Errors of Judgment (8 page)

‘And now?’

Miranda shrugged. ‘Now he’s meant to be looking for another job, obviously, but I don’t know
what
he does all day. I leave him watching TV at breakfast, and I come home eight hours later and it’s like he hasn’t moved. I thought of letting the nanny go, but somehow I don’t see Saul turning into a house husband, picking up the kids, doing the chores. He’s a banker, for Christ’s sake. A master of the universe. We just have to hope this picks up, that the economy turns around and he gets another job.’

‘It must be hard, with the children.’

‘Sure it’s hard. The house is on the market, we’re living on our savings, but if he doesn’t get work in the next six
months, God knows what’s going to happen. I’m trying to sort out a nanny-share to cut down expenses. I’m not the only Notting Hill mother in this boat. And we may have to take a long hard look at those nice private schools the girls are at. Still, at least one of us is working.’

Sarah nodded. To think just a couple of weeks ago she’d been contemplating the comfortable life she would lead once she was married, giving up work and living on Toby’s earnings in a beautiful London house, with no money worries. Why had she ever imagined it was going to be that easy? Because no one had told them this crash was coming, was why. Because just twelve months ago the whole world had been on one big roll, and the good times looked like they’d never stop. Well, they’d stopped as of noon today, and she and Toby were going to have to do some serious rethinking. He had to get straight out there and into the market. No question of him sitting around watching daytime television and feeling sorry for himself. He needed to find a job just as good as the last, if not better. He had to. Otherwise the future was far from orange. The future was bleak. And marrying someone who didn’t have a six-figure salary and excellent prospects simply wasn’t part of Sarah’s game plan.

Leo had spent the entire day working on the
cross-examination
in a case involving a collision between a container vessel and an LPG carrier in the Gulf of Aden. The hearing was two weeks away, and so far the main stumbling block in the case was a conflict of evidence regarding the lights on the container vessel on the night of the collision. Leo’s phone rang at five o’clock. It was Robin Maudsley, the instructing solicitor.

‘Bit of a turn-up for the books. You know the Portuguese officer who was on watch on the night of the collision? We’ve tracked him down. He’s a crew member on a ship coming into Tilbury tomorrow afternoon. He says there was definitely no light on the container vessel on the night of the collision.’

‘My God.’ Leo jotted a hasty note. ‘That drives a coach and horses through their defence. Fantastic.’

‘Obviously it’s going to change your entire cross-examination, so you’ll want to speak to him after we’ve taken his statement. His ship sails the next morning, so if you get down there around six, that should be good timing.

Oliver’s concert. Leo’s heart sank. There was simply no way round this. This was the only opportunity he’d have to talk to the officer and go through his statement with him, and he couldn’t miss it. It was a miracle they’d tracked him down. It meant the difference between winning and losing the case.

‘I’ll be at your office within half an hour to discuss the witness statement,’ said Leo.

He rang Rachel on the way and explained the situation.

‘Poor Ollie,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s going to be gutted. He so wanted you to be there. I knew something like this would happen. I shouldn’t have got his hopes up.’

‘Don’t. I’m feeling bad enough.’

‘It isn’t your fault. These things happen.’

‘What time does the concert end?’

‘It’s only an hour long.’

Leo sighed. ‘There’s no way I can make it. Tell Oliver …’ He paused. ‘Tell him how sorry I am. Explain it. Tell him it’s a big case, a really important one. And that I’ll see him at the weekend.’

‘I will.’

Leo clicked off the hands-free and sighed. This was exactly the kind of thing he’d meant when he was talking to Henry earlier. Missing bits and pieces of Oliver’s life. It would go on happening over the next few years. And at the end of those years, when you put those bits and pieces together, there would be a great big gaping hole.

He made his decision as he wove through the evening traffic to Maudsley’s office. Enough of this. Enough of the stress and strain. As a judge he’d be working regular hours, able to see much more of Oliver and be a proper part of his life. And at the end of twenty years, when Oliver was grown up, he’d cop a nice, fat pension and retire. No more sitting on the fence, canvassing other people’s opinions. He would do it. He would download the application form first thing tomorrow.

After work Sarah went to Toby’s flat and let herself in. She’d been trying his mobile since mid afternoon, but he’d evidently switched it off. She’d stopped off at Waitrose to buy groceries, intending to cook them both a meal, over which they would talk through the situation calmly and rationally. All the time a thread of panic was running through her thoughts. How much did Toby have saved? How big was the mortgage on his flat? How quickly could he get another job? Toby might not be the most electrifying person in the world, but the flip side of that was that he was stable and dependable. She reassured herself with that thought. He wouldn’t let their dream future go to the wall. He’d find a way through.

But when Toby arrived home four hours later, it was all he could do to find his way through the front door.

