Errors of Judgment E-Book

Caro Fraser

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Caper Court
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 522

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

With a hedonistic personal lifestyle so often at odds with his professional existence, Leo Davies QC, head of chambers at 5 Caper Court, is thinking he has perhaps reached an age when he should opt for a quieter pace of life. But when a lovely face from the past turns up, an ex-lover who can give him a run for his money any day in games of sex and intrigue, Leo realizes he relishes the challenges as much as ever. And what of Anthony Cross, younger member of chambers, former love interest, and the man Leo has never quite been able to rid from his mind? When Anthony falls in love with a beguiling young law student, it sets off a chain of events in which Leo is more closely involved than he ever could have imagined. Behind the sedate exterior of 5 Caper Court, the lives of its employees twist and turn in ever more intriguing ways ...

Leseprobe

Errors of Judgment

CARO FRASER

For Geraldine and Joan, with love

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURAbout the AuthorBy Caro FraserCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

Friday was one of those rare October days, a wistful reprise of summer, the sky a sharp, pellucid blue, the sun falling warm upon the cobbled courtyards of the Temple and gilding the autumn roses in Inner Temple Gardens. Its unexpected warmth had enticed the lawyers and clerks from their chambers and offices at lunchtime to bask on the benches with their sandwiches and stroll about the gravel walks, but now at four o’clock, as the shadows of the plane trees began to lengthen on the grass, a chill reminder of autumn was creeping into the air behind the fading sunshine.

In The Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand, Mr Justice Cable was delivering himself of his deliberations in the matter of Kirkbride and Others v. Texmax Holdings Inc., an inter partes hearing of a motion whereby the plaintiffs sought an extension of an injunction previously granted against the defendants to prevent them from disposing of certain company shares, pending trial. The dusty fingers of afternoon light which played across the judge’s pudgy features made him look like some bewigged cherub of advancing years.

Leo Davies QC, appearing for the plaintiffs, was pretty much certain of success, and sat slumped in his seat, only half-listening.

‘—I come now to the balance of convenience,’ intoned Mr Justice Cable. ‘Miss Lightfoot stressed that the onus in this regard was upon Kirkbride, which is of course correct, but – and in my view again plainly rightly – she accepted that if the injunction were to be refused, there would be serious difficulties in Kirkbride enforcing any specific performance order it might obtain at the trial. In addition, if Kirkbride is left to its remedy in damages, the history of the matter indicates that Texmax has limited funds available and it is unlikely that any money judgment would be satisfied …’

Leo leant back, stifling a yawn, adjusting his barrister’s wig slightly on the silver hair of his head. It was a peculiar feature, this silver-grey hair on a man still only in his forties, and contrasted strangely with his youthful features, his square-jawed good looks and sharp blue eyes. He made a couple of desultory notes and let his thoughts wander. Today’s glorious spell of Indian summer had made him restless. He’d spent the last month slaving over a difficult joint venture dispute, which he’d settled on favourable terms just that morning, and he felt he deserved a break, to get away from the City before autumn turned to winter and the nights grew long. It had hardly been a satisfactory summer. He’d rented a fabulous château in the Lot, intending to spend July there with his on-off girlfriend Anthea and his six-year-old son Oliver, plus school chum of Oliver’s choice, with assorted friends coming out at weekends. Oliver’s mother, Rachel, had of course managed to scupper that plan, in her inimitable way, by taking issue with Leo’s choice of friends, and making holiday arrangements of her own which limited Oliver’s availability. The situation had put Leo’s already fraught relationship with Anthea under considerable pressure, and after an enormous row Anthea had disappeared for the entire summer, leaving Leo and Oliver, plus his mate Tarquin, to spend just ten days together on their own at the house. In the end, Leo had made a gift of the remainder of the lease on the château to a couple of impecunious young barrister friends and their children.

Perhaps, Leo reflected, the monumental row with Anthea had been no bad thing. It had propelled their relationship more quickly in the direction in which it had been inevitably heading. A short-lived reprise in September, as hot and brief as today’s burst of autumn sun, but then the unspoken understanding that it was definitely over. It was a shame about her lovely, lithe body – he would certainly miss that – but the whole thing had been getting a little too serious for his liking. The most attractive thing about Anthea when he’d first met her, apart from her cool catwalk beauty and independence of mind, had been her elusiveness. He’d liked never quite knowing where he stood. But time and familiarity had lowered those tantalising defences, and since the beginning of the year she’d clearly been edging Leo towards some kind of commitment, which was the last thing he wanted.

Leo regarded himself as a man of simplicity. He lived quietly (admittedly in a five-bedroom house in the most fashionable part of Chelsea, and occasionally at his weekend retreat in Oxfordshire), possessed only one car (true, the garaging fees for his top-of-the-range Aston Martin came to over three thousand a year), collected modern art on a modest scale (although the recent insurance premiums on some of his older pieces had been startling), and liked to think that for Oliver’s sake he’d toned down his hedonistic lifestyle (these days he made a point of never having more than one lover on the go at once, of either sex, because at his age it was too exhausting). As one of London’s top commercial silks he earned enough to enjoy these straightforward pleasures, and to afford handmade suits, bespoke shoes and a passable wine cellar – but the freedom to do as one pleased was something no amount of money could buy. Leading a simple life meant steering clear of the complexities which long-term relationships inevitably involved. He had loved Anthea in his fashion, but was, on balance, glad to be footloose again.

The note of finality in Mr Justice Cable’s voice as he moved to his conclusion brought Leo back to the present.

‘—and so, in my judgment on the evidence before me, the balance of convenience comes down firmly on the side of Kirkbride. Provided that Mr Davies is able to confirm the plaintiffs’ cross-undertaking in damages, I therefore continue the injunction against the defendants until trial.’ He glanced at Leo. ‘I will hear counsel as to the form of the order and any other directions that may be required as to costs.’

Leo rose to his feet. ‘I believe my learned friend Miss Lightfoot has in fact prepared a draft.’

‘If you are content with the form of injunction, Mr Davies, is there anything else apart from costs?’

‘We would respectfully ask for the plaintiffs’ costs in cause, My Lord.’

The judge glanced enquiringly at Miss Lightfoot, then nodded. ‘Very well. I so order.’

