Errors of Judgment (5 page)

‘Well, that should be instructive – though not as much fun as a night at the tables,’ said Leo.

They talked about work for a while, but Leo found himself distracted by a girl at the far end of the pub who kept glancing in their direction. She was petite, attractive, with a fine-boned face, honey-blonde hair and an intense gaze, and Leo had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere. Then he remembered where. She’d been sitting in the back of the court during the Kirkbride hearing. He remembered thinking then that she looked familiar, and supposed she was a student taking notes, though he couldn’t think why any student should bother with such a boring case. Students from the Council of Legal Education were always knocking around the Temple, and he tended to notice the attractive ones. He could only assume that her presence in the pub today was coincidence, and that Anthony, who was lounging elegantly in his chair, was the object of her attention.

‘You seem to have an admirer,’ murmured Leo. ‘Girl in the corner with the dark blonde hair.’

Anthony glanced at the girl. She was undoubtedly pretty – more than pretty. But he was pretty sure it was Leo she was staring at. He was used to Leo attracting female attention, and it invariably aroused in him some resentment which he couldn’t quite fathom. Jealousy of a kind, he supposed, but of what or whom he couldn’t quite determine. ‘You’re too modest,’ Anthony told Leo. ‘It’s you she’s looking at, not me.’

But Leo wasn’t listening. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. I need to get back. I have to leave early to collect Oliver.’

The girl in the corner watched them leave, quickly finished her drink and then, keeping a careful distance, followed them all the way from the pub back to Caper Court.

That evening, at half past nine, Sophie was curled up on Rachel’s sofa with a glass of wine. Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fire, head bent over a notepad, making a list. Sophie stroked the duck-egg blue silk cushions and glanced around, savouring the tranquillity. The room was lit by large table lamps, their soft glow reflected in the dark, polished wood of the floor, casting shadows on the pale walls hung with elegantly framed pictures. Long curtains of grey velvet shut out the autumn night. She loved being here. Rachel’s house was so different from the chaos of her own home. But she was able to survey it all and feel not the slightest tinge of envy. Everything – the carefully placed porcelain bowls, the parchment-coloured sofas and chairs, the perfectly arranged pink peonies and the beautiful prints and ornaments – would drive her nuts inside a week. Not that any of it would survive that long at the hands of
her offspring. She articulated the thought which had been troubling her.

‘How do you manage to bring up a six-year-old boy in a place like this?’ she asked Rachel. ‘I mean, all these beautiful things – aren’t you worried Oliver might knock something over, or get chocolate on the cushions?’

Rachel looked up, her silky black hair gleaming in the firelight. ‘Oliver knows not to bring food in here. And I’ve trained him since he was little to be careful of everything. He’s a great respecter of order. Besides, he doesn’t come in here much. He has his bedroom – that’s untidy enough. And his playroom, of course.’ She dipped her head again, and jotted something down on the notepad.

‘Right,’ murmured Sophie. Oliver’s bedroom untidy? Knowing Rachel, it was probably spotless, books on shelves, toys tidied away, dressing-gown hung up, slippers neatly together, pyjamas folded beneath the pillow. She thought of Josh and Billy’s bedroom, the chaos of Action Men and toy cars and trucks strewn across the carpet, the overstuffed plastic dustbin of soft toys, and the mess of books and clothes. She took another sip of wine.

‘So, where do we start?’

‘Well …’ Rachel gazed doubtfully at the notepad on her knee. ‘I thought if I made a list. You know, of necessary qualities. The kind of things I’m looking for in a man.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Fire away.’

‘Well, he has to be educated, obviously. And to be a professional of some kind.’

‘No proles, plumbers or scaffolders.’

‘I’m not being a snob, or anything. It’s just—’

Sophie waved this away. ‘I know you’re not. Carry on.’

‘He has to be intelligent, well read, interesting, fond of cinema, books, theatre, that kind of thing.’

‘Looks?’

