates, which swung back. He drove into the forecourt of a block of converted riverside warehouse flats, and parked.

‘I didn’t realise you lived by the river,’ said Sarah. The silent drive had made her feel languid. Marcus said nothing. He got out and opened the door for her.

‘It’s terribly quiet round here,’ said Sarah, as they walked to the lift. It only now occurred to her that Marcus hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to go back to his place.

‘I like it that way,’ said Marcus. He pressed the lift button. The lift hummed down and the doors opened. ‘I never see my neighbours, which is perfect. I could have bought a place in the Barbican,’ he added, ‘but that’s so yesterday.’ Sarah almost laughed.

They stepped out of the lift and crossed the hallway. Marcus slipped a key into his door and gestured for her to go in, flicking a couple of switches.

The flat was one enormous loft-space, furnished in minimalist style. Discreetly angled lamps and mirrors cast a glow on the burnished wood floor. Large windows looked out on the panorama of the river, a vista of buildings darkly
silhouetted against the London sky, twinkling with lights.

‘Drink?’ Marcus opened a drinks cabinet of wood and steel and took out a couple of glasses.

‘I think I’ve probably had enough,’ said Sarah. She crossed to the window and looked out.

Marcus, on his way to the fridge in the kitchen and dining area, paused to drop a kiss on the back of her neck. Sarah shivered with pleasure. ‘Baby,’ he murmured, ‘we’ve only just started.’

He hit the ice maker, and chunks tumbled into the glasses. From the freezer he took a bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label and poured out drinks. He handed one to Sarah. She sipped, and felt the icy, sexy touch of the vodka at the back of her throat. Marcus’s eyes were on her face. He smiled.

‘Come with me.’

She followed him across the room to the far end of the loft, past a sound system and long rows of bookshelves, to his sleeping area. Again he flicked a couple of switches. The bed was vast, bathed in low light. The sheets and pillows were black. Again Sarah stifled the urge to laugh. She glanced around, taking another swallow of her drink. It ran through her limbs like fire. Was there something vaguely ridiculous about all this, or was that just the effect of everything she’d had to drink?

Marcus moved in front of her, touching her throat lightly with his hands, and kissed her. Sarah was surprised at the suddenness of it, but was too aroused and drunk to care. She opened her mouth to his, and immediately felt his hands on her body, insistent, practiced, working at
the fastening of her dress. Talk about cutting to the chase, thought Sarah through a haze of lust. They’d hardly even spoken since leaving the party, and already he was all over her. Not that she cared. She’d wanted this one for months, and now he was all hers.

Only it wasn’t like that at all. It was as though she had almost nothing to do with everything that happened next. In minutes her clothes were on the floor, then his, and their bodies were intertwined on the bed, little gasps and moans of desire stippling the air. But even as he took her, she felt no connection, nothing at all. Even the beauty of his slick, dark skin moving against her own seemed to possess a fake sensuality. Never had she been made love to with such detachment, by a man immersed only in his own pleasure, barely conscious of her existence beyond the fact and availability of her body.

And yet she let it happen. Time passed, and she let him do all that he wanted, feeling throughout as though she were locked away from whatever passionless motives directed his urgent lovemaking. She didn’t know this man. She’d thought she wanted him, and she didn’t even know him. Such pleasure as there was seemed utterly remote.

‘No,’ she moaned at last. She lay on her belly, Marcus behind and on top of her. He was breathing deeply and slowly, spent, but still ready to go on. ‘Don’t. I don’t want that.’

Marcus sat up on his haunches. The low light bathed his dark skin. He ran his hands briefly, impartially, over the smooth swell of her buttocks, and climbed off. Sarah lay
with her cheek pressed against the pillow. She heard the snap of a discarded condom. Marcus padded to a closet, took out a robe, and slipped it on. He came back to the bed. She thought he might lie down next to her, say something, but he merely picked up his drink and walked across the room.

She rolled on to her side, pushing her hair back from her face. Marcus had settled himself on a long leather sofa some yards away. He sipped his drink, and picked up a remote. Blue light bathed the area where he sat. She could see his perfect profile. He was watching television. The bastard was watching television.

Moments passed. At last she spoke. ‘Marcus.’

‘What?’ He flicked the remote and changed the channel without turning to look at her.

Sarah put her feet on the floor. She picked up her dress and slipped it on, then her knickers. She picked up her Jimmy Choos and walked across to where he sat.

‘Is this the way the evening goes?’

‘Goes?’ He glanced up at her, then back at the television.

She sat down next to him, but not near him. ‘I mean, isn’t there something …’ she tried to laugh, but it didn’t quite work. Her throat felt a little thick from the alcohol and the recent exertion ‘… something rather impersonal about all this?’

He looked at her, his face a mask of beautiful indifference. He sighed. It was a sigh of boredom. ‘Darling Sarah, you got what you wanted. So far as I could tell.’ She sat very still. Humiliation pooled within her, numbing her. ‘Do you need a taxi?’ he asked.

It took a moment for her mind to clear. Her presence here was evidently no more than an unwelcome intrusion. She had served her purpose, and now he would like to be rid of her. Well, what more had she expected? Wasn’t it true? Hadn’t she got what she’d come for? Through her vestigial drunkenness, she felt a sudden, suffocating sense of shame.

‘You’re not going to run me home?’ She couldn’t believe she’d said that. The last thing she wanted was for him to run her home, like some clapped-out tart for whom one had to do the decent thing, whether one liked it or not.

He sighed again in irritation. ‘It would be less trouble all round if you took a cab.’ He got up, pulling his robe around him, and picked up the phone, stabbing at the buttons. Sarah, dazed, hardly listened as he ordered the taxi, gave the address. He sat down again and picked up the remote. ‘It’ll be about fifteen minutes. Make yourself another drink, if you like.’

Sarah cast around for something to say or do to salvage her dignity. She felt utterly abased, almost as though she’d been raped. The possibility played briefly in her fuddled mind, then fell away. After a few moments her eyes strayed to the television. It was something to do with Louis Theroux. Blankly she stared at the bespectacled, clever, baffled face on the screen, and thought of Roger. She felt she might cry. She bent down and put her shoes on. For something to do, she went back to the bed and picked up her vodka glass from the bedside table. She stared at the oily remains of the vodka, the sliver of melting ice, then
at the rumpled bed, the stupid black sheets and pillows.