Errors of Judgment
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.