Errors of Judgment (14 page)

Twenty minutes later Leo’s Aston Martin pulled into Carlyle Square.

‘When did you move out of Belgravia?’ asked Sarah, as they crossed the street to his house.

‘About four years ago. I wanted somewhere with a garden for Oliver.’ Leo unlocked the door and put on the lights. Sarah followed him into the living room. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fix us both a drink. What would you like?’

‘Whatever you’re having,’ said Sarah. She wandered round the room, checking out the pictures and pieces of sculpture, some of them familiar, others not. Then she slipped off her heels, picked up a cushion, and sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, tucking the cushion behind her.

Leo returned with their drinks. He handed her a tumbler of Scotch, thinking that she looked no older than she had when he first met her, sitting on the carpet with her arms round her knees, blonde hair glinting in the glow of the single lamp. He sat down in an armchair opposite, setting the decanter on the floor next to the chair. He stretched out his legs, unfastening his bow tie and the top button of his dress shirt.

Sarah took a sip of her drink. ‘Nice malt,’ she said. ‘Why do you spoil it by putting ice in it?’

‘Sorry. Didn’t realise you were such a purist.’

‘You knew. You’ve just forgotten.’ She swirled the contents of her glass. ‘So – what’s going on in the wonderful world of 5 Caper Court?’

‘Not a great deal. Things roll on much as they ever did. I’m thinking of making some personal changes, though. I may be applying to become a High Court judge.’

‘That’ll be the day. You’d be bored stiff. I know Daddy found it pretty tedious.’

‘Actually, I don’t know why I say “may be applying”. The fact is, I am.’

She stared at him over the rim of her glass. ‘Seriously? You’d be prepared to go from earning what you do as a silk, to a pitiful hundred thousand grand a year? I find that hard to believe.’

‘Life’s not all about money.’

‘Really? Since when?’

‘I’ve gained a great deal from being in the legal profession. It’s shaped my entire life. Now I feel it’s time to give something back. One can’t just go on taking for ever. And the financial sacrifice is hardly as great as you make it
sound. I earn far more than I need. Life can be lived quite comfortably on a judge’s salary, you know. If one is doing something one loves and believes in, it’s not hard to make adjustments, to relinquish a standard of living which most people would find ridiculously extravagant anyway, for a single man.’

‘Leo, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so horribly pious.’ Sarah took a swig of whisky. But his words had touched her on the raw. It was exactly what she wasn’t prepared to do where Toby was concerned – to lower her expectations and accept, for love of him, a life less easy and affluent than she had hoped for. She struggled to rationalise it. Whatever sacrifices or changes Leo had to make, at least they were for his own ideals. She was being asked to sacrifice herself for the sake of someone else’s.

Leo saw the clouded look on her face, and asked, ‘What’s eating you? Not something I said?’

‘Sort of. You seem to be turning into an altogether good person. Not something I’m ever likely to become.’

‘Goodness hardly comes into it. I should have thought that you, of all people, would realise that I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons. I want less pressure, and to be able to see more of Oliver. I’m not as young as I was. I need a bit of balance in my life.’ He paused. ‘What makes you think you’re a bad person?’

Sarah set down her glass and ran a tired hand through her hair. ‘Oh, Leo – of all the people in the world, I should be able to tell you … but I daren’t. I’m too ashamed.’

‘Try me.’

She rested her chin on her arms, staring at nothing. After a long silence, she said, ‘It’s to do with Toby. We’re meant
to be getting married next year. Everyone’s thrilled – my father and his father are old friends, it seems to them like the perfect set-up, everyone’s all geared up for a big summer wedding. The thing is – I’m not sure I can go through with it.’ She flexed the fingers of her left hand, staring at the diamond.

