The Pupil (8 page)

‘Drink?’ she asked.

‘Please. D’you have a beer?’ Lizzie said she would go and look in the fridge. She came back with a can of low-alcohol lager, which Anthony accepted, not wishing to appear rude. Girls’ flats were like that, he thought. He sat down at the end of a long, enormously plump sofa and gazed round the room. It was the kind of room that Anthony associated
with other people’s parents, not the kind of place that twenty-two-year-olds lived in. Lizzie followed his glance.

‘Nice flat, isn’t it?’ she said, with her slow smile. ‘It’s my mother’s. She and my stepfather have gone to Brazil, so she’s let me have it for a year.’ Anthony murmured that it was very nice indeed, gazing at the bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, and the long, expensive curtains and deep carpets. They talked in a hesitant fashion, with long silences, of their respective jobs, and then Lizzie excused herself and wandered out to the kitchen.

Although Anthony thought that he remembered Julia quite well from the last time he had seen her, the reality of her when she entered the room stopped his heart. Everything about her, the blonde hair, the grey eyes and slender body, seemed suddenly intensely vivid and fresh. She was wearing grey jeans and some sort of blue top, low cut and in a soft, silken material; and some jewellery – Anthony was too dazzled to notice what.

‘Let’s have a drink before we go,’ she was saying to him. ‘What on earth has Lizzie given you?’ She picked up the can of Kaliber and made a disgusted little face. ‘Have a proper drink,’ she said, pouring him a gin and tonic. Anthony didn’t really like gin and tonic either. Julia’s voice sounded casual, but she, too, was nervous. She, too, had forgotten quite what Anthony looked like, and how attractive his dark, clear-cut features and deep eyes were. She handed him his drink and they sat down.

The imposing surroundings, the altogether grown-up nature of the flat and its furnishings, put a constraint upon
them that they would not have felt in a more cheerful, untidy setting. This room called for low voices and discreet movements. Their conversation was almost as stilted as Anthony’s and Lizzie’s had been.

Julia glanced at her watch and drained the contents of her glass. ‘We’d better go,’ she said, rising. ‘I booked the table for eight-thirty.’ Anthony had scarcely touched his drink; he looked around and set it down gingerly on a small, polished table. His spirits were somewhat dampened. He felt quite remote from this lovely creature; he couldn’t believe that they had ever kissed, that his body had ever been pressed close to hers. The idea of such intimacy was almost embarrassing. She was probably regretting the whole evening, he thought.

They made their way downstairs and out into the bitter January air.

‘Where’s your car?’ asked Julia.

‘I haven’t got one,’ replied Anthony, startled. Each looked at the other in surprise.

‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

‘Well, I got the train and the tube,’ said Anthony. How did she think he’d got here?

‘How awful for you,’ said Julia, and they walked on. ‘Well, it’s not too far, so I suppose we can walk. Unless we see a taxi. It’s a new French place, La Poubelle. Lizzie’s boss says it’s really good.’

Anthony hoped they wouldn’t find a taxi, and reflected that if it was the kind of place Lizzie’s boss went to, it would probably cost an arm and a leg. When they got there, Anthony saw, with a sinking heart, that his surmise had been 
correct. The restaurant was small and smart, decorated in pastel green with dark wooden chairs and tables, and was very full. When they were seated and Anthony looked at the menu, he saw a few figures in the region of four or five pounds. Maybe it wasn’t going to be too bad, after all. Then he realised that those were the starters. He looked up and his eyes met Julia’s. She smiled at him, her gentlest, most private smile, and suddenly he didn’t care. He didn’t care how much it cost or whether he had to starve for the rest of term. He was having dinner with Julia, and she looked glad to be there.

With the wine and the cheerful surroundings, they became more relaxed. The conversation was easy, general, and then, as the evening lengthened, grew more personal. Anthony told her about his father, which she seemed to find far more amusing than he did.

‘He sounds much more fun than my father,’ mused Julia, twisting the stem of her wine glass. ‘Fun’ wasn’t exactly the word he would have used about Chay, reflected Anthony.

‘My father’s deadly dull,’ she went on. ‘An old sweetie, but quite deadly. He’s the chairman of a pharmaceuticals company. Can you imagine anything more stultifying than that?’

Anthony, at that moment, was studying the bill with care. ‘Did we have salads? I mean, did we both have salads?’