‘Oh, you know …’

Sophie gazed at Rachel sitting there with her head on one side, fabulous cheekbones etched by the light, her dark hair framing her face, thoughtful blue eyes contemplating the mysterious charms of some unknown lover. How could any man handle such perfection? It wasn’t just the way Rachel looked. It was everything about her. She was so meticulous in every aspect of her life that to Sophie it sometimes seemed scary. Her house, for instance, the immaculate way she always dressed. Sophie remembered the first time she’d met Rachel at a school play, how intimidated she’d been by her cool, crisp appearance. Yet the Rachel she had come to know wasn’t cool. Not really. Her apparent reserve masked a hesitant, loving nature that longed to be impulsive, but was somehow restrained. Passion strangled at birth.

‘Tall, but not too tall,’ Rachel went on. ‘Good-looking – whatever that is. God, that’s awful, isn’t it? I mean, so vague … But it’s hard. You just know it when you see it, don’t you?’

Sophie reached down and refilled her own glass and Rachel’s. The trouble was, the girl was still in love with her ex-husband. She might as well be listing the qualities of the legendary Leo.

‘I’m not sure this list is going to get us anywhere,’ said Sophie. ‘Why don’t we cut to the chase?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You need to find out what’s out there.’ Sophie got up. ‘Come on, take me to where your computer lives.’

Rachel rose obediently and took Sophie to her study. They sat down at the computer. Sophie issued commands.

‘OK, type in www-dot-telegraph-dot-co-dot-uk-
slash-onlinedating
.’ Rachel hesitated. ‘Go on!’

‘Why
The Telegraph
?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll do
The Guardian
as well. And
The Times
. We just have to start somewhere. OK, now here’s where you register—’ She glanced at Rachel. ‘What’s the problem?’

Rachel made a face. ‘I’m not sure if this is what I want to do. It wasn’t what I had in mind.’

‘So you were just going to make a list of desirable characteristics and put it under your pillow, and hope the right man would magically reveal himself in your dreams? Come on – get real.’

Rachel sighed. ‘What do I do next?’

‘You register. And then all you have to do is tick the boxes, say what you’re looking for. Look – they even let you specify Oxbridge-educated, if you want.’

‘Leo went to Bristol,’ said Rachel. She looked at Sophie. ‘Oh God – forget I said that.’

‘Come on,’ said Sophie. ‘Get ticking.’

It was well after eleven by the time they finished, and they’d had great fun inspecting various men and writing Rachel’s profile, in between glasses of wine.

‘I’m sure this isn’t the kind of thing one should do when drunk,’ said Rachel.

‘Best way,’ said Sophie. She stood up and stretched her arms.

‘Do you think the picture I posted was all right? The one on the chambers website is the only one I’ve got.’

‘It’s lovely,’ yawned Sophie. ‘You’re very photogenic. Couldn’t take a bad picture if you tried. God, look at the time. I have to be up at half six.’

Rachel saw Sophie to the door. ‘You’re a true friend – thanks for coming round. Though I’m still not sure online dating is quite me.’

‘You don’t know till you try.’ Sophie kissed Rachel goodnight. ‘All you have to do now is wait for the offers to come flooding in.’

Rachel closed the door and leant against it, feeling a little drunk and already regretting what she’d just done. She tried to imagine the kind of man she hoped might be out there. But she could see only one face.

The following afternoon, around quarter to four, Anthony arrived at Rachel’s office to go over the papers in the casino case, and from there they took a taxi to Astleigh’s in Mayfair, where they had a five o’clock appointment with the manager.

‘I’m not quite sure of the point of this,’ said Anthony, as the cab made its slow way through the City rush hour traffic. ‘I’m pretty much on top of the case, so I don’t see where it gets me to visit the place where this individual happened to chuck away his small fortune.’

‘I thought you might find it useful to have the club’s credit system explained to you by Mr Depaul himself.’

‘I do know what a scrip cheque is,’ retorted Anthony. ‘And I’ve read the relevant provisions of the Gaming Act.’

‘Well, it’s often helpful to see first hand how things operate. Good to get a feel for the background to a case. You know that.’

Rachel was struck by Anthony’s moody, offhand manner. He’d been like it for the past hour. Maybe his love life was as problematic as her own. She sighed inwardly. If she and Anthony had been able to make their relationship work two years ago, how much simpler both their lives might be now. But the obvious person wasn’t always the right person. Her mind slipped back to last night, being persuaded by Sophie to sign up to that awful online dating thing after too many glasses of wine. How unbelievably naff. As soon as she got home she would unsubscribe. Just the thought of strange men studying her photo and reading her personal details made her cringe.