There was a rustling of papers and gowns, and everyone filed from the courtroom with a Friday-afternoon sense of relief. Leo paused in the corridor to exchange a few words with Alison Lightfoot, who had caught his attention at the outset of the hearing by the gentle, grave voice in which she’d made her submissions – a pleasant change from the strident delivery of most barristers – and by her dark, understated good looks and cool competence. He was just debating whether or not to ask her out for a drink, when a voice hailed him. ‘Leo, you old bastard!’

The man striding across the corridor towards them was well over six feet tall, with a broad, smiling face, and the gone-to-seed physique of an ex-public school prop forward. The greying fair hair curling from beneath his well-worn wig looked as though it could do with a good trim, his frayed robe had slipped from his shoulders and was riding somewhere around his middle, and he clutched a haphazard bundle of papers in ham-like hands. Jamie Urquhart, despite his shambolic appearance, possessed one of the shrewdest minds at the London criminal Bar. His formidable forensic skills, coupled with a courtroom manner famous for its charm and incisiveness, had won him considerable success over the years, and he was much sought after, particularly by well-heeled clients caught on the wrong side of the law. He and Leo had met as students at Bar School, and their friendship stretched back almost thirty years. They tried to make a point of meeting regularly, but the summer break and a string of cases meant that they hadn’t seen one another since before Easter.

Leo greeted Jamie warmly, and introduced Alison, hoping she would hang on a little while longer, but she took Jamie’s arrival as a cue to leave, murmuring something about getting back to chambers. Leo watched her go with faint regret.

‘Haven’t seen you in months,’ said Jamie. ‘How are things?’

‘Not bad. Somewhat overwhelmed with work, in fact. How about you?’

‘Can’t complain on the work front,’ said Jamie, in the darkly confident voice which had been used to such persuasive effect on countless juries. He nodded towards the small knot of people conferring outside the courtroom opposite. ‘Just finished a three-month fraud trial, and my client loves me. Which he should do, considering I’ve got him off money-laundering charges which could have seen him doing a fifteen-year stretch in Belmarsh.’ Jamie lowered his voice to a murmur. ‘He’s actually an extremely dodgy Cypriot, but I have to go and schmooze him right now. How about a drink in an hour or so? Balls Brothers, six o’clock?’

‘See you there,’ said Leo.

In the robing room Leo took off his wig, bands and gown, and crammed them into his red silk bag. When he had changed, he made his way down the echoing marble corridors and stairs, exchanging greetings with passing lawyers of his acquaintance, nodded goodnight to the doorman, and stepped out into the late afternoon air. He saw Alison a few steps ahead of him at the pedestrian crossing, and caught up with her.

‘Sorry we were interrupted back there,’ he said, slinging his bag over one shoulder as they crossed the Strand together. Alison said nothing, merely gave him a smiling glance. Amazingly pretty eyes, thought Leo. ‘I had intended to ask if you were free later this evening. For dinner, perhaps?’ The drink with Jamie wouldn’t last more than an hour, assuming he was hurrying home to his family.

They reached the other side of the road, and paused at the gate to Middle Temple Lane.

‘No thanks. I’m afraid I’m busy.’

‘Perhaps next week?’

‘I have a big case starting on Monday. I’m sorry – I don’t think it’s going to leave me much free time.’

Leo knew when to beat a graceful retreat. ‘OK, then,’ he smiled. ‘Have a good weekend.’ And he headed through the gate.

Leo strode down Middle Temple Lane in the gathering dusk, mildly dashed by the rebuff. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted those occasional lingering glances she’d been giving him all afternoon. Or could it be that his vanity was getting the better of him, and the signals were no longer quite what he thought they were? With fifty looming, the age gap between himself and desirable young things was growing ever wider, uncomfortably so. He tried to estimate how old Alison Lightfoot might be. Late twenties? Early thirties at most. Christ, she was probably wondering what a man almost old enough to be her father was doing asking her out on a date.

Smarting with self-doubt and wounded vanity, Leo passed along Crown Office Row and through the archway into Caper Court. With a conscious and somewhat ridiculous sense of athleticism, he sprang up the short flight of steps into Number 5, and went into the clerks’ room. Henry, the head clerk, was on the phone, and Felicity, his junior, was going through files, checking figures against her computer screen.

Felicity smiled when she saw Leo. ‘Afternoon, Mr D!’ she called out brightly. She was an attractive twenty-four-year-old, with brown, curly hair and a buxom figure normally attired, to the distraction of the male members of chambers, in short, tight skirts and clinging tops. Today she was wearing a suit, possibly as a concession to the prevailing sombre mood in the City, yet still managing to display a tantalising flash of cleavage and thigh. She was a cheerful, capable girl, but had few natural organisational or administrative talents, and since her job as clerk required her to manage the cases, arrange the conferences and negotiate the fees of twenty-eight barristers in one of the City’s leading sets of commercial chambers, she was normally either a whirlwind of fiercely concentrated activity, or in a fluster of scatterbrained panic. She was fond of a laugh, was Felicity, and she had a perky, easy-going rapport with the members of chambers which Henry, the head clerk, found occasionally exasperating. Henry, who was only in his thirties but old beyond his years, was a clerk of the old school, a man who did his job with a mixture of pride and the mildly facetious deference of a good gentleman’s gentleman, and he often wished Felicity would conduct herself with more decorum and less familiarity. That said, he had long nurtured a wistful, unarticulated passion for Felicity, and the confusion of his feelings probably contributed to his generally careworn demeanour.

While Henry was busy with his phone call, Leo decided to take the opportunity to consult Felicity.

‘Felicity …’ began Leo.

‘Yes, Mr D?’ Felicity had finished on the computer and was sorting through late-afternoon mail.

‘Felicity, do I strike you – I mean, someone of your age, as …’ Leo paused, searching for a better word, but finding none. ‘Old?’ He and Felicity had always had a close understanding, and she was one of the few people with whom he felt he could be so blunt.

‘Old?’ Felicity wrinkled her brow. ‘Well, you’re getting on a bit, Mr Davies, no use pretending you’re not. But I wouldn’t say old. I mean, for your age you’re holding up really well, aren’t you? A bit like Terence Stamp, or Anthony Hopkins—’

Leo held up a hand. ‘OK. That’s fine. Stop there.’

Felicity, happy to think she’d said the right thing, leant forward and said in a cheekily conspiratorial whisper, ‘I think you’re lovely. Whatever.’ Then she handed him some papers. ‘These came in for you from Bentleys.’ Leo took the papers without comment and left the clerks’ room.

