Page 13 of A Class Act

‘Was in the area, so thought I’d grab a beer and see what was on the agenda. Mum and Dad not back, then, I see?’

‘No, not until this evening. I’ve been here all weekend to dog-sit.’

‘And other things as well, by the look of it.’ The man glanced in my direction and then, taking a bite of his sandwich, nodded at me.

‘Robyn, this is Julius, my brother. Julius, Robyn.’

There came another nod, followed by a full-frontal appraising examination as Julius looked me up and down and then proceeded to undress me with his eyes, while continuing to make his way stolidly through the sandwich. ‘Where’s Jemima?’ he finally asked, turning back to Fabian as he swallowed and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. ‘Thoughtshewas the one looking after the damned dog.’

‘Had to fly off to Copenhagen. Some trouble brewing there – in-house politics of some sort.’

‘Well, that’s what happens when you abandon the family profession and go off in a different direction. Always said there’d be trouble there.’

‘Right,’ Fabian said, ignoring Julius and picking up a large black bulging briefcase, a navy sweater and his car keys. ‘We’re off. If you leave before Mum and Dad are back, make sure you put Boris back in his crate in the utility, with plenty of water.’

‘I’ll just nip to the loo, if I may?’ I smiled across at Fabian. Not having wanted to squat down behind a tree on the riverbank, I was at the crossing-my-legs stage of wanting to pee.

‘First door on the left.’ Fabian smiled back at me, but he appeared tense.

I left the two of them to it and headed out of the door. I could have stayed in that downstairs cloakroom for ever. A looand huge white basin dominated a room bigger than my entire bedroom in Soho, the walls filled with family photographs, surfaces sporting Jo Malone candles and diffusers, as well as towering piles of folded and rolled white and navy soft fluffy towels. Behind me, an open Fortnum & Mason wicker basket held croquet paraphernalia, while a plethora of expensive-looking tennis racquets stood idly against the wall by the door.

I smiled at my reflection in the huge mirror, fancying myself ensconced in a copy ofIdeal Homemagazine. As I washed my hands, I perused the myriad wooden-framed photographs of Eton where hundreds of boys, frozen in time behind the glass protection, grinned down at me. Where was Fabian? I wondered. I spotted him almost instantly, a boy of thirteen or so, sitting cross-legged in front of a row of unsmiling staff, his dark hair flopping onto his starched stiff white collar, his large eyes as captivatingly magnetic and enticing then as now, twenty years or so on.

I spent a long time taking in the tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed image of a much younger Roland Carrington, the current Lord Chief Justice, and another of him with a tall, raw-boned, reddish-haired woman who must be both Fabian’s as well as Julius’s mother – and from whom Julius Carrington had obviously inherited his looks.

I made my way back, but stopped when I realised Fabian and Julius were in the middle of a discussion and, from its heated tone, apparently at odds with one another.

‘You have to drop the Warrender case,’ Julius was saying, his tone bullying. ‘There’s so much?—’

‘I don’thave todo anything, Julius,’ Fabian interrupted crisply. ‘I’m more than able to make my own decisions on clients I do or don’t take on.’

‘Some prettystrangedecisions you appear to be making lately…’ Julius paused, a snort of ribald mirth following. ‘So,where’d you pickthat oneup?’ I could almost see Julius Carrington’s head nodding in the direction of the downstairs loo. ‘Don’t think Ma would be overly impressed… you know what I’m saying? Oops, sorry, not very woke of me, that, was it? Mind you, she’s a looker, I’ll give you that. You can pass her on to me once you’ve finished with her.’

‘You’re utterly disgusting,’ Fabian snapped and, hearing him taking his leave, I quickly moved back to the open front door, desperate for him not to realise I’d overheard the words that were making my heart thump with fury and embarrassment. Not to mention disappointment. So much disappointment.

Fabian led the way to his car without a word, the actor in me conjuring up an expression of beatific normality on my features while, in reality, my insides were churning and I just wanted to get the car ride over and tell someone what I’d overheard.

Jess. I needed to talk to Jess, my sister.

‘I’ve a confession to make, Robyn,’ Fabian eventually said, when, five minutes after we’d set off, neither of us had said a word.

‘Oh?’ He’d slipped the note to Claude in Graphite the other night as a bet laid down by the other men on the table? He couldn’t cook any more than I could – he’d ordered all that delicious food online from Waitrose and decanted the lot into his own dishes? He was allergic to out-of-work actors?Anykind of actors?

‘Oh?’ I said again when he didn’t speak, now not only furious and humiliated but also irritable.

Eventually he started to laugh, a little amused moue of embarrassment on his face as I turned to look at him while he concentrated on the road ahead. ‘Iknewyou worked atGraphite,Robyn.’

Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

‘Oh?’ I said for the third time. ‘Did you? How?’

‘Robyn, I saw you in the public gallery the morning you came to court.’

‘Right?’ This was news to me. From what I remembered, it was me doing all the gawping – I didn’t recall Fabian looking back again towards me after that first initial meeting of eyes, when he’d appeared to look away without interest.

‘And from that one chilly, superior glance into the audience…’

‘The audience?’

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