An Immoral Code (12 page)

He laughed. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that all evening.’

Camilla put a hand up uncertainly to her hair, conscious of the change in Anthony’s manner. His voice was lazy, faintly mocking.

‘Come here,’ he murmured. She did not move, so he leant forward and kissed her. There was nothing tentative or kind about it. He just kissed her because he wanted to, and because the idea that she was a very desirable creature had been growing on him over the last hour or so. He had entirely put from his mind the fact that this was Camilla, Jeremy’s pupil, whom he saw in chambers every day, and with whom he was meant to be having a pleasant, platonic evening. At that moment she was a pretty girl whom he felt like kissing.

At the touch of his mouth, Camilla felt a warm longing growing within her. This kiss was something she had dreamt about in her idle fantasies in chambers, in all her happy daydreams about Anthony. But even as she enjoyed the feeling of his arms about her, the pressure of his body against hers, she knew that he was kissing her only because he was drunk, that it was something he would not have dreamt of doing if he had been sober. She pulled away.

‘Don’t,’ she muttered. ‘You’re only doing it because of Sarah – because of what they said about her.’

He breathed heavily and leant back. He felt drunk, angry and aggressively lustful. Then he laughed briefly. ‘Oh, fuck Sarah,’ he said. ‘After all, everybody else does.’ Then he pulled her towards him again, sliding his hand into the bodice of her dress and grabbing clumsily at her breast as he tried to bring his mouth to hers.

Appalled, Camilla twisted away and backed off. ‘Stop it!’ she said. God, he was horrible when he was drunk! This was
not the way she had imagined things. She gazed at him in misery and fury as he swayed and leant back against the gate, lifting his head up and closing his eyes. Without saying anything more, she turned around and hurried back across Fountain Court, her footsteps slowing as she joined the straggling group of people leaving Middle Temple Hall in search of taxis. Finally aware that he had done something he would regret, Anthony pushed himself drunkenly off the gate, shook his head, and made his way towards the steps leading down to the Embankment and Temple Tube station.

The worst of it was that Anthony had to pass through the gateway the next morning on his way to chambers, through a dull, cold drizzle. The black iron gates, now open, seemed to stare at him in reproach, and the waters of the fountain danced and splashed mockingly. He groaned inwardly as he passed the blank, closed portals of Middle Temple Hall. The recollection of the previous evening, which had rushed upon him in a nauseating wave as he woke that morning then ebbed away as he made his way into work, now swept over him afresh. But what had he done, after all, that he should feel so remorseful, so wretched? He had merely kissed Camilla, which was hardly in itself a crime. As far as he could recall, she had kissed him back, too. But he knew that he had been extremely drunk, and he winced at the vague recollection of having put his hand down the front of her dress. He remembered her recoiling from him, and presumed that he had just behaved like a drunken boor. Still, worse things had happened in life. He sighed as he went into chambers. It would just have been better if it hadn’t happened with Camilla. There was something annoyingly wet
about Camilla which told him that it wouldn’t be possible for them both to laugh it off. He gave a furtive glance, into the clerks’ room, but saw only Felicity busy on the telephone and Henry sorting through the mail. He sped quickly upstairs and into the safety of his room.

A few moments later, Camilla came into chambers shaking the rain from her umbrella. She had seen Anthony walking across Caper Court as she came through the cloisters and had realised that they were bound to meet at the entrance to Number 5. So she had hung back among the pillars, watching as his long-legged figure strode up the stairs and into chambers. She had a pretty good idea of how he must feel this morning, and, feeling a vague pity for him, didn’t want to encounter him quite yet.

Felicity glanced up as Camilla went past the open door of the clerks’ room. ‘How did it go?’ she hissed.

Camilla took off her coat and hesitated. She was clad once again in her dusty black suit and white blouse. ‘I’m not sure, really …’ Her expression was tired, blank.

Felicity glanced round at Henry slitting envelopes with a paperknife. ‘Come on,’ she said to Camilla, ‘we’ll go and get a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’

They stood together in the confines of the narrow chambers kitchen and Camilla stirred her coffee. ‘He just got drunk, basically,’ she said, and shrugged her shoulders.

Felicity folded her arms and leant back against the tiny sink. ‘What – is that it? He got pissed?’

‘Well, no, obviously not
just
that. I mean, we had quite a good time at first. He told me how nice I looked …’ A sad, faraway look crossed her face as she recollected Anthony turning her face to his, the way he had said what he said. Then she sighed and looked down at her coffee again. ‘It was all fine. Then someone in the next mess unintentionally said something
about Anthony’s girlfriend – about how she was sleeping around. They didn’t know who Anthony was, or anything. It was just – it just upset him, I suppose. And in the end he just had too much to drink.’

‘So that was it?’ Felicity couldn’t hide her disappointment. She had had high hopes of her matchmaking, of turning Camilla into a Cinderella. And Cinderella was about right, she reflected, glancing at Camilla now, her hair untidy about her face, bare of any make-up and shiny about the nose and chin, back in those baggy clothes.