Felicity watched him go. What had that been about? Perhaps Mr D was having some kind of midlife crisis. He didn’t seem a likely candidate. Those looks, and him so good at his job. He could charm the knickers off anyone, light up a room just by coming into it. She’d seen people smile just hearing his voice the other side of a door. It was something beyond charm, beyond sex appeal. The secret Leo ingredient. He needn’t worry about getting old, with all that going for him.

These were hardly Leo’s thoughts as he trudged upstairs. He went into his room, chucked his robing bag in a corner and dropped the papers on his desk. Unlike the rooms of most barristers, his was a haven of sharply defined order, no piles of books and papers littering the desk and floor, or stacks of briefs lining the window sill. Leo believed that focused thought and proper concentration required an uncluttered environment, and his polished desktop was bare except for his laptop, a PC, and a counsel’s notebook and some pencils and pens. The only concessions to homely distraction were two framed photos of Oliver on a bookshelf of All England law reports, and three austere and extremely expensive Anselm Kiefer prints on the wall opposite.

Leo sank into his chair and sat inertly for some moments, staring at the walls. God, he was tired. Tired of enormous cases, increasingly resentful of the time they consumed, the amount of paperwork and preparation involved. He had another big one coming up next month, and the mere thought of it made his heart sink. It could even stretch into the early part of next year. His practice was flourishing as never before, he was earning fantastic sums of money, but at what cost? His mind drifted back to Alison Lightfoot. That particular brush-off was another wake-up call. On every front, he needed to face up to the fact that he was no longer young. He pondered it gloomily. Fifty would take him beyond middle age and inexorably towards sixty. Sixty! He didn’t want to think about that. He sighed and glanced at his watch, and saw he still had an hour in hand before he met Jamie. There was plenty of work to be getting on with, including reading the papers which Felicity had given him, but that Friday feeling was upon him. He needed to be convivial, to relax and shake off his gloom.

He left his room and went upstairs to Anthony’s room. Anthony Cross, one of his closest colleagues, would surely be up for a chat and some chambers gossip. Unless, of course, he was heading off to meet one of his innumerable young women. Doubtless Alison wouldn’t have said no to Anthony – but then, Anthony was only twenty-eight.

When he rapped on Anthony’s door, there was no answer. Leo was about to head downstairs again, when he heard voices and laughter coming from Marcus’s room at the end of the corridor – a few of the junior barristers winding down at the end of a busy week, maybe about to go out and hit the pub or the wine bar. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in for a chat, then thought better of it. They could do without him.

He headed back to his room, switched on his desk lamp, and began to work.

When he arrived at Balls Brothers, the wine bar was heaving with young City types in high Friday-night spirits. Leo shouldered his way through the crowd, and found Jamie ensconced at a corner table with a bottle of Château Belgrave and a copy of the Evening Standard.

Jamie waved Leo over and folded up his paper. ‘Come and have a glass of this very passable Pomerol.’ He poured Leo a glass and refilled his own.

‘You did well to bag a table,’ said Leo, glancing around. ‘So much for the credit crunch.’

‘I got in here half an hour ago. My slippery Cypriot had to catch an early flight. I fancy he didn’t want to hang round in the UK and risk getting his collar felt for various other financial transgressions. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Leo continued to eye the other drinkers. ‘Is it my imagination, or are people in the City getting younger by the day?’

‘Like politicians and policemen, you mean? No, I reckon it’s just that most people our age are scurrying home to Surbiton or Woking to worry about their mortgages and pensions, and whether or not they can afford the school fees.’ He waved a hand. ‘This lot – look at them. All under thirty, no responsibilities. What’s a bonus here or there?’

‘Bonuses are one thing, but jobs are another.’ Leo tapped the front page of Jamie’s evening paper. ‘Look at all the poor sods at Lehmans, wandering around with their cardboard boxes and black bin liners, not knowing what’s hit them.’

‘True. The world of investment banking is not a happy one right now. Friend of mine at HBOS is sweating every night, not knowing whether his job’s going to be there in the morning.’

‘Good news for lawyers, though. Nothing like a financial downturn to get clients litigating, chasing every penny, fighting every claim. I’ve never been busier.’

‘Well, hurrah for the commercial Bar.’ Jamie refilled both their glasses. ‘What about us sorry criminal hacks? I could do with a few more big earners, like that case today. By the time Margo’s finished with me, I’m going to need every penny.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Margo and I are splitting up.’ He uttered the words abruptly.

Leo set down his glass, truly startled by the news. ‘My God, Jamie – I had no idea. When did this happen?’ Leo had known Margo for twenty years, and had spent many weekends with her and Jamie and their two children at their house in Henley. The news was a shock.

‘A couple of months ago. I assumed the Temple’s rumour mill would have been grinding away,’ said Jamie. ‘Sorry to spring it on you.’

‘What happened? I thought you two were pretty solid.’

‘So did I.’ Jamie let out a deep groan, his big frame hunched over his glass. ‘She says she’s just got tired of the whole thing, doesn’t love me any more, is stifled by the idea of us staying together now the kids are grown up, wants to make a new life. Brutal stuff, Leo baby. Brutal stuff. Maybe it’s the modern woman’s version of the empty-nest syndrome – my job here is done, the old bloke is boring, sex is boring, let’s see what else is out there. They say fifty is the new forty. Margo seems to believe it.’ Jamie drained his third glass. ‘So she’ll walk off with half the proceeds. Not the best time to be carving everything up, but needs must. I’m selling the house, the yacht – I’m going to keep the cottage in Scotland, though. The worst of it is’ – Jamie looked grim – ‘she has the idea that because Alice and Nick are over twenty-one that our splitting up won’t bother them. I think she’s so wrong.’

Leo studied his friend, noticing for the first time the grey pouches beneath his eyes, and the lines etched on his heavy face. Jamie and Margo divorcing. It seemed hard to believe.

‘Are you still living together?’

Jamie shook his head. ‘She moved out three weeks ago. She’s staying with a friend till we sell the house. Another divorcee. One of the things she told me was that she gets more emotional support from her friends than she does from me.’ He turned his puzzled eyes to Leo. ‘What does she mean by that?’

‘Couldn’t tell you,’ replied Leo sadly.

‘I hate going back there in the evenings. Place is so bloody empty.’

‘Come on, drink up. Let’s go and find something to eat, and drown your sorrows properly.’

