An Immoral Code (33 page)

Anthony glanced at his watch and leant towards Camilla, murmuring to her, ‘Now that we’re off the hook, I propose that you and I go and have a drink and then something to eat.’

Camilla nodded. ‘Yes. All right.’

‘Good,’ said Anthony. ‘I’ll see you back in chambers in fifteen minutes.’

Rachel drove down the road from Charles’s house towards the station, still smiling at the thought of Charles at the kitchen window, raising one of Oliver’s fat hands to wave at her, and tried to fathom the situation in which she now found herself. Two weeks ago they had been no more than friends, and now she was sharing his home and his bed, and a domestic arrangement which Oliver seemed to find highly satisfactory. But there had to be a next step, a moving on, and it was up to her to make it. The trouble was, she had no idea of how their relationship was to continue if she and Oliver moved back to London to a house of their own. She supposed she and Charles could see one another when he came up to town, possibly at weekends, but it would be odd, sort of upside down, for things to be reduced to that sporadic level after the unbroken serenity of the present. She sighed as she thought of the house in Kew whose details she had received at the office yesterday. It seemed entirely right – it had three bedrooms, a large garden, and was tucked away in a pretty backwater. Commuting wouldn’t be a problem, and there were good local nursery schools. She had arranged to see it later that afternoon. So why did she sigh as she
thought of it? she wondered. Anyway, she had more mundane things to do before that, such as going to see James Rothwell and asking for an increase in salary that would put her on a par with Fred Fenton. And a car, which would enable her to sell her present one. It might be months before she and Leo sorted out a divorce, and she and Oliver had to live until then. She would need the extra money. Not that she thought it would be a problem, after her paper at the conference, and the fact that she had brought in two new valuable clients as a result.

When Rachel’s car had disappeared from sight, Charles carried Oliver through to the living room and let him crawl around there with his toys. Jeanette was due to arrive in a few minutes. He idled through to his study, where his papers and books had been rearranged into a pleasing state of disorder, and stared out of the window at the leafless mulberry tree, contemplating the day. He was having lunch in Salisbury with an old university friend, Timothy, who was staying there for a few days, and he was looking forward to a boozy reunion. The prospect was sufficiently festive to make it seem hardly worthwhile starting any serious work, he thought. Anyway, a pleasant kind of lassitude seemed to have overtaken him recently. Was that a result of regular sex or decent meals? he wondered. He heard the back door open and close, and then Jeanette called through to him, announcing her arrival.

‘Right-ho,’ called back Charles. ‘I’m just in my study, sorting a few things out.’ He was struck by the ease with which a domestic routine had recently been established in the house. It was pleasant to have people around, to have coffee brought to one, and to work away in the knowledge that, when evening fell, someone would come home, and there would be food and conversation. On the other hand … On the other hand, there were those horrible moments in the night when Oliver would wake crying and, even though it was Rachel who went to him,
Charles would find sleep slipping irretrievably away. And he missed those long, deep silences when he and he alone occupied the house, those evenings when he could stay in alone if he wished to, or amble down to the pub and spend the evening in drinking and idle banter. He missed being himself, in some ways. But when he thought of Rachel, when he thought of that delightful, slender body, and the hours spent in bed together – hours which, together with Oliver’s nocturnal squalls, rendered him hollow-eyed the next day – he almost groaned aloud at the idea that that should be taken from him. Did he want her to stay indefinitely? he wondered. In some ways the thought was appealing, in others … Was he in love with her? Or was he already missing that heart-slipping sensation of longing for the unobtainable which gave life so much of its relish? Maybe it would be better if she was in London, so that he could only see her now and again, and could keep that tantalising little flame of uncertainty alive. ‘As usual, Beecham,’ he sighed, ‘you haven’t the foggiest idea what you really want.’

Rachel sat listening to James Rothwell, hardly able to believe it. ‘You mean that you’re simply not prepared to review my position?’ she asked. She had been so full of confidence when she had come into his office five minutes before, certain that all her hard work and determination over the past month would be rewarded by a change in attitude towards her.