‘God, I don’t know. Does it matter? Let’s just pay it and go,’ replied Julia cheerfully. She stretched across the small table to peer at the bill in Anthony’s hand; the movement pressed her small breasts together as she leant forward,
and Anthony was shot with a sudden longing to slip his hand into the top of her blouse and caress her breast.

‘You’re right,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Let’s pay it and go.’

Outside, they had walked no more than ten yards down the street when Anthony found himself kissing her. He wasn’t quite sure whose idea it had been, but he supposed that it had been on both their minds for some time. Someone walking past bumped against them, and they parted regretfully and walked on.

‘Would you like to come back for coffee? Or there’s some brandy that Lizzie’s brother brought back from Greece. Metaxa. Just the thing for a January night.’

They walked back in silence.

In the flat, the dignified, grown-up hush intimidated Anthony once again. Julia brought the brandy in crystal glasses, and he wished that they were paper cups. But when she switched all the lights off in the room except one small lamp, and came and curled up in his lap on the sofa, the imposing shades retreated, and all that existed for him were Julia’s warmth and loveliness.

After a long time, Julia opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Would you like to see my etchings?’ she whispered.

‘What?’ he whispered back. She laughed and pulled him to his feet. He followed her down the corridor to her room; he could hear the sound of Lizzie’s radio, and Lizzie moving about in her bedroom.

‘Fortunately, she’s miles away from my room,’ said Julia. Certainly the flat seemed to Anthony to be very large and the passage very long. Julia turned the handle of her door
and Anthony went in with her. He wasn’t quite sure what he felt; terrified, slightly drunk, completely in love.

‘Julia,’ he said quietly. He couldn’t see her in the darkness.

‘What?’

‘Where are you?’ They both giggled stupidly. She put her arms around his neck.

‘Here.’

His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. She stopped kissing him and moved across the room. He stood uncertainly, and then a glimpse of the long, pale loveliness of her legs told him that she was undressing. The white glow of her skin in the darkness seemed to be the most tantalising, sexy thing he had ever seen. With shaking fingers he undressed, found the bed, and slid beneath the sheets to encounter her soft, slim nakedness.

‘God, you are the loveliest thing I ever saw,’ he breathed, pulling her towards him. ‘Ever, ever.’

‘You can’t see me,’ she said softly, shivering, and laughed.

‘Oh, yes, I can,’ he said fiercely, and began to kiss her.

In the flat in Leytonstone, Bridget put down her copy of
Riders
and glanced at the alarm clock. Two-thirty. It must be an awfully good dinner party, she thought.

When Anthony got back to Bridget’s the next morning, it was ten o’clock, and she was standing in the kitchen in her candlewick dressing gown, waiting for the kettle to boil. He came into the kitchen and sat down, feeling oddly detached, his mind frayed by tiredness and guilt.

Bridget said nothing, did not even turn round. He watched her pour boiling water onto a teabag in a mug. The atmosphere was unexpectedly restrained; he had anticipated anger, perhaps tears, but instead all she said was, ‘Would you like a cup?’

‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘No, thank you.’ He felt suddenly irritated by the quiet dignity of her voice, by her evident intention neither to rebuke nor accuse. He wished she would.

He stared vacantly at Bridget’s collection of little porcelain pigs standing in a row on the window sill. She brought her tea over to the table and sat down.

He realised that he must say something now, immediately, and rubbed his hands over his face in weariness and apprehension. Then he looked at her, at her compressed, unhappy mouth, at her brown eyes staring at her tea, at her unbrushed hair. The sense of elation, of bubbling happiness at his new-found love, which he had carried with him ever since leaving Julia’s, seemed far away, belonging to some other world.

‘Bridget, listen—’ he began, then paused. She looked up at him, dumb appeal in her eyes, the expression of a trapped animal. She knows what I’m going to say, he thought. ‘I really can’t stay here any longer, you know.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘For a start, I can’t afford to pay you anything by way of rent. And you need the money. You need someone who can pay you properly.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’ He looked at her, momentarily thrown.

‘You said, “for a start”. What’s the rest? What’s the real reason?’

‘Oh.’

‘You didn’t have dinner with your pupilmaster last night, did you?’

He looked down again, not wishing to see the tears whose beginnings trembled in her voice. ‘No,’ he said, with gentle finality. ‘No, I didn’t.’ He had to look up at her then, and wished there was some kinder, less honest way of saying it. ‘I’ve met someone else.’