They strolled to a little Italian restaurant in Bloomsbury, where they had dinner and a long discussion ranging from Jamie’s marriage to the economic crisis, then back again.

‘I’ve taken a big hit on my investments,’ Jamie told Leo over another bottle of wine. ‘The slump in shares has wiped out a hefty sum, besides screwing the old pension – whatever’s left of it after Margo has her cut. I don’t especially care about selling the house, but I’m sad about the yacht. Had some bloody good times on the old Mareva.’

‘Do you have to sell her?’ asked Leo.

‘I don’t have to. Things aren’t that bad. I could keep her if I wanted to – but the fact is, Leo, I’d rather be rid of her. Too many associations. The boat was a present to ourselves, after the kids were off our hands. Margo and I used to love going off at weekends, just the two of us, catching a flight to Nice, grabbing the hire car, picking up some food and driving down to the marina. I’d sort things out on board, make my special cocktail, and Margo would stretch out in the sun like a happy cat. Weather’s always fantastic down there. Then if the wind was right, we’d take her out round the islands, drop anchor and have lunch, mess about – it felt like being young again.’

Leo signalled to the waiter and ordered two brandies, prepared to let Jamie talk on for as long as he wanted. ‘Sounds idyllic.’

‘It was.’ The brandies came. Jamie swirled his in silence, took a sip, and said, ‘I’m flying down there early tomorrow morning to lay the boat up for the winter. Then I’ll put her up for sale, take out an ad in Yachting Monthly or whatever, and wait for a buyer.’ He sipped his Courvoisier and mused, ‘First time I’ve been down there on my own since I bought her.’ There was silence for a moment. Jamie glanced at Leo. ‘You busy this weekend?’

‘Not particularly,’ replied Leo.

‘Fancy coming down with me? You’ll have no problem getting a seat on the plane. The easyJet flights are never full at this time of year.’

Leo pondered this, mildly surprised. It wasn’t his weekend to have Oliver, and the party he was due to go to tomorrow night – the prospect of which bored him already – could easily be ducked. A trip with Jamie could be amusing. On the other hand, it could be mildly depressing, given all Jamie had just told him.

‘Come on,’ coaxed Jamie. ‘What d’you say? We’ll have a laugh. God knows I could do with one. Show you the rocking sights and sounds of Antibes. Ever been there?’

‘Only fleetingly,’ replied Leo. He remembered flying down there a few years ago in the private jet of a Greek shipping heiress with whom he’d been sleeping at the time. They’d spent the weekend on her 150-foot yacht, with its crew of twelve, in the most extraordinary luxury he’d ever encountered off dry land. Dear Adriana, a great collector of things. Houses, yachts, paintings, money, men. She’d wanted to collect Leo, too, on a permanent basis. How come he’d passed on that one? He smiled at the recollection.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jamie, swallowing his brandy in two gulps.

‘Just remembering my last trip down there. I didn’t see much of Antibes.’

‘Time you did. It’s a fantastic place. Come on – we’ll go back to mine, get on the Internet and bag you a seat, have a nightcap, up first thing and head to Gatwick. What d’you say?’

Leo realised he hadn’t done anything spur of the moment for a long time. ‘Will it make you happy?’

‘Are you joking? A boy’s weekend away will do me the power of good.’

‘OK,’ said Leo, and raised his glass. ‘Anything to oblige a friend. Cheers.’

CHAPTER TWO

At midday on Monday Colman came out of the Lloyd’s Building, and shivered in the sharp wind that gusted along St Mary Axe. She wished she hadn’t left her coat in the office. Yesterday had been gloriously mild, but today had brought a change. As she hurried down the steps she saw a tall, dark-haired young man emerging from the Willis Building opposite. Well, well – Anthony Cross. It had to be all of three years since she’d last seen him. Surprising that they hadn’t run into one another before now. Sarah studied him as he paused to chat to a colleague. Less of a boy and more of a man now – those gentle good looks had hardened, and made him more attractive than ever. She watched as Anthony parted from his friend and headed towards Leadenhall Market, then strolled across the road to intercept him.

Anthony, still preoccupied with details of the oil pollution conference he had just left, didn’t notice Sarah until she was almost upon him. He stopped in surprise. ‘Sarah – hi. How are you?’ Sarah’s previously long blonde hair was shorter now, but there was no forgetting that pert, pretty face, and the full mouth with that charming, lopsided curve which always seemed to suggest some secret source of amusement. She was wearing a neatly tailored suit and high heels, and hugging a leather broker’s wallet.

‘Fine. And you?’

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘It has.’ He had mixed feelings about this chance encounter. A few years ago, when Sarah was a pupil at 5 Caper Court, the two of them had had a brief but ill-advised relationship, the fallout from which had been disastrous. It was quite something, seeing her again in the flesh. ‘So – what are you up to these days?’

‘Working as a broker for Portman’s.’

‘Right. Employing those formidable negotiating skills of yours.’

‘Kind of you to say so. At least, I assume you’re being kind.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look at that. Nearly time for lunch. What say we go and have a glass of wine and catch up on old times?’

Anthony hesitated. Sarah had a deserved reputation as a manipulative, scheming troublemaker. But she was also disturbingly sexy and provocative, qualities too easily forgotten until one was up close to her. The scent of the perfume she always wore hit him like a memory.

‘OK, why not?’ He had no reason to hurry back to chambers.

‘Let’s see if we can grab a table at the Market wine bar.’

They were ahead of the rush and found a secluded corner table. Sarah picked up a discarded copy of The Times, while Anthony went to the bar to order glasses of wine and a plate of sandwiches. ‘Things must be getting bad when the big three banks go cap in hand to the government to bail them out,’ she remarked to Anthony, when he came back.

Anthony glanced at the headlines and nodded. ‘Gordon Brown may get what the hard Left have always wanted – the nationalisation of the banks. I can’t believe it’s happened so fast.’

‘It’s going to be hellish on the City job front soon – just like the nineties.’ Sarah helped herself to a sandwich. ‘Not that either of us remembers that. Anyway, let’s not talk economic doom and gloom – there’s far too much of that these days. Tell me what’s going on at Caper Court. God, it seems like a lifetime since I was a pupil there. Everyone still as dull and worthy as ever?’

Anthony smiled wryly. ‘I imagine by your standards we’re tedious in the extreme.’