‘It has already been reviewed,’ said Mr Rothwell, glad of the sense of security which his large semicircular desk afforded him. ‘But only in the normal way, under the annual review at the beginning of each year. We cannot go beyond that.’

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘Mr Rothwell, when we last spoke on this subject, you said that you had reservations about my – my commitment to the firm. You said you felt that, because I am married with a child, that I couldn’t be relied upon
in the same way as someone like Fred Fenton. I feel that I have demonstrated over the past few weeks that I’m every bit as flexible as any man in this firm, that I don’t necessarily put my family first, and I’m asking you now for a good reason why I shouldn’t be treated on the same footing as someone like Fred.’

Mr Rothwell leant forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. She had given him a little ammunition. ‘I hardly think Fred’s situation is relevant. You know that I’m not prepared to discuss the position of other individuals in the firm. We are discussing you. Now, I think you made a very valuable contribution with your paper at the conference, and I’m grateful for the contacts you made. But the fact remains that you are a young married woman with a family, and it is not the firm’s intention to impose upon you burdensome expectations which would be inconsistent with your domestic situation.’ The fact was, there was a very good chance that she would go off and get pregnant again, only he couldn’t quite come out and say that.

Rachel stared at him and, despite her seething anger, laughed. ‘This, if I may say so, Mr Rothwell, is extraordinary. Are you now saying that you’re doing me a favour by holding me back? That I should be somehow grateful to you for not allowing me to work too hard, so that my family doesn’t suffer? Don’t you think that’s just a little patronising? Not just towards me, but towards every other female partner in this firm?’

Mr Rothwell’s own temper began to fray. ‘Rachel, you may choose to distort what I say, but the fact is that the rewards which you receive from this firm are rewards which we regard as commensurate with your work and the way in which you perform it. Now, I’m sorry that this should lead to any ill-feeling on your part, but there is nothing further to be said.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I have a meeting in a few moments, so you must excuse me.’

There was nothing more she could say at that moment. This
was not the end of the matter, she decided, as she left his office smarting with bitter frustration. She would take this further. But what if it cost her her job, as it surely would? Well, she would worry about that when the time came. Then she thought of Oliver, of nannies, of trying to find another job and fight for her rights in some drawn-out industrial tribunal, and already she felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the dubious prospect. She longed for the evening, when she could tell Charles and find some comfort from him.

Charles and his friend Timothy had had an excellent lunch. A couple of drinks beforehand, a couple of bottles of very decent claret with the meal, brandies afterwards. They hadn’t left the place till after four. Maybe going on to the pub afterwards had been over-egging the pudding, but they’d been having such an enjoyable, witty conversation that it had seemed a shame not to prolong it. Charles now felt beautifully mellow as he made his way to the station taxi rank, realising that he was certainly not in any condition to drive himself home. He was mildly astonished, through his alcoholic haze, to see Rachel coming out of the station, and then realised that, of course, she would naturally be on her way home at this hour. She smiled when she saw him.

‘What are you doing here? You didn’t come to meet me, did you?’

‘No, my psychic powers aren’t quite up to that, my sweet. I’ve been lunching with an old friend, and we got talking … The fact is, I’ve only just left him.’ He glanced at his watch, astonished to see that it was already ten past seven.

Rachel frowned anxiously as they walked together towards the car park. ‘What about Jeanette? She’s supposed to go off at half past six.’

Charles felt mildly disgruntled at the implication that since
she, Rachel, was late, it was up to Charles to look after Oliver. ‘Oh, she won’t have abandoned him, don’t worry.’

When they got in, Charles loafed happily in an armchair, squinting at Rachel’s copy of the
Evening Standard
, while she put Oliver to bed. When she came down later, Charles was unpleasantly aware that the effect of the afternoon’s alcohol was beginning to wear off. There was only one cure for that, he knew, and that was to keep the old level topped up. He would regret it tomorrow, but since he was due to start a serious work stint the day afterwards, he might as well behave recklessly this evening. There would be enough sobriety over the next month, when he was being nagged by producers and working flat out. He went to the cellar and fetched a bottle of wine, then wandered into the kitchen, where Rachel was putting together a chicken salad. He was glad that supper was going to be light, after that lunch, he reflected, wandering from drawer to drawer in an exasperated search for the corkscrew.