Leo took the stopper from the decanter. ‘Another?’ She shook her head. He poured himself another finger of Scotch. ‘Well, you won’t be the first woman in the world to call off her wedding. It’s over six months away – hardly a last-minute change of mind. Why so ashamed?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s my reason for not wanting to go through with it. You see, as long as Toby was a banker, I was quite happy to be marrying him. I mean, someone sane, sweet and decent, so easy to love, earning a six-figure salary, with a whopping great annual bonus on top. What more could a woman ask? I thought our future was secure, perfect – well, as secure and perfect as one can hope for. But then Graffman Spiers went to the wall …’ She drew in a deep breath and reached for her glass. ‘And now he’s decided to turn his back on the banking world and become a teacher.’

‘A teacher?’ Leo couldn’t help feeling amused. Poor Sarah.

She swallowed a mouthful of whisky and shook her head. ‘And that’s why I don’t think I can do it. I can’t face that life, Leo. I can’t live in a terraced house in … in wherever, and work nine to five, struggling to pay school fees, worried about money all the time. I can’t become that kind of person. It’s all down to money. So what kind of a wretched individual am I?’

‘You simply don’t love him enough. If you did, you
wouldn’t care how much he earned, or what he did for a living. At least you’ve found out before it’s too late.’

‘You still don’t get it,’ said Sarah impatiently. ‘I know exactly what I feel about him. I don’t think I know how to love that way. Unconditionally, passionately, regardless of everything. I’m not made that way. But what I feel for Toby would have been enough. I would still have married him, been prepared to spend my life with him, if—’

‘—if he’d been able to keep you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed?’

‘God, you make it sound so trite.’

‘Life often is trite. It’s a matter-of-fact business. I think you should congratulate yourself on your pragmatism.’

‘Leo, don’t laugh at me! I can’t stand it! I’m trying to tell you something—’

‘I’m not laughing at you.’ He set his glass down on the carpet and crossed the room to where she sat hunched against the sofa. ‘You think you know yourself so well, but I know you better. Stand up.’

‘You’re saying you already knew what a selfish cow I am?’ She set her glass down and stood up.

‘Oh, yes.’ He drew her towards him, holding her close.

‘But Toby doesn’t know.’

‘Then he’s going to have to find out. You can’t pretend to be a better person than you are. Or to love him in the way he expects you to.’

‘I know he deserves better. But I don’t think I can bear the moment when he finds out. He’s going to hate me. Despise me.’

‘That’s the price you have to pay.’ His lips brushed her neck, and he felt her shiver.

She drew away. ‘I should go home.’

‘That’s hardly going to make things any better in the long run.’ He drew her close again, and kissed her for a long, intense moment. ‘Please stay. I want you. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted you more.’ His fingers slipped the thin satin straps from her shoulders and gently tugged down the bodice of her dress. Leo kissed and caressed each of her breasts in turn. Sarah shivered as his hand strayed from her breasts down across her stomach. He slipped his hand between her legs and she gave a little whimper, her mouth seeking his.

‘I suppose,’ she murmured after a moment, ‘that I might as well start as I mean to go on.’

‘That’s my girl,’ said Leo softly. ‘That’s my lovely Sarah.’ He kissed her again, easing her dress down to her hips, till it slipped with a rustle to the floor.

The next morning Leo woke to find Sarah’s side of the bed empty. He sat up, wondering if perhaps she had slipped out of the house early and taken a taxi home, filled with guilt. Unlikely. Then he heard sounds coming from the kitchen. He lay back on the pillow, surprised by his own sense of relief.

Moments later he got up, put on a dressing gown, and went downstairs, picking up the morning paper from the doormat. Sarah was in the kitchen making breakfast, barefoot and wearing Leo’s dress shirt from the night before. Coffee was brewing, and on the table stood a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a basket of warm rolls, and dishes of butter and cherry jam. The radio was tuned to some music station.

‘Morning,’ said Leo, dropping the copy of
The Times
on the table. He picked up one of the rolls. ‘Where did these come from?’

‘Found them in your freezer and warmed them up in the oven. You haven’t got any oranges left, I’m afraid. I juiced them all.’

‘Good of you to bother.’ He poured out two glasses of juice.