‘Mmm. Life as a barrister would never have suited me. Far too much like hard work. Come on, give me the low-down on everyone. Is Henry still dying of unrequited love for Felicity?’

‘Actually, there’s a rumour – unsubstantiated beyond a sighting of Henry in a pub with some lady – that his heart belongs elsewhere.’

‘I don’t believe it. It was an open secret that he adored Felicity.’

‘Henry probably realised it was one-way traffic. He’s not getting any younger. Probably wants to settle down. Anyway, the great love of Felicity’s life, Vince, is coming out of prison soon.’

‘I’d forgotten him – didn’t he get done for manslaughter, or something?’

Anthony nodded, helping himself to another sandwich. ‘Hit some chap in an argument, and he fell over and cracked his head and died. Vince has done half of his sentence, so government policy means he’ll be out before the end of the year.’

‘Right.’ There was a pause, then Sarah asked casually, ‘And what about Leo? How’s he?’

The question surprised Anthony. As he recalled, Sarah’s friendship with Leo had been the reason why she’d come to Caper Court in the first place. ‘You don’t see him?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I just assumed you were still in touch.’ Anthony paused, then said, ‘Leo is as well as ever. Doing all the usual Leo things.’

Sarah thought she detected a certain edge to Anthony’s voice. She knew enough about the relationship he had with Leo, about the odd kind of love which existed between them. Something Leo could handle, but not Anthony.

‘He should be careful,’ she said. ‘He’ll break someone’s heart one of these days.’

‘I should think that happens with alarming regularity. The only person in the world he really cares about is Oliver.’

Sarah nodded. ‘His Achilles heel.’

‘An odd way of putting it.’

‘You think? I find people’s weak spots, their vulnerabilities, are always the most interesting things about them. And the most useful.’ As Sarah stretched to pick up a sandwich, her jacket fell away a little to reveal a glimpse of soft, curving breast, and Anthony felt a little jolt of lust at the recollection of times spent in bed with her.

She looked and caught his swift, straying glance. ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, knowing perfectly well.

‘Old times,’ said Anthony.

Sarah eyed him speculatively. Anthony had always been famously and rather sweetly vulnerable where the opposite sex was concerned. It was Sarah’s guess that he now considered himself a seasoned man of the world. Perhaps he even thought of himself as being in the same league as Leo, whom he so admired, capable of picking up and dropping lovers without a second thought. Very few belonged to that special breed of people. She and Leo did. Anthony never would.

‘Old times as in – us?’

Sarah’s assessment of Anthony was more or less accurate. He had been disappointed and hurt by love too often, and now maintained a kind of emotional veneer, a pretence at invulnerability. Deep down, he was as susceptible as ever, longing for love, for some special person, though he would have denied this even to himself.

‘I wouldn’t say there was ever an “us”,’ replied Anthony. He leant closer to her, enjoying her subtle perfume. ‘We were both only ever after the same thing.’

‘Love?’ She spoke the word lightly, her eyes fixed on his face. She did enjoy this kind of game. Poor old Anthony, he really thought he knew where it was going, too.

‘Was that ever particularly important to you? No, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.’

‘Mmm, indeed. You sound like you’re still interested.’

Anthony felt strangely and pleasantly light-headed. Half an hour ago he’d been discussing the finer points of jurisdiction, and now – this. It brought home to him that his life right now was lacking in excitement and spontaneity. He had a sudden memory of sitting in some bar with Sarah years ago, when he’d first known her, and kissing her without warning. He wanted to do that now. She’d always had such a lethal effect on him. Even though he hadn’t been in love with her, or romantically involved in any sense, she’d been able to manipulate him through sheer sexuality. This time, things were different. If anything was going to happen – and she clearly wanted it to – he would be the one in control. He’d show her this was a game he could play just as well.

‘I could be.’

‘Nice to see you taking the initiative for a change. If that’s what you’re doing.’

‘So – what are we talking about here?’ He glanced around. They were pretty much out of sight of the rest of the wine bar.

‘You tell me.’ She leant in closer. ‘You’re the one making the running.’

His glance rested on her slightly parted lips. Unable to resist, he put his fingers lightly beneath her chin, and leant to kiss her. But Sarah drew back, pushing his hand gently away and smiling.

‘I think you’ve failed to notice something.’ She held up her left hand, and Anthony saw the flash of a diamond.

He managed to laugh. ‘Congratulations. Nicely concealed.’

‘It was there all the time, only your attention happened to be elsewhere.’

‘Who’s the lucky – or possibly unlucky – guy?’

Sarah twisted the ring on her finger, letting it catch the light. ‘How ungallant of you. His name’s Toby Kittering, and he’s an investment banker.’

‘Right.’

Sarah sighed. ‘Oh, Anthony. You haven’t changed. You’re still so – what’s the word? So tractable. Here – have the last sandwich.’ She pushed the plate towards him. ‘I have to go.’ She stood up, picking up her folder. ‘It was fun catching up. Give my love to everyone at Caper Court. Especially Leo. Bye.’

Anthony sat for a few minutes after Sarah had gone, feeling rather stupid. He was annoyed with himself for letting that happen. Presumably she had been trying to prove that he was easy, that he was predictable. It wasn’t the way he liked to think of himself. But there was a basis of truth in it. He sat there, his mind wandering from the particularity of Sarah’s put-down to the generalities of his life. Everything about it was predictable. What did it consist of, except for getting up, going to work, seeing the same faces every day? Even his social life was centred upon a largely unvarying, safe group of friends. The last couple of girlfriends he’d had seemed to have been cut from the same template – half-hearted career girls from nice, middle-class backgrounds waiting for the right man to come along so that they could get married and have babies. They had made him feel like a fraud, a lot of the time. His own dysfunctional upbringing, with its chronic lack of money, hadn’t equipped him to deal with their expectations. He lived and worked in a world where most people seemed to have been to public school and Oxbridge, and had spent eight years working to fit in. Most of the time he succeeded, but there were also times when he wondered what he was doing there.

Anthony picked up his glass and drained its contents, his thoughts straying, as they so often did at such times of insecurity, to Leo. Like himself, Leo was an outsider from humble beginnings, an interloper in this elite world. And Leo dealt with the situation by operating on Jekyll and Hyde principles – keeping ahead of the game by being a brilliant lawyer, one of the best in his field, making as much money as he could, and using it to indulge himself in a hedonistic private lifestyle far removed from the dull, respectable conventions by which most barristers lived. Perhaps that was the answer. Instead of looking for love, hoping to find the right person to make sense of everything, he should take a leaf out of Leo’s book. Live dangerously. Become less easy, less safe. Someone whom the likes of Sarah wouldn’t find so – what was the word she’d used? So tractable.