‘Thanks,’ said Rachel, as he handed her a glass of wine. ‘I need it, after today.’

Charles circled her waist with his arm and softly kissed the side of her neck, making her shiver with pleasure. ‘Tell me about it, let me soothe away your worries …’

She sighed, moving away from him, and set the plates and cutlery on the broad kitchen table. ‘Oh, it wasn’t all bad. This afternoon was quite encouraging, in fact. I left work early to look at a house in Kew. That’s why I got back late.’

Charles took a healing draught of wine, and felt his alcohol level climbing comfortably back up. ‘And?’

‘It was very nice. Lovely, in fact. Big garden, decently sized rooms, not too far from the station and shops. The couple who are selling it have already found somewhere else and are ready to move, and I’m a first-time buyer, so it’s all ideal, really …’

‘Excellent!’ said Charles, with an enthusiasm he did not feel.
Of course it had always been understood that she would be leaving – hadn’t it? – but the reality of it gave him a cold, bleak feeling. He took another gulp of wine and prodded moodily at a piece of chicken.

‘Is it?’ murmured Rachel, looking at him thoughtfully. Well, it was natural enough that he should be pleased. This was his home, he was used to being here alone. No doubt he was looking forward to having some peace and quiet again.

‘So … what was wrong with the rest of it? Your day, I mean.’ He did not want to talk about the house, did not want to hear her plans for redecorating, or where Oliver’s nursery would be. He didn’t, above all, want to think about this house after she had gone. A maudlin vision of himself sitting alone in the evenings, at this table, came to him. I could cry, thought Charles.

‘The rest of the day was horrible,’ said Rachel decisively. He noticed that she wasn’t eating. ‘You remember I told you that I found out that I wasn’t being paid as much as male partners, and so on?’ Charles nodded, listening absent-mindedly and gazing at her in a fond, hazy way, surprised at how randy he could make himself just by looking at her and thinking certain things. ‘Well, I was pretty convinced after this conference that they’d have to take a different line, that I’d shown them I was capable of doing the job without any concessions, just because of Oliver …’ She sighed deeply, her voice trailing away. ‘But,’ she went on, conscious of incipient tears rising, ‘I was wrong. They have no intention of treating me equally. You would think, wouldn’t you’ – her voice shook slightly as she tried to contain a sob at the thought of the sheer injustice of it – ‘that in this day and age women could expect to be dealt with on their merits, and not according to some chauvinistic …’ She put her face in her hands and let all the misery and frustration overwhelm her.

Charles rose in consternation and went to her, putting his arms around her and drawing her to her feet. She held on to
him, her slight fit of weeping already subsiding, but Charles, ever a susceptible fellow, and now made even more so by wine, was struck to the core by her unhappiness. With the vague idea that he could cheer her up by making love to her, he kissed her tears, then her mouth, and began to unfasten most of the buttons and zips that came to hand.

‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ he muttered. ‘Forget them … God, you are utterly gorgeous,’ he breathed, as he fondled one breast and kissed her shoulder. It had always been one of Charles’s weak points that he confused sexual arousal with genuine emotional feeling, and now, as she responded to his caresses and returned his kisses, glad of their comfort as much as anything, he became entirely convinced that the worst mistake of his life would be to let this woman go off to Kew and leave him. ‘And another thing,’ he said, gazing into her eyes and kissing her nose lightly, ‘I don’t want you to go. Forget that house in Kew. Stay here. Stay here for ever. I love you and I don’t want to be without you. Truly. Please, please tell me you’ll stay … I want you to come and live with me. Permanently. God, how beautiful you are …’

As he said it, Charles was entirely sincere. But then, after a day in which he had consumed two gin and tonics, a bottle of claret, two brandies, a couple of pints in the Crown and Trumpet, and a glass of Australian chardonnay, there was much that Charles might say and mean.