The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [89]
Philip was the girl’s godfather.
“What are you going to do about it?” asked Carol anxiously, when Michael had told her what had taken place at the club.
“There’s only one thing I can do,” he replied. “After all, I have my reputation to consider. I shall sue the bastard.”
“That’s a terrible way to talk about your oldest friend. And anyway we can’t afford to go to law,” said Carol. “Philip’s a millionaire and we’re penniless.”
“Can’t be helped,” said Michael. “I’ll have to go through with it, even if it means selling everything.”
“And even if the rest of your family has to suffer along with you?”
“None of us will suffer when he ends up paying my costs plus massive damages.”
“But you could lose,” said Carol. “Then we would end up with nothing—worse than nothing.”
“‘That’s not possible,” said Michael. “He made the mistake of saying all those things in front of witnesses. There must have been over fifty members in the clubhouse this morning, including the president of the club and the editor of the local paper, and they couldn’t have failed to hear every word.”
Carol remained unconvinced, and she was relieved that during the next few days Michael didn’t mention Philip’s name once. She hoped that her husband had come to his senses and the whole affair was best forgotten.
But then the Haslemere Chronicle decided to print its version of the quarrel between Michael and Philip. Under the headline FIGHT BREAKS OUT AT GOLF CLUB came a carefully worded account of what had taken place on the previous Saturday. The editor of the Haslemere Chronicle knew only too well that the conversation itself was unprintable unless he also wanted to be sued, but he managed to include enough innuendo in the article to give a full flavor of what had happened that morning.
“That’s the final straw,” said Michael, when he finished reading the article for a third time. Carol realized that nothing she could say or do was going to stop her husband now.
The following Monday, Michael contacted a local solicitor, Reginald Lomax, who had been at school with them both. Armed with the article, Michael briefed Lomax on the conversation that the Chronicle had felt injudicious to publish in any great detail. Michael also gave Lomax his own detailed account of what had happened at the club that morning, and handed him four pages of handwritten notes to back his claims up.
Lomax studied the notes carefully.
“When did you write these?”
“In my car, immediately after we were suspended.”
“That was circumspect of you,” said Lomax. “Most circumspect.” He stared quizzically at his client over the top of his half-moon spectacles. Michael made no comment. “Of course you must be aware that the law is an expensive pastime,” Lomax continued. “Suing for slander will not come cheap, and even with evidence as strong as this”—he tapped the notes in front of him—“you could still lose. Slander depends so much on what other people remember or, more important, will admit to remembering.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Michael. “But I’m determined to go through with it. There were over fifty people in the club within earshot that morning.”
“So be it,” said Lomax. “Then I shall require five thousand pounds in advance as a contingency fee to cover all the immediate costs and the preparations for a court case.” For the first time Michael looked hesitant.
“Returnable, of course, but only if you win the case.”
Michael removed his checkbook and wrote out a figure that, he reflected, would only just be covered by the remainder of his severance pay.
The writ for slander against Philip Masters was issued the next morning by Lomax, Davis & Lomax.
A week later the writ was accepted by another firm of solicitors in the same town, actually in the same building.
Back at the club, debate on the rights and wrongs of Gilmour v. Masters did not subside as the weeks passed.
Club members whispered furtively among themselves whether they might be called to give evidence at the trial. Several had already received letters from Lomax, Davis