He ate the last sandwich, paid the bill and decided to try and excise thoughts of Sarah by walking all the way back to chambers.

Anthony picked up his mail from the clerks’ room and was talking football with Henry when Leo arrived, looking somewhat haggard.

Leo shrugged off his overcoat, flung it over a chair, and fished a batch of letters from his pigeonhole. ‘Thanks for rearranging this morning’s con with Beddoes,’ he said to Henry. ‘My flight into Gatwick last night was delayed, and I really didn’t feel up to it.’

‘Not a problem. He’s coming in later today – four o’clock.’

‘Heavy weekend?’ Anthony asked Leo.

‘You could say that. I spent the weekend in the South of France with Jamie Urquhart. Did you know he’s getting divorced?’

‘No! Wow. That’s a surprise.’

‘Liam …’ Henry addressed a thin, fresh-faced boy of eighteen or so, seated at a desk opposite Felicity, wearing a conspicuously new suit and an alert expression. ‘Coffee time, if you would be so kind.’

The boy got up. ‘Right. Yes. I’m on it. What would everyone—?’

‘Black, one sugar,’ said Felicity, without looking up from her computer screen.

Robert swivelled round in his chair. ‘White, two sugars.’

‘White, no sugar,’ called out Carla, the office manager, from her desk at the other side of the room.

Liam began ticking them off on his fingers, looking anxious. ‘OK, two white, one no sugar, one with one sugar—’

‘Two,’ said Robert.

‘Yeah, right – white, two sugars. Black, one sugar – no, wait …’

‘I’d write it down if I were you, lad,’ said Henry, handing him a pen and a piece of paper. ‘I’m a tea, no sugar.’ Liam began to make his list. He glanced uncertainly at Leo.

‘Would you like a coffee, Mr …?’

‘Davies,’ said Leo. ‘Yes, Liam, I would most certainly like a coffee. Make it black, strong, and no sugar, please.’

‘Mr Cross?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’

Liam left the room, frowning at his list.

‘That, I take it, is our new fledgling clerk?’ said Leo.

‘Liam Sturgis. Very bright lad. Keen to do well. I hope to have him in shape by the time Robert leaves us in March.’

‘Let’s hope he lasts longer than – what was her name, the previous one? Seemed like she was hardly here for more than a few days.’

‘Julie.’ Henry shook his head. ‘She wasn’t really cut out for it. Not everyone is. The girls seem to have higher expectations than the boys – don’t like fetching and carrying. I have hopes for Liam. He’s my brother-in-law’s sister’s son, if you follow. His father’s one of the clerks at twenty Essex Street.’

‘Ah, so it’s in the blood,’ smiled Leo.

‘So to speak, sir. So to speak.’ Henry reached out to pick up the phone which had just begun to ring.

Leo resumed his conversation with Anthony. ‘Yes, so – as I was saying, Jamie’s getting divorced, and over a very boozy dinner on Friday night he persuaded me to accompany him to Antibes, to say farewell to his beloved yacht and help him drown his sorrows. The result was …’ Leo winced.

‘What?’

‘That I drank far too much pastis, and finished up becoming the owner of a thirty-six-foot yacht.’

‘You bought it?’ laughed Anthony. ‘Do you know anything about sailing?’

‘It’s not that kind of yacht, thank God. It’s a motor yacht.’

‘I imagine there’s still a lot to learn. Engine maintenance, handling, that kind of thing.’

‘I know, I know.’ Leo rubbed his face. ‘Jamie says I’ll have to go on some kind of course. But not yet. My new toy will be sitting in its berth for the next few months, with some chap called Philippe keeping an eye on it, till I feel like taking an interest.’ He glanced at Anthony. ‘I know what you’re thinking. More money than sense.’

‘I wasn’t thinking that at all. A boat sounds like fun.’

‘Depends how much time I manage to spend down there. But I have plans in that direction. Ah, coffee!’

Liam had returned with a large tray and several mugs. He set it down, checked his list, and began to hand them round.

‘Thank you, Liam,’ said Felicity. She opened a paper bag which had been sitting on her desk, and took out a large muffin, intercepting Anthony’s glance as she did so.

‘Get your eyes off my muffin, Mr Cross. You’re not having any.’

‘I was just wondering how you eat stuff like that and still keep your gorgeous figure.’

‘I believe that remark may constitute sexual harassment,’ observed Leo. ‘I’ll be happy to represent you, Felicity, if you decide to sue.’

Robert guffawed as he stirred his coffee with a pencil.

‘It’s blueberry,’ said Felicity through a mouthful of muffin, ‘so it counts as part of my five-a-day.’

Leo picked up his coffee, saying to Anthony, ‘I’ve got a copy of the judgment in that inducement of breach of contract case, if you care to have a look at it.’

They left the clerks’ room and went upstairs.

‘Guess who I met today,’ said Anthony.

‘Someone amusing, I hope,’ said Leo. He unlocked his door and they went in.

‘That depends on your point of view. Sarah Colman.’

‘Well, well. There’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time.’ Leo set down his coffee and letters on the desk and hung up his coat. ‘What’s she up to these days?’

‘She’s working as a broker for Portman’s, and – get this – she’s engaged. To an investment banker. Toby something. Didn’t recognise the name. She seemed pretty pleased with herself generally.’

‘Dear Sarah.’ Leo sat down at his desk. ‘God, she was trouble.’

‘I pity the poor bloke she’s going to marry.’

‘I rather envy him.’

‘You can’t possibly mean that.’

‘Possibly not the marrying part. But she’s a most …’ Leo searched for the word. ‘A most stimulating girl. Extraordinarily sexy. And very inventive.’

‘You seem to be forgetting she’s also a prize bitch.’

‘So many of the most interesting women are, Anthony.’ He gave the younger man a searching glance. ‘I take it from the look on your face that she managed to ruffle your feathers in some way. You and she had a bit of a thing once, didn’t you?’

‘I’d rather forget about that.’