‘Have you been in the pub all this time?’ asked Sarah, as Toby slumped on the sofa, his keys in one hand, his black plastic bag in the other. His tie was loose and his hair a mess. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Yup,’ said Toby, nodding slowly and emphatically.

‘It’s not the answer, you know.’ The panic she had been supressing all day began to rise to the surface. He didn’t look safe and dependable at that moment, or like a man ready to square up to his problems and find an answer. He looked like a big, drunken schoolboy.

He raised bleary eyes to hers. ‘And the answer is – what, exactly? ’Cos if you know, please tell me.’

Sarah had seen Toby drunk before, getting convivially sloshed at dinner parties along with other well-heeled, successful young brokers and bankers. But that was a bright, joyous kind of drunkenness, with the sheen of success about it. At this moment Toby looked wrecked and deflated, the prosperous glaze replaced by the dull, seedy misery of a man out of a job. She knew there was no point in reproaching him. Things were bad enough without a row.

‘I bought some steaks,’ she said. ‘I thought we could have supper and talk about it. Why don’t you shower and change while I cook?’ Maybe he would sober up enough for them to discuss things. In her panicky state, Sarah was desperate to receive reassurance from Toby, as if sitting and talking together they would find a solution.

He shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’ He rose from the sofa, leaving car keys and black bin liner behind, and headed in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Going to sleep.’

When Sarah went through, she found him already spreadeagled on his back on the bed. His eyes were closed,
and he was breathing deeply. If he wasn’t already asleep he soon would be. Hopeless. She pulled off his shoes, and Toby groaned and rolled on his side. Sarah looked down at him. The last thing she wanted to do was to share a bed with him in this state. She would leave him to sleep it off, and they would talk tomorrow. She switched off the lights, left the flat, and went back to Kensington.

The next morning Sarah waited until after eleven before ringing Toby, assuming he’d be sleeping it off.

‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

‘Like crap, naturally. But I’m going to force down some breakfast, then go out for a run.’

‘Good idea.’

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in a fit state to talk last night. The whole thing was a bit of a nightmare. It all happened so suddenly.’ He gave a miserable laugh. ‘One minute you’re pulling down three hundred K, the next you’re on the pavement with your stapler and no identity. Going out and getting slaughtered seemed like the best option at the time.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Sarah, marginally reassured by his tone. At least he wasn’t sitting around feeling sorry for himself. ‘We do need to sit down and talk about it, though. It makes a difference to a lot of things, potentially.’

‘Yes, I know. Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight?
Somewhere decent. Pétrus, perhaps. I need cheering up.’

Sarah opened her mouth to say that perhaps they should go somewhere cheaper, given the circumstances, but stopped herself. It was important to keep him upbeat.

‘Nice idea. You book for seven-thirty, and I’ll see you there.’

Over dinner, Toby described the events of the previous day, the terse management announcement, people’s shell-shocked reactions, employees clearing their desks, wandering off to pubs and wine bars, not willing to contemplate in sober detail the impact losing their jobs was going to have on their lives. Plenty of time for that in the days ahead.

‘Mind you, I’m luckier than most,’ said Toby. ‘There are guys on my trading floor with mortgages, kids in private school. They’re the ones I feel sorry for.’

Sarah nodded, absorbing Toby’s words. If Toby was feeling sorry for people with mortgages, presumably the docklands flat didn’t have one. That was something – even in the present market it must be worth three or four hundred grand. She thought about her friend Miranda, and realised that she and Toby were relatively fortunate. They only had themselves to worry about. ‘So – when will you start looking for another job?’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there aren’t any jobs out there. The world’s in financial meltdown.’

‘I know things are hard, but at least you’re going to try, aren’t you?’

‘I’ll do what everyone else does, and sign on with some agencies, but don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Well, at least you don’t have a mortgage. That’s one
good thing. The flat must be worth a fair bit, even in today’s market.’

Toby stared at her. ‘I don’t own the flat. I rent it. I thought you knew that.’

Sarah was aghast. ‘But you’ve got savings, right?’

‘Not much to speak of. A few grand.’

‘A few grand?’ Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘But you’ve been earning a fortune for the past few years. Not to mention bonuses. What have you been doing with it all?’

‘Spending it, having a good time. Made a few investments here and there. But they’re all shot to hell. Most of my portfolio’s been wiped out. I told you that a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Toby! All you said was that you had some shares that went down the pan! You didn’t say it was everything you owned!’

‘No point in making a big fuss about it. Everyone’s in the same boat.’ He caught the distraught look on her face and reached out a hand to cover hers. ‘Don’t look like that, angel. It isn’t the end of the world. You’ve still got a job. We can manage till I find something else. Things will turn around. It’ll be fine.’

‘What about the wedding?’

‘The wedding? I don’t see how that’s affected. Dad mentioned something about footing the bill for the drink, but I always assumed your old man would be good for the rest. Isn’t that what happens? Father of the bride shells out?’