‘What’s that face for?’ asked Anthony.

‘Oh, nothing. Just something I did which I now regret.’

They both lapsed into silence.

Ten minutes later they reached the casino, which was tucked away at the end of Curzon Street. Its entrance was unostentatious, a black door set between pillars, with the letter ‘A’ emblazoned on the canopy above. They were buzzed in, and escorted by Mr Depaul’s assistant down a plushly decorated hallway. The gaming room was at the far end, behind double doors. The assistant opened the doors and ushered Anthony and Rachel in. Although the room was large, it possessed a strange, luxuriant intimacy. An expanse of burgundy-and-gold patterned carpet was dotted with mahogany-lipped gaming tables and gilt-legged chairs. Chandeliers shimmered below the hand-painted ceiling, lamps glowed in alcoves, and at the end was a raised bar. It was expensively and opulently furnished, like a huge Edwardian drawing room, fragrant with the faint scent of cigars and brandies, redolent of serious money. Anthony found it unexpectedly exciting.

Mr Depaul crossed the floor to meet them, his feet soundless on the deep-piled carpet. He was a dark-haired, dapper Frenchman, with bright eyes and an enthusiastic manner. He was one of the most popular and well-respected casino managers in London, possessing an excellent understanding of the proclivities and vagaries of his punters, particularly the high rollers, and capable of switching from playful to serious as the situation demanded. His relationship with those who visited the casino regularly was friendly and warm, but, as he explained to Anthony and Rachel, his ultimate loyalty lay with the casino.

‘One could not help liking Mr Al-Sarraj,’ said Mr Depaul, as he ushered Anthony and Rachel into his office. ‘He was one of our best clients. He was what casinos call a whale – someone who thinks nothing of spending millions in a night. The staff loved him because he gave such enormous tips – as much as five thousand pounds if he was in the right mood. But in the end, when the chips are down,’ Mr Depaul smiled at his own little joke, ‘the club must get what it is owed. Please, take a seat.’ Mr Depaul sat down at his desk. ‘We were sorry to lose Mr Al-Sarraj as a client. He was good for business. Winning or losing, he was always the life and soul of the casino. He liked to rub shoulders with rich, influential people – Adnan Khashoggi one night, Tom Cruise the next, the Sultan of Brunei another. He liked to play big. Two million wasn’t so much to the Lion King. I have seen him lose a quarter of that sum at the roulette wheel in one half-hour session. But for some reason, in this game, on that night,’ Mr Depaul stabbed the desktop with his finger, ‘he said the game had not been fair, and he would not honour the cheque. Now we have to claim back our
money.’ Mr Depaul buzzed through to his PA. ‘Adam, some coffee, please.’ He smiled at Rachel and Anthony. ‘OK, to business.’

Mr Depaul spent some time explaining the operation of the club’s credit facilities, then the three of them went through documents and discussed the details of the case. It was half past six by the time they finished. Rachel was putting the papers back in her briefcase, when Anthony suddenly remarked, ‘You know, it puzzles me that the casino is pursuing this claim.’

Mr Depaul arched his brows enquiringly. ‘Why? We gave Mr Al-Sarraj every opportunity to repay the money from his winnings.’

‘Yes, but you already said that two million was nothing to Al-Sarraj. Surely it was nothing to the club, compared to the amount Astleigh’s stood to earn from him in the future if the debt had simply been written off and he’d been allowed to continue gambling?’

Mr Depaul shook his head. ‘In the months before we brought our claim against him, the scale of his betting had declined to a mere ten thousand or so a night.’ Mr Depaul gave a shrug. ‘Who knows? Perhaps he ran out of money. Regardless of that, the reason the house always wins, Mr Cross, is that the house always recovers its debts.’

‘I think your claim should succeed. And if it’s any comfort, I don’t believe his counterclaim has much chance of success.’

‘That’s good to know.’ Mr Depaul rose from his desk, glancing at his watch. ‘We open in half an hour. Perhaps you would like to take a little look round the club before you leave?’