‘She’s not that easy to forget. Mind you, I haven’t seen her in – what? Four years.’ Leo sighed, then opened a desk drawer and began to thumb through some documents. He produced a slim bundle and handed it to Anthony. ‘See what you make of that. Mr Justice Dawson’s idea of tortious inducement of a breach of contract doesn’t exactly accord with mine. I seriously question the intelligence of some of the judges in the commercial division. One can only hope it’ll be overturned on appeal.’

‘I’ll have a read of it. Thanks.’

As Anthony reached the door, Leo asked, ‘Did Sarah say when she’s getting married?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason. I was just curious. See you.’

When Anthony had gone, Leo leant back in his chair, swung his feet onto the desk, and thought back to the summer when Sarah had first come into his life, a delectable twenty-year-old with a precocious sexual appetite and a penchant for risk-taking. He’d employed her in his country house near Oxford, together with some attractive young man whose name Leo could no longer remember, to cook, look after the house, and generally service his domestic and sexual requirements. Quite a summer. It all seemed long ago and far away now. Sarah had been fun, the kind of girl whose very smile encouraged complete dereliction of all responsibility, but the attributes which had made her such a perfect playmate had in the long run turned into liabilities. Her predilection for mischief-making, combined with a tendency to serve strictly her own interests, had put him in more than a few tricky spots. Still, nice to hear she was still around. She had been one of the few people to get under his skin, to get close to understanding him. Perhaps they were two of a kind – not an especially flattering thought. Dear, devious Sarah. Perhaps love and marriage would wreak some kind of miraculous change in her. Somehow he doubted it.

CHAPTER THREE

The following Sunday Sarah was sitting in the drawing room in Toby’s parents’ house in Surrey after a late lunch, listening to her prospective mother-in-law’s interminable chatter, and wondering if the dreary day would ever end.

‘The trouble with a July wedding, or August come to that, is that so many people go away on holiday, don’t they? It seems everyone tends to book well ahead these days.’ Caroline Kittering poured coffee from the cafetière into tiny bone china coffee cups. ‘Toby, be a dear and pass that to Sarah.’ She looked enquiringly at her husband. ‘Jon-Jon?’ Dr Kittering roused himself from his reverie and took his coffee, and Caroline went on, ‘A summer wedding is by far the nicest, I always think, because there’s less chance of the weather letting one down. Though nothing’s guaranteed, is it? You remember your cousin Camilla’s wedding last June, don’t you, Toby? The weather was perfect all week, then on the day it absolutely bucketed down, and everyone had to huddle in the marquee instead of having drinks on the lawn as planned, and all the guests who had parked in the paddock were stuck in the mud, and Mervyn had to get duckboards, or whatever they call them, to get people out. They even had to use the local farmer’s tractor …’

Sarah wound a strand of blonde hair round one finger, indulging in a fantasy which involved kicking Caroline’s chair over and stuffing a napkin into her busy mouth as she lay flapping on the Axminster. Dear God, would the woman never shut up? Letting Toby’s parents get involved in the wedding plans had been a huge mistake, but there was no going back now. Jonathan Kittering was her father’s oldest friend, and the Kitterings had been over the moon when she and Toby had announced their engagement. It had been Caroline Kittering’s idea to help with the wedding arrangements, since Sarah’s mother was dead, and Sarah’s father had agreed to it before Sarah could say anything. So here they were, spending the weekend at the Kittering’s house near Egham, and talking about absolutely nothing but the bloody wedding.

She glanced sideways at Toby, and he slipped her a wink. She felt a small surge of affection, but it ebbed quickly away. Looking ahead to her married life, she saw a pageant of ritual visits stretching ahead. Sunday lunches. Christmases, dreary hours spent listening to Caroline Kittering – Wittering, more like – trying to animate her existence with endless talk about people and events, while Toby’s father, the retired paediatric consultant, sat in a postprandial glaze of boredom and inertia, and the late afternoon light faded over the Surrey countryside, and the years passed by. She felt overwhelmed by a sense of claustrophobia. She couldn’t wait to be out of here and heading up the M25 in Toby’s Porsche towards London and real life.

‘So perhaps June is the best month. Or maybe even May? What do you two think?’

Sarah realised that Caroline was asking her a direct question, and roused herself. ‘Well, Toby and I haven’t really discussed it yet.’ She turned to look at Toby.

‘No,’ agreed Toby. ‘We’ll have to give it some thought. Though those are probably the best months.’

Caroline sipped her coffee. She was a small woman, with a very downy face, bright, questing eyes, and a dumpy, pear-shaped figure. Sarah, who found it hard to believe that such a short woman could have such an enormous arse, couldn’t help worrying about the genes. What if she had a child with a backside that big? A tiny baby with an outsize bottom, straining its nappy the way Caroline Kittering’s buttocks strained the fabric of her Country Casuals skirt. She’d just have to hope that any children they had took after Toby and his father, who were both tall and more or less conventionally shaped.

‘Well, you’ll have to get your skates on,’ said Caroline. ‘Not long till November, and next year will be on us before we know it. Lots to do! If we’re going to have the wedding here we’ll have to start thinking about a marquee, and booking the church.’ She turned to Toby’s father. ‘Jon-Jon, it might be an idea if you had a word with the vicar. St Luke’s gets very booked up.’

Christ, thought Sarah, a six-month run-up, and it could only get worse as the detail kicked in. To say nothing of post-wedding fallout. Camcorder footage, photo albums, fond reminiscence. She hadn’t realised how oppressive being drawn into the bosom of Toby’s loving family would be. Her own experience of family life, as an only child, had been quite different, everyone casually and fleetingly affectionate, but operating largely in their own separate spheres. Even before her mother had died when Sarah was fifteen, family intimacy had never been on this intense, need-to-know-and-interfere basis. How did Toby stand it? Perhaps with two sisters and a brother the effect was diluted.

Then again, maybe there were worse things than marrying into a boring family. The in-laws of a recently married friend of Sarah’s had turned out to be as mad as a box of frogs. The wedding had been hilariously awful, with family rows and drunken, spiteful speeches. At least Caroline and Jon-Jon were safe and reliable. Perhaps she would come to find something reassuring in their dreary conventionality, their nice house, their nice neighbours, and their fearful self-satisfaction. The countrified middle classes hanging on by their fingertips to a disappearing way of life in the face of collapsing banks, terrorist threats, the disappearance of rural post offices, socially engineered universities, imploding property prices and The Third Runway.

Toby glanced at his watch, and Sarah’s heart rose. ‘I think,’ said Toby, setting down his coffee cup, ‘that we’d better be making a move. I need to get back to town before five.’