There was silence for a moment as he waited for her to speak. But she said nothing, merely stared at the table. He hesitated, then got up and went through to start putting his things together, while she sat mutely, her hands round her mug of untasted tea, wishing it was any day but Sunday.

Sir Basil gazed sternly at the papers spread on his desk before him. This was not good, not good at all. For the first time since Edward had joined 5 Caper Court, Sir Basil felt faint misgivings. The work that he had given Edward to do had not been particularly complex, but it had to be admitted that the results which he saw before him were not up to standard. He uncapped his fountain pen, deleted a line of Edward’s untidy writing, and began to write above it in his own meticulous hand. After a moment he sighed, and put down his pen. There was no point. The thing was too bad to be repaired. He would simply have to start all over again.

He gathered the papers together and descended to Jeremy Vane’s room. Jeremy was bent over his work.

‘Edward not here?’ said Sir Basil darkly, his glance directed at Edward’s empty chair. Jeremy looked blank, still lost in the fog of his own concentration.

‘No.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No, I think he’s gone to the common room to have some coffee.’

‘At ten in the morning?’

Jeremy wondered for a moment what all this was about. Sir Basil closed the door and approached Jeremy’s desk.

‘I gave this work to Edward to do, and the thing he has produced is useless. Useless,’ repeated Sir Basil crossly. ‘Boy doesn’t know the difference between waiver and estoppel.’ He frowned at the carpet before speaking again. ‘How do you find him?’ he asked Jeremy.

‘Oh, well,’ began Jeremy uncertainly, ‘he seems quite bright.’ Jeremy had scarcely any idea of Edward’s ability, since he had hardly taxed it himself. ‘One’s always a bit rusty to start with.’

‘Hmm. True, I suppose.’ Sir Basil sighed. ‘Tell Edward to come and see me when he gets back, would you?’

Edward received the summons with a quaking heart. He had had those papers of his uncle’s for five days, and he’d only got round to them yesterday afternoon. He knew the results were dreadful, but he rather hoped that Sir Basil would be too busy with the rest of the case to care. Even though Sir Basil was his uncle, Edward was not looking forward to this interview. In business, Sir Basil was all business.

It felt exactly like being back in the headmaster’s study, thought Edward, as he entered his uncle’s room. The air was heavy and foreboding, and the distance from the door to his uncle’s desk seemed very great. Sir Basil looked at Edward over the tops of his spectacles as he came in.

‘Sit down, Edward.’ He smiled – only a small, not very encouraging smile, but a smile nonetheless. Edward
sat down and, as he did so, decided to take the initiative.

‘I’ve been meaning to come and see you about that work I did for you, Uncle Basil,’ he said, with a sheepish smile.

‘Oh?’ Sir Basil was taken slightly off guard. ‘Yes, well.’ He looked sternly at Edward. ‘I have to say that it is not what I would have expected, Edward.’

‘The truth of it is, I didn’t manage to get round to the papers until yesterday – Jeremy’s kept me pretty busy, you know – and I admit I rather rushed them. There are one or two points I’ve been thinking about that I’d really like to go over again. I don’t think I got them quite straight, you know.’

‘Mmm. Like the difference between waiver and estoppel, I suppose.’

Edward laughed lightly. ‘Well, quite,’ he said. ‘I feel perfectly stupid about that.’

‘As well you might,’ retorted Sir Basil. ‘It’s a fundamental point.’ But he was relenting. Obviously the boy had just gone slapdash at this. If he’d taken his time and tackled it properly, it probably would have been perfectly respectable. He handed the papers back to Edward.

‘Here – you can give it another try. But don’t bring me second-rate work again. If Jeremy’s keeping you too busy for you to apply yourself properly to other work, then for heaven’s sake say so.’

‘Righto!’ said Edward, getting up to go.

‘Edward,’ said Sir Basil, as his nephew reached the door.

‘Yes?’ Edward really hoped that his uncle wasn’t going to discuss the finer points of those papers with him now.

‘Edward, you know that your parents and I hope that
you will be able to make a career for yourself at 5 Caper Court, in due course.’ There was a pause. Edward, uncertain at first whether this was a question or an observation, saw that some sort of a reply was needed.

‘Well, yes, of course – I hope so, too.’ He hadn’t really given the matter much thought, of late.

‘Because,’ continued Sir Basil, with thoughtful deliberation, ‘you must remember that Anthony Cross is also a pupil here. No doubt he is as keen as you are to make a good start.’ Sir Basil had not changed in his attitude towards Anthony since their conversation on the evening of the Christmas party. As far as he was concerned, Edward would be the next tenant. But perhaps a sense of rivalry with Cross might give Edward the impetus to work a little harder and so quell any doubts that other members of chambers might have.