‘Things are done a bit differently these days, Toby, in case you hadn’t noticed. People usually pay a bit towards the cost of their own weddings. Frankly, I don’t know if my father can afford what we had in mind. The marquee, two
hundred guests, outside catering. I thought you and I would be meeting some of the cost.’

Toby looked doubtful. ‘Might have to scale back a bit, in that case. We should have a word with your father. We’ll be seeing him next Friday at his champagne and hotpot party. My parents will be there, too.’

‘Oh God – I’d forgotten about the party. I’m not sure I feel like going now.’ When the Kitterings heard about Toby’s job, the emotional fallout would be awful. ‘Going to be a bit of a blow to your parents, their golden boy out of a job.’

Sarah caught the look of hurt bafflement on Toby’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That wasn’t nice.’ She suddenly realised how conspicuously Toby’s job as an investment banker had figured in his appeal, in her plans for their future together. She had never, till this moment, deconstructed him, taken him apart piece by piece to work out who and what it was she loved. Recent events had begun to do it for her. Without his status, his work, he was like a different person. The whole situation required some careful thinking. She said gently, ‘I’m sure things will get better. The recession can’t last for ever.’

‘It’s got to get worse before it gets better.’ He put his hand over hers, his lost-puppy eyes searching her face. ‘But at least we’ve got one another. You make me feel like I can handle anything. Even poverty.’

‘What a sweet thing to say,’ murmured Sarah, thinking that had to be the ugliest, most frightening word she’d ever heard in her life.

It was well after nine when Leo got back to Chelsea. He parked the car not far from the house, switched off the
engine, and sat for a few seconds watching clouds drifting across the moon through the bare branches of the tree in the square. The day had been long, the drive to Tilbury and back exhausting. What he needed now was a stiff drink and some supper. He glanced at the windows of his house and found himself wishing that they weren’t dark, the rooms empty of life, no one waiting for him. Strange. Until now he had always relished the peace of his contained world, welcomed the silence. He picked up his notes from the passenger seat. Well, at any rate, Oliver would be there tomorrow evening to liven it up with his prattle and toys. He got out and locked the car.

He was halfway across the road when a figure stepped out of the shadows and came towards him. He paused, startled. It wasn’t so long ago that a particularly unpleasant Ukrainian gangster had come to visit him here, and being accosted by someone lurking around the square was unnerving. Then he saw that it was a girl. Whoever she was and whatever she wanted, he thought wearily, he could do without it.

She stepped into the light of a street lamp, and he recognised her straight away. It was the girl who’d been in court during the Texmax hearing, and in the pub when he was having lunch with Anthony. She said nothing, just stood looking at him for several long seconds, and he had time to take in her features: the small, square face with its prettily defined cheekbones, the large blue eyes and the messy mane of honey-blonde hair. She had her hands deep in her pockets, her coat collar was turned up against the cold, and the tip of her nose was pink.

‘Hello,’ she said, still looking at him intently.

Leo nodded warily. ‘Hello.’

‘You’re Leo Davies.’

‘I am.’ He waited for a few seconds. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m Gabrielle,’ said the girl. She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her breath was like smoke on the chilly night air. ‘I’m your daughter.’

For a split second Leo felt the bafflement of one who has just been told something patently absurd. But the automatic processes of thirty years of legal training kicked in, and against the evidence, he found himself weighing the possibility that what she had said was true. He had no way of knowing. Behind this flurry of rational mental activity he felt deeply shocked. He groped for something to say.

She helped him out. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ Her manner seemed composed, but her eyes, fastened on his, seemed to be brimming with some indefinable emotion – hope, perhaps even fear – that threatened to spill out and overwhelm her. A girl on the brink. Leo was used to knowing instinctively the right questions to ask, depending on the answer he sought, but in this non-courtroom situation, he wasn’t even sure what answer he wanted. ‘How do you know?’ was all he could find to say.

‘How do you think? My mother told me.’

Leo said, as gently and kindly as he could, ‘That rather begs the question.’

‘Look,’ said Gabrielle, ‘we can stand out here on this freezing pavement, or we can go into your house and talk about it.’

He nodded, gazing at her, absorbed in her features, trying to see himself there and almost, but not quite succeeding. The shock of her revelation still hadn’t left him.

‘Well?’

‘Fine. Come in, and we’ll talk.’ He took his keys from his pocket and together they crossed the square.

Leo unlocked the door and switched on the lights, then went to hang up his coat and put his papers in his study, feeling dazed. Gabrielle wandered from the hallway into the living room, shrugging off her jacket. She gazed around, taking in the austere, stylish contents of the room, the pictures and sculptures, the expensive furnishings, the subtle lighting. She turned as Leo came in.

‘Not keen on clutter, are you?’

‘Not much. I prefer order.’

‘In which case, I suppose it’s rather shaken you, me turning up like this.’