‘Don’t you want to stay and watch the rugby?’ asked his father. ‘Wales versus France.’

‘Not this time, Dad. Sorry.’

Not this time, thought Sarah. That implied another time. Another time when Toby and his father would settle down in front of the HD telly for an afternoon of sport, while she helped Caroline with the pots and pans, listening to Caroline talk, and watching Caroline’s monumental bum rolling around the kitchen. Maybe she should develop a fierce devotion to rugby. It couldn’t be hard. Look at the people who played and watched it. Certainly no worse than cricket. Then she could book her place on the sofa with the boys. Somehow she couldn’t see Caroline letting that happen. Traditional gender roles seemed pretty clearly defined and respected in the Kittering household.

Toby got up and stretched, fishing for his car keys. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with light-brown hair, and a face that was handsome without being remarkable, the product of solid middle-class nurturing and a public school education, with his upper 2:1 in economics from Warwick, and his job in the City. His intelligence, shaped and sustained by the narrow values of his family and social class, was of the unquestioning variety. He was able to believe in the value of the work he did each day at Graffman Spiers Investment Bank because of the calibre of the people he worked with and for. They were chaps like him, and he trusted them. He trusted everyone up the ladder. He believed in the world of finance and its value to humanity. He found the present banking crisis unnerving but exciting, regarded the dire events unfolding daily around him as a test of everyone’s mettle, and not evidence of their ineptitude, and had unshakeable belief in the ability of the banks and the markets to triumph ultimately, and to restore order. Although at dinner parties and among work colleagues Toby mouthed orthodox criticisms of the government of the day, and articulate mild contempt for certain figures in the Treasury, like so many of his kind he possessed a deep-rooted, almost childlike faith in the infallibility of the British establishment. He had grown up in a Britain where certain aspects of life seemed reassuringly enduring – the chime of Big Ben on the six o’clock news, The Archers Sunday omnibus, the Boat Race, the Post Office, the Queen’s smile, the apparent indestructibility of The Rolling Stones, hold-ups on the M25 – and knew that although that world might be buffeted and rocked by squalls, by political upheavals and economic crises, these adversities were themselves part of the stoutly woven tapestry of British life, just like the Blitz, or the Chartist riots; there to be overcome. This lack of doubt gave Toby a cheerful solidity which was reassuring to others. Just looking at him made Sarah feel warm and safe. She glanced at Dr Kittering as he rose stiffly from the sofa, no longer young, energetic and broad-shouldered, but containing the ghost of the young man he had once been, and could imagine Toby morphing into his father as the years rolled by.

‘Can we help to clear up?’ asked Sarah, hoping Caroline would take this offer in the perfunctory spirit in which it was intended.

‘No, no. You two get back to London before it gets dark,’ said Caroline, extricating herself from her armchair. ‘It was lovely to see you both.’

As they emerged into the hall, Scooby, the Kittering’s West Highland terrier, came tearing from his bed in the kitchen and sprang around excitedly. Hoping the Kitterings wouldn’t notice, Sarah gave Scooby a furtive kick. She hated dogs bouncing around and snuffling at her crotch. Then she smiled and kissed her in-laws goodbye, stooping to peck the air next to Caroline’s furry cheeks, and enduring wet, leathery lip contact from Jon-Jon. Either he hadn’t learnt the art of air-kissing or he was being a bit of a lech. The latter, she suspected.

‘Tell your father I look forward to seeing him at the Beefsteak next Friday,’ Dr Kittering reminded Sarah.

‘I will. Thank you for lunch. It was such fun.’ She and Toby crunched across the gravel driveway to the car, and Sarah held her smile in place as she waved goodbye, only letting it fade when they reached the main road.

Caroline and Jonathan waved the Porsche out of sight, then went back inside.

‘Lovely girl,’ said Jonathan. ‘Heard a lot about her down the years from Vivian, but never knew her. Astonishing, the two of them getting together like that. The world is smaller than we think.’

‘Did you see the way she kicked Scooby?’ said Caroline.

‘I’m sure you must have imagined it. I didn’t see it.’ Jonathan closed the front door. ‘Maybe she isn’t fond of dogs,’ he added, and disappeared into the living room to watch the rugby.

Caroline went to the kitchen and began clearing up. Not being fond of dogs told you a lot about a person. She wanted to like Sarah, for Toby’s sake, but she certainly wasn’t the kind of girl she had envisaged Toby marrying, and didn’t look like shaping up to become the affectionate, respectful daughter-in-law she had hoped for.

Sarah slumped thankfully in her car seat and switched on the CD player.

Toby smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry to drag you away. I could tell you and Mum were just getting settled in for a good old chat about the wedding.’ Sarah glanced at Toby. He was a sweet man, but his social radar wasn’t terribly acute. ‘The thing is, I need to go into the office.’

‘On a Sunday night? Why?’

Toby’s good-humoured face tensed slightly. He maintained his smile, but the dark V of a frown appeared between his eyes. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of the biggest financial shit-storm for some decades.’

Sarah felt a tingle of alarm. ‘But Graffman’s is OK, surely?’ Toby had worked for Graffman Spiers for seven years, and the job had given him his Docklands penthouse flat, his Porsche, his six-figure yearly bonus and, if Sarah was being perfectly honest, much of his appeal.

‘There’s some serious firefighting to be done. I got a text from my boss just before lunch, but I didn’t want to mention it in case the old dear got in a panic.’

‘Your job’s safe, isn’t it?’

Toby shrugged. His face gave nothing away. ‘Safe isn’t one of those words you hear a lot around the CDS department.’

‘CDS?’

‘Credit derivative swaps. They’re trading instruments.’ He glanced at her and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t look so worried. It isn’t global meltdown. Anyway, we’ve got each other, and that’s what counts.’

Toby dropped Sarah at her Kensington flat, and sped off to Canary Wharf. Sarah wandered into the living room, sat down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes, welcoming the solitude. She’d decided to live alone after three years of sharing with her friend Louise – a lovely girl, but definitely a touch OCD on the tidying and cleaning front – and had fallen in love with this place from the beginning. It wasn’t large, just a one-bedroomed garden flat off Onslow Square, but Sarah adored it, even if the rent was on the high side. It had beautiful hardwood floors and an odd vaulted glass roof over the passageway to the kitchen, which itself was a small, tasteful miracle of well-used space.