The Pupil by Caro Fraser Page A

there. He discovered he was thinking solicitously of his head as though it were an object detached from his body. He rolled his eyes experimentally; they seemed to be attached to little fiery strings that reached into the back of his brain, and his eyelids felt as though they had dried out into some kind of thin sandpaper. His tongue filled his mouth entirely and, disgustingly, still tasted vaguely of Cointreau. The thought of Cointreau made him feel ill. Maybe he could be sick, he thought hopefully. Butthe very notion of climbing out of bed and making the effort inclined him against the idea. He would just lie there for a bit and maybe things would get better.
    He wondered what time it was and tried to squint at his clock radio without moving his head; the fiery cords behind his eyeballs tugged painfully at the back of his skull. Twenty-five past eleven. Downstairs, his mother began to hoover. Please God, don’t let her come and hoover in my room, he thought.
    He closed his eyes and suddenly remembered Julia. His heart jolted painfully in his chest. He groaned and rolled onto his back, thrusting the pillow over his face. No, it was all right. He hadn’t done anything irretrievably awful, he discovered, as he pieced together his scattered recollections. He took the pillow off his face and found that breathing helped. They’d just talked. And kissed. That had been fantastic. He tried to relive the kiss, but the bumping of the vacuum cleaner on the stairs told him that his mother was heading towards his room to hoover at him in protest at his late arrival home the night before. Whenever his mother wished to register her disapproval of any of his social activities, she would come and hoover round his bed the following morning. It seemed to Anthony to be quite the most vindictive thing a person could do.
    He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom with gentle, careful steps, bent over like an old man.
    It wasn’t until the following Monday morning that he found the cigarette packet in his inside jacket pocket. On it, Julia had written her telephone number.

    David had been right about the run-up to the Christmas vacation, Anthony discovered. Although people continued to work as hard as ever during the day, there was a general air of hilarity around the Temple and in the City.
    On the day of the chambers party, however, Anthony silently reminded himself of his resolution, made in the wake of the previous Friday night’s proceedings, never to drink champagne again and never even to
look
at a Cointreau bottle. But as the party grew closer, he felt his resolve weaken. And when he was actually standing in Sir Basil’s room with Edward and the other members of chambers, it vanished altogether. It would not look good, he decided, if he were to refuse the glass of champagne which Sir Basil proffered with a benevolent festive smile.
    The conversation was desultory and somewhat slow; only the members of chambers and two High Court judges, themselves former members, were present. It was understood that the hoi polloi were not to show up at the party until six o’clock. It was five-thirty and all the typists were crowded into the Ladies, applying fresh make-up and squirting perfume hopefully over themselves.
    After a while, Anthony was approached by Sir Basil.
    ‘Well, Anthony,’ he said, shaking Anthony’s hand. ‘I don’t really think we’ve had the chance of a proper conversation since you joined us, have we?’ Sir Basil had heard, to his agreeable surprise, that Edward had acquitted himself well in a piece of work performed for Leo Davies, whom Sir Basil regarded as one of the more demanding members of chambers. He felt, therefore, that he could afford to be gracious to Anthony, who wouldnow necessarily be leaving them at the end of his pupillage.
    ‘Do you feel you’re profiting from being with us?’ he asked. The word ‘us’ sounded rare and exclusive when uttered by Sir Basil. Anthony sensed very strongly his