She sounded so assured, so much on her mettle, that he followed her cue.

‘I’m used to surprises in my line of work. Generally all they require is a bit of deft footwork.’ He unstoppered the whisky decanter. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Do you have any Coke?’

‘I’ll see.’ He disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, Gabrielle was sitting in one of the capacious armchairs, legs crossed. He handed her a can of Coke and a tumbler of ice. ‘Sorry it’s not cold. There’s ice, though.’ He rattled the cubes in the tumbler.

‘Thanks.’

Leo poured himself a Scotch and sat down opposite. They sipped their drinks in silence, too wrapped up in the moment to notice the similarity of their attitudes and timing.

‘So,’ said Leo, ‘we need to unravel this. Just what exactly has your mother told you?’

‘That’s very lawyerly of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather refer to her as my “alleged” mother?’

‘Lawyerly?’ Leo smiled. ‘I’m not sure I know that word.’

‘You know what I mean. Approaching the subject side on. Going for the third-hand hearsay evidence, instead of asking me directly.’

Leo, despite the surreal situation, was amused. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s second-hand hearsay. Anyway, what do you know about hearsay evidence?’

‘I’ve been studying it at Bar School.’

‘Really?’ He sipped his Scotch, interested.

Gabrielle decided to make herself more comfortable, kicking off her boots and tucking her feet beneath her. She was very pretty, Leo thought, and she had an air of challenge about her which he found quite touching.

‘What made you want to become a barrister?’

‘I thought I’d be good at it.’ She looked down at her glass, swirling the Coke and ice. ‘And maybe it had something to do with you. Finding out who you were, what you did.’

‘I see. Which takes us back to the main storyline. Who your mother is, and why she thinks I’m your father.’

Gabrielle looked at him almost defiantly. ‘My mother is called Jacqueline.’ She pronounced it in the French way. ‘When you knew her, she would have been Jacqueline Pujol.’ Her eyes were on Leo’s face, waiting for his reaction.

Leo racked his brain. Jacqueline? He couldn’t remember anyone of that name. Hardly surprising, given the number of women he had slept with over the years. It was embarrassing, given that the apparent fruit of their union was sitting opposite him, eyes fixed expectantly on his face. What the hell had he been up to twenty-however-many
years ago? Much the same as now, he supposed – working all hours, making money, and trying to have as much fun as was compatible with the standards of his profession.

‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’ She frowned as she said this, and Leo noticed that her brows were dark, thick and delicately winged, like his own mother’s.

‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Twenty years is a long time ago. There were a lot of people in my life. Do you have a picture or something?’

She shot him a glance, then reached down to rummage in her bag. ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember her.’

Although she said this, Leo realised she had come prepared for the possibility he might not remember, and wondered just how fleeting his association with this Jacqueline person had been.

She handed him a photograph, and as soon as he looked at it he was astonished by the force of the recollection it triggered. Jackie. Of course. A lovely French girl he had met at a party. Whose party? His mind stumbled back to a summer night, a flat in Notting Hill, windows wide open to the summer night. Some actor friend – Philip, Patrick some name like that. He looked up at Gabrielle, then back at the photo. It was a publicity picture such as an agent might use, from which Jackie gazed out provocatively, her tawny hair tousled. They had been lovers for just a few fleeting weeks. Then she’d disappeared. Someone said she’d gone back to France. Back then, people weren’t glued together by mobile phones, emails and Facebook. You might know someone, love someone, then circumstances would change and they would leave your life for ever. As Jackie had done.

Gabrielle could read the astonishment, the recognition
in Leo’s face. ‘So you do accept it? That you’re my father?’

‘I suppose it’s a possibility. Why didn’t she tell me?’

‘She said she didn’t know until she was back in France. She said she was going to write to you, but she decided there was no point. That it would have been a mess. You and she weren’t in love.’

Leo said nothing for some moments, staring at the photo, astounded by this revelation. Finally he asked, ‘What happened?’

‘When she found out she was pregnant, she moved back with her parents. A few years later my grandfather died, and the year after that, my grandmother. She sold their house and moved back to England. She’d always loved London. She made a living doing a little modelling work, some acting. Then she met my stepfather. I have two stepbrothers. My stepfather’s pretty wealthy. I love him to bits, but I’ve always known he’s not my real father.’ She stared down at her hands, spreading them out in her lap. ‘When I was a kid it never occurred to me to wonder who you were. I had a very happy life. Then about a few years ago I got curious, the way teenagers do, and started asking my mother questions. She told me what she knew, which wasn’t much.’ Leo looked at her quizzically, and again she shrugged. ‘Your name, that you were a lawyer, or had been when she met you. That you were very good-looking, funny.’ Gabrielle smiled. ‘When she talked about you, I got the impression she’d liked you a lot. So I wanted to find you.’