‘Anthony?’ said Edward, with some surprise. It hadn’t occurred to Edward that Anthony was a serious rival. Sir Basil gazed at Edward, wondering what effect his words were having.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘the matter does not rest entirely with me. So you must make sure that you take care to display your talents to their fullest advantage. I do not think I need say any more.’

Edward nodded. He knew that his uncle was only trying to needle him into doing a bit more work, and he didn’t feel unduly concerned. Still, it was interesting to know that Anthony thought he might stand a chance at a tenancy.

‘Right. Yes. I’ll remember that,’ said Edward, and hurried off.

That evening, Anthony was sitting waiting for Julia in the common room, gloomily reflecting on the state of his finances, when Edward accosted him.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I had my uncle going on at me this morning. He says you’re keen to get a tenancy at Caper Court.’

Anthony looked at him, startled; outspokenness had always been one of Edward’s qualities. For a moment, Anthony was lost for words.

‘Well,’ he replied slowly, ‘I suppose I’d always had hopes, but your uncle’s given me the idea that you’ll be staying on.’ He glanced uncomfortably at Edward. ‘I don’t really feel like talking about this, you know,’ he added.

‘No, well,’ sighed Edward, picking up a copy of the
Evening Standard
from a table. ‘It’s all a bit of a bore. I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to work that hard.’ His eyes scanned the sports pages. He seemed to be prepared to let the subject drop. Anthony watched him for a few moments, wondering what was to be made of all this.

‘On the other hand,’ Edward suddenly said, brightening, ‘you can earn a fortune, can’t you? Look at Roderick Hayter – what a life.’ He glanced at the paper again. ‘I don’t fancy England’s chances against France, do you?’

‘No, not really,’ said Anthony blankly. He was perplexed. ‘The thing is,’ said Anthony at last, ‘if you’ve really made up your mind that you do want to stay on, you might tell me, so that I can try and get fixed up somewhere else.’ It had cost Anthony much to say this, to confront his own worst fears openly and bluntly.

‘Oh, good Lord,’ said Edward, folding up the paper and
putting it back, ‘I would if I were you. See what else is open, I mean. Everyone needs some sort of insurance.’ And with that, he announced that he was off to the bar.

Anthony sat there, thinking. The only real hope he had had since his conversation with Sir Basil was that Edward might not really want to stay on after his pupillage. Now that hope seemed to have been dashed. He sighed. It was time, he thought, to have a talk with Michael. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were other chambers; Sir Basil had mentioned 3 Dover Court – they were a decent enough set. But they weren’t the best.

Anthony decided that he didn’t want to think about it any more. Over the last two months since Christmas he had been trying to accustom himself to the idea of going to some other chambers. After what Edward had said, it simply wasn’t worth brooding over. More worthy of his attention was Julia, and the recent drain on his expenses. At first, the delightful discovery of how much they enjoyed being in bed together had put matters on a fairly economical footing. They spent long, happy hours in Julia’s flat. When they weren’t in bed they cooked messy meals and drank cheap wine, and spent weekends talking and finding out about one another. In short, they were immersed in the peculiar delights of a love affair’s early stages, and needed little beyond themselves to make life amusing.

But the realities of everyday life intruded further and further, and gradually matters fell back into proportion. Julia was naturally gregarious, and needed to enjoy the company of others besides Anthony. She wanted to see her friends more often, and when she looked through the pages
of
Time Out
it struck her that there were quite a few good films and plays that it would be nice to see on Saturday nights before going to bed with Anthony.

So she had begun to take Anthony to dinner and drinks parties, and he slowly became established with Julia’s crowd. They were friendly, silly, spoilt young people from well-to-do, middle-class families; most of them had been to public school, and all of them worked either in the City or in the media. They struck Anthony as immensely confident, careless creatures – but then, he supposed, if he had a decent income, or any income at all, maybe he would behave with their ease and arrogance. He watched Julia with them. She sparkled, she spoke their nonsense, she shared their blank disregard for anyone who wasn’t of their class or kind. At such times Anthony felt that she was a million miles away from him, but he loved her, wanted her so passionately that he sought to become part of these people. To a large extent, he succeeded. He was naturally friendly, and he found it easy to adopt their manners and jokes, and to enjoy their company. But in his heart, he felt as though he belonged to another race. He was unsure of what he was, or where he fitted in. These people were utterly without doubts.