‘I’d like that,’ replied Anthony. He glanced at Rachel. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry?’

‘I have to go to pick up Oliver. But you stay. I’m sure it’ll be fascinating.’

Mr Depaul took Anthony to the gaming room.

‘I’ve never been in a casino before,’ remarked Anthony.

‘Really?’ Mr Depaul made a discreet gesture to a passing member of staff. ‘Young, sophisticated people like yourself are the kind of clients we have in here every night. Come and see what you are missing.’

The gaming room had now sprung to life, with croupiers behind every table, setting up for the evening. Mr Depaul led Anthony to a blue baize table. ‘This is the blackjack table. It’s a simple game, which you no doubt know. You play the dealer, and the object is to draw cards with a value totalling twenty-one, or as near as possible.’ A waiter arrived at that moment with a glass of champagne on a little silver tray. ‘Please,’ said Mr Depaul, handing it to Anthony. ‘I insist. You are our guest. There are no big payouts with blackjack, but if you’re adventurous and play several boxes at once, the wins can mount up.’

‘And the losses, no doubt,’ said Anthony, sipping his champagne.

‘Our clients aren’t counting their losses, Mr Cross. They only think about winning. That’s the excitement, the pleasure. Now, this is the baccarat table. In some casinos it is called Punto Banco. A very simple card game, but with a lot of suspense. The players bet on a player or on the bank, or they can play for what is called an “
egalité
”, or a “tie”, which pays out at eight to one. There is a nice little tension which rises when the third card, the make-or-break card, is
drawn.’ Mr Depaul gestured around as they moved away. ‘Then we have the poker tables. There are many variations of the game. Clients here generally play for very high stakes. And lastly,’ Mr Depaul led him to one of the roulette tables, ‘perhaps the most popular game. Roulette was the Lion King’s favourite. Very simple, as you know – you bet on a number, the wheel is spun, and the number into which the ball falls pays out.’ Mr Depaul nodded at the croupier, who flicked the little ball and set the wheel turning. Anthony watched. There was something mesmeric about the gleam and spin of the wheel, and the clatter of the ball. ‘In the US and on the Continent, casinos have wheels with zero and double zero, which doubles the house advantage, but here in the UK we play only one zero.’

‘Not especially good odds,’ said Anthony.

‘Ah, but don’t forget that if you win, the payout is
thirty-five
to one, and that is a very exciting prospect. Especially if you’re playing for high stakes.’

‘And if you’re rich enough not to mind losing more times than you win.’

Mr Depaul smiled. ‘Your approach to this is too clinical. People come here to escape, to enjoy the thrill of the tables, not to make money. I doubt if we would ever make a gambler of you, Mr Cross.’

Anthony finished his champagne. ‘It’s been fascinating. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Mr Depaul, with a little bow. ‘Perhaps one evening when our case has been successfully concluded, we can look forward to your company at the casino.’

Anthony smiled. ‘Perhaps.’

He left Astleigh’s and headed up Curzon Street in the
gathering dusk, and had almost reached Park Lane when he heard a voice hailing him.

‘Anthony! Yo!’

Anthony turned and saw a thickset young man with tousled fair hair waving from the other side of the street. It was Edward Choke, his old rival in pupillage. Edward was from a wealthy and influential family, one of those charmed beings who happily expect the good things in life to fall into their lap without much effort or endeavour on their part, but whom it was impossible to dislike. When he and Anthony had both been pupils at 5 Caper Court some years earlier, Edward, as the nephew of the then head of chambers, had expected to secure a tenancy without much difficulty. On a chambers vote, however, he had lost out to Anthony, and it was testimony both to Edward’s good nature and singular lack of ambition that he hadn’t for one moment begrudged Anthony the place. Edward knew Anthony was cleverer than he was, and far more deserving of the tenancy. A career at the Bar had meant everything to Anthony, and the tenancy at 5 Caper Court had been the ultimate reward for years of struggle and hard work. For Edward, it had merely been one of a number of options available to him – family connections meant that he would never be short of a job of some kind.