‘Oh, he kissed me after we had left,’ said Camilla, her tone dismissive. ‘But that was just because he was drunk. And then he just started groping me, so I walked off.’ She drank her coffee and met Felicity’s direct gaze a touch defiantly.

‘Well, at least he went for you,’ said Felicity doubtfully.

‘You could put it like that,’ said Camilla, and brushed past Felicity to throw the dregs of her coffee into the sink. ‘But it was pretty awful, frankly. And if he hadn’t been drunk it would never have happened. He would just have said goodnight politely and put me in a taxi.’ Felicity was about to disagree, and Camilla stopped her. ‘No, don’t look like that, Felicity. I happen to know it. Anyway, it was clear from the way he reacted to those remarks about his girlfriend how he feels about her. I suppose I feel a bit sorry for him, and I just want to forget the whole thing.’ She glanced at her watch. Jeremy would be in by now, fretting over something she hadn’t done, no doubt. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘it’s rather put me off him, as it happens.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘I’d better go and get some work done. See you later.’ She turned to go, then stopped, and added, ‘But thanks very much. I mean, thanks, anyway.’

Felicity still stood at the sink, lips pursed. What a mess. Bloody Anthony, never could hold his drink. But she couldn’t believe that Camilla didn’t still feel something for him. Felicity
decided that there must be some way of retrieving the situation.

Fifteen minutes later Anthony was coming down from his room in his shirtsleeves, some papers in his hand, just as Camilla emerged from Jeremy’s room. His heart sank, and his footsteps slowed as he came down the last few stairs. There was no way of avoiding this. He would have had to apologise to her sooner or later, anyway. He just couldn’t face that forlorn, devoted look of hers, not when it was tinged with disappointment and reproach as well, as he assumed it would be. But she merely glanced casually at him, and then turned to go down the stairs without saying anything.

‘Camilla,’ he said. She stopped and he crossed the landing, looking down at her as she hesitated on the staircase.

‘Yes?’ Her face did not wear its usual enthusiastic, open expression. Her look was polite, almost uninterested.

‘I – ah – I just want to apologise for last night. I think I got rather out of hand.’ The door opposite Jeremy’s room opened and Leo came out, smoking one of his small cigars, his jacket in his hand. He glanced quizzically at Camilla and Anthony.

‘Morning, troops,’ he said cheerfully, then he added to Anthony, ‘You haven’t forgotten we’re getting judgment in the Court of Appeal today, have you?’

‘Blast!’ said Anthony, and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said to Leo, who nodded and went downstairs, pulling his jacket on. There was a pause as his footsteps died away, his cigar smoke still hanging faintly in the air.

‘It really doesn’t matter,’ replied Camilla, and shrugged.

‘No – well, I just had a bit too much to drink, and I’m – that is, anyway, I’m sorry. I should have got you a taxi.’

‘You weren’t really in much of a condition to do that,’ said Camilla. ‘Anyway, why don’t you just forget it? Let’s both just – forget it.’ She gave a faint smile, raised her eyebrows, and went downstairs. Anthony stood uncertainly on the landing, kicking
his foot against the banister. Oh, well, not quite as he had expected her to be. Her face hadn’t worn that soulful, gormless look he was accustomed to seeing when she looked at him. Disillusioned, no doubt. He couldn’t blame her. He went back into his room, picked up his robes, and slipped on his jacket, feeling vaguely and unaccountably annoyed.

Leo had gone straight over to the Law Courts without waiting for Anthony, and when Anthony slid into the seat next to him in Court Number 5, adjusting his wig and slightly out of breath, Leo turned to glance at him.

‘You look a little the worse for wear,’ he remarked. ‘Sorry I couldn’t wait, but I wanted to have a word with Dunstable before we started. Here, I got a copy of the judgment from Maurice yesterday evening. You’d already left.’ He handed Anthony a thin sheaf of papers stapled together.

Anthony still had no idea of the contents of the judgment, and before he had a chance to ask Leo, everybody was rising to their feet and Sir Neville Graham, together with Lord Justices Manfred and Howell, trooped into court. Lord Justice Howell seated himself very gently, anxious to inflict as little sudden movement as possible on his throbbing head. He, too, had attended Grand Night the previous evening, and had enjoyed himself a little too well. Whereas he had originally been a little irked at having had to write this judgment without the concomitant pleasure of delivering it – for one naturally enjoyed the sound of one’s own voice – he was now extremely glad that Sir Neville had taken that task upon himself. He leant back against the leather padding of his chair and resisted the temptation to close his eyes. Instead he poured a large glass of water for himself from the jug which stood before him on the Bench, and sipped at it gratefully.