She came to the table and set down plates and knives. ‘Napkins?’

‘Over there. Third drawer down.’

She returned to the table with the napkins and the coffee pot.

‘Which bit of the paper do you want?’ asked Leo.

‘Magazine, please.’

They breakfasted in companionable silence, the radio murmuring in the background. Sarah, though she appeared to be immersed in
The Times
supplement, was still busy with the thoughts which had occupied her as she prepared breakfast. She didn’t feel remotely guilty about the night before. It had been bound to happen – though not, she liked to think, if Toby hadn’t lost his job and made his disastrous career-change decision. Marrying him, however, was now out of the question. She had known that for a while. But she also knew that extricating herself from the relationship was going to be tricky. Apart from Toby’s feelings, there would be the reaction of her father and the Kitterings to contend with. Damage limitation was going to be of the essence. She couldn’t emerge from this without reproach – that was impossible. But she might be able to shift a little of the blame.

She lowered the magazine. ‘Leo?’

‘Mmhm?’

‘I need to ask you something.’

Leo lifted his head from the sports section and gazed at her enquiringly.

‘Well, just before Toby lost his job, I gave up the lease on my flat and moved into his place in Docklands. The idea was that we would live there till we found a house. The thing is …’ She paused, and poured more coffee. ‘Once I’ve told him that the wedding’s off, obviously I can’t go on living in his flat.’

‘Obviously.’

‘And I’ll have nowhere to go.’

Leo sipped his coffee. ‘Can’t you rent somewhere else?’

‘That’s just it. I can’t. Not for a while, at any rate. You see, I lost my job, too.’

Leo was surprised. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘Credit crunch. It’s been bad for everyone. So …’ she added quickly, before he could say anything, ‘I was wondering if I could stay here for a while. It wouldn’t be for long. I should find another job pretty soon.’ She crossed her fingers under the table and gazed at him, waiting.

Leo was silent as he considered this. He could see advantages. Since the demise of his relationship with Anthea, the house could sometimes seem lonely in the evenings, even when he had work to do. The company of someone as intelligent, amusing and sexually stimulating as Sarah was quite an appealing prospect. He liked the idea – but it would have to be strictly on a short-term basis. However sweetly she might smile at him over the freshly squeezed orange juice, however delightful sharing a bed with her might be, she was bound to bring trouble in the long run. She always did. Plus, there was a risk he would get bored. He didn’t want to find Sarah boring, ever.

As if reading his thoughts, she added, ‘It could be like that first summer. A few weeks of mutual enjoyment, I perform a spot of cooking and housekeeping while I look for another job, then we both go our own sweet ways.’

Leo folded the paper. ‘On that basis – and it would have to be on that basis, mind – I’ll say yes. Though you’ll have to make yourself scarce on the weekends Oliver comes to stay. He gets my undivided attention. And you know what Rachel is like.’

‘Not a problem. Thanks, Leo.’ She stretched her arms languidly above her head, then picked up her magazine, sipped her coffee, and resumed reading.

Leo marvelled at her cat-like serenity, and the apparent ease with which she was discarding what should have been the most important relationship of her life. However well he might know her, he would never properly understand her. He was suddenly conscious that the music from the radio was some unpleasantly insistent rap.

‘What station is that?’ he asked.

Sarah looked up. ‘XFM.’

‘Right. Well, that has to go for a start.’

‘OK, boss.’ Sarah got up and padded over to the radio, and switched it to Radio 3, smiling to herself.

The following morning in Brixton, the breakfast scene was less appetising. Felicity woke in a mucky tangle of sheets with a splitting headache and a mouth that felt like the bottom of a birdcage. She pulled herself to the edge of the bed, grasped the tumbler of water from the bedside table with a shaky hand, and drained it. She lay for a few moments with her forehead pressed to the pillow. Why had she gone
with Vince to that club? Why had she let him persuade her to drop those pills, and then smoke dope on top of it all? Then there had been the vodka when they got home … She hauled herself slowly out of bed, and found her robe under a pile of other clothes at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t done any washing in a week. She uncrumpled it and put it on, then wandered through to the kitchen, where she could hear the radio blasting, feeling shivery and sick.

