seemed to make it worse. And how passionately he felt about this - much more than he ever had about her. ‘Leo, we can’t resolve this. Not now. I thought we could. But we can’t.’
‘I want to see him.’ His blue eyes looked steadily into hers.
‘Then come down on Sunday. You can take him out for the day.’
‘What about the rest? What about having him at weekends?’
She shook her head. ‘You know I won’t agree to that. Not until he’s older.’
‘By the time he’s older he’ll probably be calling Charles Beecham daddy. I’m not prepared to wait until then.’
Rachel looked away. ‘I’m not going to discuss it any more, Leo.’
Leo pushed his chair back sharply and stood up. ‘Sod all this mediation and counselling. If you won’t agree, I’mgoing to instruct my solicitor to fight it.’
She said nothing, merely sat with her head bowed over her drink as Leo left the pub.
Leo drove off, cursing himself for his indiscretion about Charles. Why had he told her? There had been no need. It had simply made things worse. He had wounded her pride, antagonised her, reminded her yet again that she was not, never had been, what he wanted. Maybe he had needed to hurt her. Maybe the very fact that she had all the winning cards had made him want to goad her. Whatever the reason, it had done him no good. It had simply given her more ammunition, provided her with further reasons for not letting Oliver stay, with him. Not that she believed in her heart that those reasons had any foundation.
He swore between his teeth and ground the gears as he pulled away from the traffic lights. A light rain had started to fall and dusk was drawing in. The fading light and the dismal dampness of the streets depressed his spirits even further. What was there to do with the rest of the evening? Go back to Belgravia, eat supper alone, go through some papers. He found he couldn’t even listen to music any more. It gave him none of the old solace. There were people whom he could call, of course, parties he could go to. But his heart wouldn’t be in it. All those bright, bubbling egos, the chatter, the laughter, the watching and calculating. No, he wanted none of that. As he drew up at the next set of traffic lights, Leo glanced along the row of cafes and shops, and suddenly recognised one of them as the place to which Anthony had taken him to meet Chay. He had liked thatbar – or gallery or cafe, whatever it was meant to be. It had had an exuberance and stylishness that had appealed to him. Just the kind of thing he needed to cheer himself up. He recalled seeing some rather pretty sculptures. Maybe he should drop in and have a look.
He drove once round the block before finding a parking space, then walked back through the drizzle, stopping at a news-stand to purchase a copy of
Vanity Fair
to while away the time. He noticed as he went in that it was called the Galleria Flore. At this early hour the place was half empty. Leo picked a table in a far corner, where most of the sculptures and paintings were exhibited, and ordered a coffee, thinking as he did so that he didn’t remember the waiter from last time. He was sure he would have done. He was young, in his early twenties. His hair was reddish gold, his face slight, heart-shaped, eyes wide and beautiful. Leo could not tell their colour. He watched the boy’s rapid, graceful movements as he negotiated the steel-topped tables. Leo could see that, for all his slightness, his body was spare and muscular. The waiter must have noticed Leo studying him and he gave him a covert, curious look as he set down the coffee. Leo saw that his eyes were light hazel, flecked with gold, like a cat’s. He found the glance charming, heart-stopping. He smiled, and the boy smiled back warily, then left. Leo watched him for a few seconds, then, with a faint sigh, turned to his magazine. After twenty minutes or so he grew bored and chucked it to one side, glancing up at the exhibits around him. The
‘I want to see him.’ His blue eyes looked steadily into hers.
‘Then come down on Sunday. You can take him out for the day.’
‘What about the rest? What about having him at weekends?’
She shook her head. ‘You know I won’t agree to that. Not until he’s older.’
‘By the time he’s older he’ll probably be calling Charles Beecham daddy. I’m not prepared to wait until then.’
Rachel looked away. ‘I’m not going to discuss it any more, Leo.’
Leo pushed his chair back sharply and stood up. ‘Sod all this mediation and counselling. If you won’t agree, I’mgoing to instruct my solicitor to fight it.’
She said nothing, merely sat with her head bowed over her drink as Leo left the pub.
Leo drove off, cursing himself for his indiscretion about Charles. Why had he told her? There had been no need. It had simply made things worse. He had wounded her pride, antagonised her, reminded her yet again that she was not, never had been, what he wanted. Maybe he had needed to hurt her. Maybe the very fact that she had all the winning cards had made him want to goad her. Whatever the reason, it had done him no good. It had simply given her more ammunition, provided her with further reasons for not letting Oliver stay, with him. Not that she believed in her heart that those reasons had any foundation.
He swore between his teeth and ground the gears as he pulled away from the traffic lights. A light rain had started to fall and dusk was drawing in. The fading light and the dismal dampness of the streets depressed his spirits even further. What was there to do with the rest of the evening? Go back to Belgravia, eat supper alone, go through some papers. He found he couldn’t even listen to music any more. It gave him none of the old solace. There were people whom he could call, of course, parties he could go to. But his heart wouldn’t be in it. All those bright, bubbling egos, the chatter, the laughter, the watching and calculating. No, he wanted none of that. As he drew up at the next set of traffic lights, Leo glanced along the row of cafes and shops, and suddenly recognised one of them as the place to which Anthony had taken him to meet Chay. He had liked thatbar – or gallery or cafe, whatever it was meant to be. It had had an exuberance and stylishness that had appealed to him. Just the kind of thing he needed to cheer himself up. He recalled seeing some rather pretty sculptures. Maybe he should drop in and have a look.
He drove once round the block before finding a parking space, then walked back through the drizzle, stopping at a news-stand to purchase a copy of
Vanity Fair
to while away the time. He noticed as he went in that it was called the Galleria Flore. At this early hour the place was half empty. Leo picked a table in a far corner, where most of the sculptures and paintings were exhibited, and ordered a coffee, thinking as he did so that he didn’t remember the waiter from last time. He was sure he would have done. He was young, in his early twenties. His hair was reddish gold, his face slight, heart-shaped, eyes wide and beautiful. Leo could not tell their colour. He watched the boy’s rapid, graceful movements as he negotiated the steel-topped tables. Leo could see that, for all his slightness, his body was spare and muscular. The waiter must have noticed Leo studying him and he gave him a covert, curious look as he set down the coffee. Leo saw that his eyes were light hazel, flecked with gold, like a cat’s. He found the glance charming, heart-stopping. He smiled, and the boy smiled back warily, then left. Leo watched him for a few seconds, then, with a faint sigh, turned to his magazine. After twenty minutes or so he grew bored and chucked it to one side, glancing up at the exhibits around him. The
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