That which he had known from the outset became increasingly evident – that the gulf that separated him from Julia’s world was money, or rather, the lack of it. Not that Julia and her friends had limitless private incomes – most of them relied on what they earned, with a little back-up from home. But in small things, Anthony felt the distinction very deeply. They had, or shared, their own flats, while he still lived with his mother. Some of them had cars, and those
that didn’t thought nothing of taking taxis wherever they went. For Anthony, considerations such as the expense of a taxi compared to the cost of a bus fare weighed heavily with him, and he resented it.

A recent outing to a restaurant in Walton Street with several of Julia’s friends had consumed the remainder of Anthony’s scholarship money with three weeks to go until the end of term. Now he sat in the common room fingering the three pounds fifty that he had left in change.

Depressed as he was, the sight of Julia never failed to lift his spirits. That evening she swept into the common room, bringing gusts of cold March air, a great scarf wound round her neck, hiding her mouth. She pulled it down and smiled at Anthony.

‘Guess what? We have tickets to the opera on Friday! Anthea’s mother got six, and she doesn’t want the other four. Only twenty pounds each, but they’re really good seats. It’ll be brilliant fun. Have you been before? We can order smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of wine in the bar beforehand. You’ve got to wear your swankiest gear. I don’t really like opera, but it’s a pretty flash night out. What do you think?’

Anthony groaned.

‘Julia, I have exactly three pounds fifty left in the world. I’m going to have to borrow from my mother for the rest of term.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Julia, unwinding her scarf and unbuttoning her coat. She and her friends were accustomed to bemoaning their lack of money. It didn’t mean a thing. There was always money to be found from somewhere.
‘You can always borrow the twenty pounds from your mother, in that case. Or cash a cheque. Now, where are we going this evening?’

‘Nowhere,’ said Anthony shortly. Sometimes Julia’s blithe disregard for money exasperated him. ‘I told you. I’m skint.’

‘Well, who isn’t? But surely we can stretch to a steak and a bottle of wine?’ Anthony sighed and gazed longingly at her lovely face.

‘When I say skint, I mean it,’ he replied patiently. ‘Completely boracic. No money.’

Julia was annoyed. It wasn’t Anthony’s fault that he didn’t have any money, but it was becoming tiresome.

‘Does that mean that you can’t come to the opera on Friday?’

‘It certainly does,’ said Anthony. She sulked for a moment.

‘Well, look, I really want to go,’ she said pleadingly. ‘Would you mind if I gave the ticket to someone else? I can always see you on Saturday.’

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said, minding like hell. It was the first time that his lack of money had prevented him from spending an evening with her; this was probably just the beginning. ‘Who will you give it to?’ he asked.

‘Oh – I don’t know. Anyone who can rustle up twenty pounds, I suppose. Piers, maybe. He loves Mozart.’

I’ll bet he does, thought Anthony. They had seen a lot of Piers Hunt-Thompson lately, far too much for Anthony’s liking. He was an extremely tall young man, with an ebullient, cynical sense of humour and a good deal of
money. Although he did not possess Anthony’s good looks, he had a certain arrogant charm, and Julia often found his amusing conversation a relief from Anthony’s worries over money and his future. Piers had no such fears, being already two years into a promising criminal practice. He possessed one additional attraction – he was in love, extrovertly and good-humouredly, with Julia. This made him an almost irresistible companion, particularly since the acknowledged fact of having Anthony as her boyfriend prevented Julia from having to put up with any serious nonsense from Piers.

Anthony was stung with jealousy at the thought of Piers having Julia to himself for a whole evening. He was more Julia’s type; she would probably start to prefer his company if she spent too much time with him. The thought of losing Julia was the bleakest prospect he could imagine; worse, even, than losing the tenancy at Caper Court. And there was that problem, too. For a moment he was about to unburden himself and tell Julia of his conversation with Edward. But he knew that she was not in the mood; much as she cared for him, Julia wanted mainly to have fun, not to be faced with other people’s anxieties. And now she would be having fun with Piers on Friday night. He was determined not to let it happen. Twenty pounds wasn’t a lot of money. He would think of some way of raising it. With this thought on his mind, he told Julia that he had work to do at home. Sulkily, she sloped off to the bar; Anthony hoped she wouldn’t find Piers there.