The Master of the Rolls adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat, then spoke in the grave, mellifluous tones which he
himself very much liked. ‘This is the judgment of the court in an appeal from an order of Mr Justice Fry which declared, pursuant to Order 14A of the Rules of the Supreme Court, that certain claims in tort by Lloyd’s Names as members of Syndicate 1766 were statute-barred. The losses occurred because the syndicate became liable to meet very large claims arising principally out of industrial pollution and the use of asbestos in the United States …’ There was, thought Sir Neville as he read, something decidedly inelegant about Bertrand Howell’s way of expressing himself. Not that it was in any way ungrammatical, but the language was rather stark and unimaginative. It read baldly, like a schoolboy essay. Suppressing a sigh, he continued.

In his seat Anthony, his heart beating quickly, flicked discreetly through to the very last page of the judgment which Sir Neville was presently reading aloud, and fixed his eyes on the final sentence.
‘We therefore allow the appeal, discharge the declarations made by the judge and make no orders on the defendants’ summonses save as to costs.’
Anthony let out a breath of relief, and looked up. They had won. Thank God, he thought. Leo had been quite sanguine but he, Anthony, had had his doubts. The Names had taken another successful step along their long litigious road. He could imagine the inexpressible relief this would bring to the likes of Freddie Hendry and Carstairs. To all of them. He glanced at Leo, whose expression was inscrutable, and then at the defendants’ counsel sitting on the other side of the court. Their expressions, too, were entirely serene. No annoyance, disappointment, surprise or dismay at this judgment. Just another decision. It meant, for them and for the opposing solicitors, that the litigation continued, that the gravy train would still be running for some foreseeable time. No one, thought Anthony, gains anything from all of this except the lawyers. This is bonanza time for us. It’s like belonging to some sort of satanic sect,
where darkness and tragedy are causes for rejoicing. An oil tanker runs aground, a hurricane devastates coastal towns, a pharmaceutical company makes a disastrous mistake, the high and mighty of Lloyd’s of London make gross errors of judgment and fail to ignore alarm bells, and we all swarm down, issuing our writs, settling our pleadings, setting our meters running and watching the pennies and pounds pile up. He sighed. He was only thinking in this way, he told himself, because he was hungover and fed up. If the sun were shining, if he hadn’t got drunk last night, if he didn’t feel ashamed and irritated with himself this morning, then he would be taking a less jaundiced view of himself and his profession. Like Lord Justice Howell, he resisted the urge to close his eyes and tried to concentrate on the words of Sir Neville.

The Master of the Rolls was himself having difficulty in concentrating on what he was saying, or in making sense of it. ‘Likewise,’ he read out with disbelief, ‘Mr Justice Fry held that the Names had knowledge that they had suffered losses in consequence of the liabilities incurred on the reinsurances to close being substantially greater than the premiums fixed …’ Howell’s way of putting things was so clumsy that he could scarcely understand half of what he was reading. He supposed he was fortunate that a lifetime of advocacy had given him the ability to say all kinds of things without knowing what he was talking about. It was certainly standing him in good stead at the moment, for he was aware from the sound of his own voice that he was speaking with confidence and authority. But ‘likewise’! ‘Likewise’? He himself would never have used so infelicitous an expression. But then Bertrand Howell was a grammar school product. Probably used to hang around coffee bars in his youth, where they said that sort of thing. The Master of the Rolls glanced up quickly at the clock as he read. Ten-twenty. He promised himself that if the last page of this judgment finished
on an even number, he would award himself one of those chocolate doughnuts with his coffee.

After judgment had been delivered, Anthony and Leo conferred cheerfully with Murray Campbell and Fred Fenton outside the courtroom.

‘Well, onwards and upwards,’ said Murray, hitching his trousers around his portly waist. ‘That’s the last hurdle before the big final stretch. I rang Basher Snodgrass last night and gave him the good news, so all the Names will know by now. I rather think that we’ll have to arrange some kind of celebration. Just something low-key. Drinks and so forth, get them all around to the office one evening. Then we’ll have to arrange a long session with the committee and discuss our long-term tactics.’

Two more opportunities to see Charles Beecham, thought Leo. He smiled to himself. Everybody present was focused on the litigation, keen to advance the interests of the Names, while he viewed the whole thing principally as the backdrop to a delightfully protracted seduction. There was no possibility of concluding anything with Charles Beecham while the litigation was still in progress. That would have to wait until the case was over. It gave the weeks ahead a certain drawn-out, tantalising charm. Not that he didn’t regard the case itself as enormously important, both for himself and the Names. But work was now second nature with him. This merely added a little spice to the weeks of toil which lay ahead.

Afterwards, as he and Anthony crossed the Strand together, Leo said, ‘Drop your things off and come up to my room. We’ll have to sort a few things out, lining up our expert witnesses, and so forth. Then I think we can treat ourselves to lunch at Luigi’s, by way of celebration.’ Anthony smiled and nodded. Any other day this would have been a delightful prospect. Still, perhaps by lunchtime he would be feeling a little better.