Vince was sitting at the table in his boxers, eating leftover pizza from a cardboard box and drinking a can of lager.

‘Jesus, Vince – how can you?’ Felicity went to the sink to fill the kettle.

‘Hair of the dog, sweetheart.’ He turned and glanced at her as she stood hunched over the sink. ‘Feeling a bit rough?’

‘Rough’s not the word.’

She stood blankly by the sink, staring out at the white December sky, filled with familiar feelings of self-reproach, but too hungover to care. She was aware of Vince dropping the empty pizza box down beside the overflowing
swing-top
bin. He stood behind her, running his hands around her body, nuzzling her shoulder. She wasn’t so hungover that she couldn’t feel instantly randy when he put his hands on her.

‘Come on back to bed,’ he murmured, fondling her through her robe.

She turned and kissed him. His mouth tasted of lager, but she didn’t care. She probably tasted worse, and he didn’t seem to mind. Her mind and body took comfort in the feel and touch of him. Sex, the great healer. They would go back to bed for an hour or so, keep the reality of Sunday
at bay for a little while longer. But then, Felicity decided, they would make something civilised of the day.

‘I’ll come back to bed,’ she said, ‘if you promise to take me for a nice lunch later. Somewhere we can sit and read the Sunday papers. Down by the river, maybe. A gastropub.’

Vince groaned. ‘I hate those poncey places. Posh waitresses, sawdust and no spit, and the beer’s usually rubbish. Can’t we just go down the Kempton Arms? Ossie’ll be there. They do burgers and stuff, if you want lunch. And they’ve got Sky. Arsenal are playing Juventus.’

‘No, Vince. I want to have a nice day. A civilised day.’

‘All right. But you’ll be the one paying. I’m skint.’

‘I don’t mind.’ She would pay a fortune not to have to sit in the Kempton Arms with Ossie and his weird girlfriend, watching football all afternoon while Vince got slowly pissed.

He kissed her again. ‘It’s a deal, then. Come back to bed.’

‘OK. Let me just make my tea first, and bring it with me.’

Choosing The Heron in Chiswick for Sunday lunch had been Rachel’s decision. She was nervous about Oliver and Simon meeting for the first time. Her relationship with Simon had been chaste so far, consisting of that first evening at Abacus, a lunchtime drink, and supper and a play at the Menier, after which she had gone back to Simon’s flat in Bermondsey for coffee. Rachel knew that her wary approach to sex, based on bad experiences from long ago, had a tendency to confuse and deter men, and she had been apprehensive about being alone with Simon. But he seemed remarkably sensitive to her mood and her feelings, and an hour after their first kiss and all that followed, she had found herself desperately
wishing she didn’t have to go home. But there was Oliver to think of, the babysitter to pay, work and school the next morning. Rachel knew that the only way forward was for Simon to stay at her place some night, and that would have to be very delicately played where Oliver was concerned. So she had suggested that Simon and Oliver should get to know one another, that the three of them should spend a Sunday together. She liked Simon very much, more than any man she had met in a long time. He was easy, funny, and uncomplicated. And, rather gratifyingly, he seemed pretty smitten with her.

So on a bright, chilly December Sunday, Rachel and Oliver met Simon in Kew at noon, and the three of them took a long ramble along the river, aiming to get to The Heron between half one and two. Initially Oliver, who was quite jealous of his mother’s company, treated Simon with marked indifference. Simon took this in his stride, and didn’t try too hard to engage him in talk. Twenty minutes into the walk, in the course of a conversation prompted by the sight of rowing eights practising on the river, Simon revealed that he had been a rowing blue at Oxford. Once the term was explained to Oliver, he seemed grudgingly impressed. He was even more impressed when he discovered, in the course of a lengthy discourse about X-Men, that Simon had decided views on whether Cyclops’s ability to shoot red beams of force from his eyes was superior to Sabretooth’s accelerated healing powers and resistance to disease. By the time they reached the pub, Oliver had accepted Simon as a worthy friend, and was busy filling him in with information about the ancient Egyptians, whom he was studying at school.