Anthony watched Edward cross the street, dodging taxis. They shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Ed. It’s been a long time.’

‘Three years at least, I’d say. Where the hell have you been?’

Anthony smiled. ‘Where I’ve always been. Caper Court. What about you?’

‘Oh, here and there. Look, are you rushing off somewhere, or have you time for a quick drink?’

‘I was just on my way home. Where do you suggest?’

‘Let’s go to the King’s Arms in Shepherd Market and grab a pint.’

They made their way to the pub and settled themselves at a table with their beers.

‘So, what are you up to these days?’ asked Anthony. ‘Still at the Ministry for Arts and Cultural Development?’

‘Good God, no. Jacked that in ages ago. Terminally boring, the civil service. Almost as bad as the law.’

‘Or merchant banking?’

‘Fuck me, that was the worst of the lot,’ observed Edward of his brief and ignominious stint at Morgan Grenfell. ‘Ghastly people, bankers. Never trusted a single one of them. Rightly, as it turns out. City screen-jockeys who’ve made a complete balls-up of everything. Not a day goes by without another bank biting the dust, shares crashing, chaps getting fired.’ He took a long pull at his pint, then added with engaging frankness, ‘Actually, I came into my money three years ago, so there’s not much need to work, to be honest.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘Well, yes and no. I mean, loafing around is all very well – nice not to have to get up and go to an office every day, but a chap needs to keep busy. I’m supposed to be doing a bit of work managing my father’s estate down in Surrey, but frankly the countryside bores me to death. I spend most of my time in town. I’ve been helping Piers Hunt-Thompson organise a couple of balls. Charity events, debs, that kind of stuff. He’s a kind of society events fixer now, runs that club Pooks in Frith Street.’

‘I remember Piers.’

‘Of course – you went out with Julia before she and Piers got together, didn’t you? They got married a couple of years ago. I went to the wedding. Massive bash in Gloucestershire. Completely brilliant. I got utterly wasted.’

‘I didn’t know they were married,’ said Anthony. Julia had been one of his first loves, a leggy blonde barrister whom he had met during his pupillage. He had thought she loved him as much as he loved her, but she had betrayed his affection with casual indifference. To think she’d actually married that complete wanker, Piers Hunt-Thompson.

‘So anyway, apart from throwing the odd bit of dosh at Piers’ various ventures, and helping the old man out, there’s not much to do except go out and have a good time, I’m ashamed to say.’

Anthony could tell from Edward’s grin that shame didn’t come into it. He’d always envied the way Edward managed to squeeze the maximum enjoyment out of life without feeling any of the guilt which plagued Anthony, that sense that he should be achieving, working for life’s rewards, whatever they might be.

‘A good time being …?’

‘Oh, you know – parties, clubs, hitting the odd casino now and then.’

‘I was just coming from Astleigh’s when I met you.’

‘Bit early in the day for the tables, old man.’

‘Not what you think. It was in the name of work. I’m acting for them in a case, and I needed to see how they operate.’

‘Everything’s about work with you, isn’t it? That’s always been your trouble, Tony. You take life too seriously. Listen, what are you doing for the rest of the evening? I’m meeting
some friends at the Ritz for cocktails. Fancy coming along?’

Anthony could think of no reason why not. He had nothing better to do, and an evening with Edward was invariably good fun. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’m up for it.’

‘Excellent. Look, let’s have another here, then head off. What d’you say?’

‘I’m in your hands, Ed.’

After cocktails at the Ritz with an assortment of Edward’s friends, they headed to the Wolseley for supper. Anthony knew most of the others from parties and clubs, rich twenty-somethings from wealthy families. They weren’t necessarily people he much liked, but it gave him satisfaction to know that nowadays he could keep up with them, that he no longer felt out of place in their company in the way he once would have. He could still recall the social agonies of being unable to afford taxis, having to do frantic mental calculations about whether, if he got his round in, he would be able to afford lunch the next day, of having to bow out of evenings halfway through because people had begun to order champagne and outrageously expensive bar snacks, and he simply couldn’t pay his way. His early years as a barrister had been marked by many such humiliations, and it was important to him now that he had enough money in the bank to spend as freely, if not quite as carelessly, as those around him.