The Heron was big and busy, but the early lunchtime rush had subsided, and they found a table at the far end by the window and ordered lunch. There was a deck outside, fenced around, and Rachel and Oliver went outside to feed the ducks on the river with some stale bread Rachel had brought. Simon stayed inside, leafing through the Sunday papers. After ten minutes Rachel came in.

‘Too cold for me.’ She pulled off her gloves and sat down. ‘Oliver’s determined to stay out there till the bread’s all finished. What’s in the papers?’

‘Oh, mainly the Bernie Madoff story. You do wonder why people weren’t more suspicious. Didn’t they ask themselves how he was managing to get people twelve per cent returns on their money in such an appalling economic climate?’

‘People are greedy, I suppose. And they like to have faith. Obviously Madoff inspired that.’

‘Some of the victims I feel sorry for – not all of them are rich. Some of them are charities.’ Simon sighed and folded up the paper. He glanced out at Oliver, who was still crouched down on the deck outside, his woollen hat down over his ears, patiently waiting for ducks to paddle past so that he could throw them pellets of bread.

‘He’s a very good little boy,’ observed Simon. ‘I’d have been roaring round the place at his age.’

‘He can be a terror when he wants to, but he’s very focused when he wants to be. Just like his father.’

‘I take it you and his dad still get on?’

‘Better than we used to.’

‘How long ago did you split up?’

‘A year after Oliver was born.’

‘Can I ask what happened? I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want—’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Rachel paused, glancing out to check on Oliver, who had finished the bread and was leaning against the palings, watching the river. ‘Leo just wasn’t – isn’t – very good at commitment. Which is a nice way of saying that he was having affairs with other … people. Some I knew about, some I didn’t. I wasn’t prepared to put up with it.’ She sipped her wine. ‘What about you? No one reaches thirty-six without some kind of back story.’

‘Oh, fairly typical stuff.’ Simon sipped his beer. ‘The usual girlfriends before, during and after uni, nothing serious. Then a long-term girlfriend that I lived with for about six years. We broke up just after my thirty-first birthday. Messy, splitting up with someone after that long. Carving things up. Possessions, the flat.’

‘At least your relationship lasted longer than my marriage. Why did it end?’

Simon shrugged. ‘She wanted to get married. I didn’t.’

‘Another man afraid of commitment. The world seems to be full of them.’

‘Not entirely fair. I ended it because I thought, well, if I didn’t love her enough to marry her – what was the point? I was wasting time. Hers and mine. I do want to get married some day, have children, the whole family thing. Most men do, I reckon. But it has to be the right person.’

At that moment Oliver barged back in from the deck area, bringing a gust of chilly air. ‘Mummy, when’s lunch?’ he demanded. ‘I am so unbelievably hungry.’

Simon spotted their waitress heading towards them with a laden tray. ‘I think your roast beef is on its way right now.’
He grinned and ruffled Oliver’s hair. Rachel winced – it was something Oliver generally hated. But Oliver let his hair be ruffled and grinned right back, then wriggled onto his chair and watched appreciatively as his food was set in front of him.

Twenty minutes later, on her way to the Ladies at the very back of the pub, Rachel saw Felicity. She was sitting at a table with a dark, broad-shouldered man dressed in jeans and a combat jacket. He had two-day-old stubble, and seemed mildly, cheerfully drunk. He was sitting with his legs propped on a chair, paying no attention to Felicity, conversing with two couples at a neighbouring table. Felicity’s attitude was one of defeat and boredom, verging on apprehension. Although the two men at the next table were responding to whatever Felicity’s friend was saying with wary tolerance – it seemed to be something to do with football – it was clear that their girlfriends were fed up with the intrusion. Rachel took this all in at a glance. She stopped by the table and said hello.