‘Well,’ said Leo, slipping the knot of his black tie, ‘it convinced me of one thing – that the world of wealthy people is a taste-free zone.’
Adriana laughed. ‘Don’t you like my friends?’
‘I liked young Flavio,’ replied Leo, thinking with faint longing of those dangerous blue eyes.
Adriana made a face. ‘He is queer. I don’t like him and his friends. I don’t know how one man can go with another. It’s so disgusting.’ Adriana slipped Leo’s tie from around his neck and began slowly to unbutton his shirt.
‘Hmm. I always think it’s quite ironic, the Greek attitude to homosexuality,’ murmured Leo, wondering whether, if she knew the truth about him, Adriana would be snuggling up quite so cosily. ‘But, to answer your question, yes – I did like your friends. Some of them. I liked Lili. She gave a splendid party. Everyone was most amusing. I’m not sure I could live like that, though. A life of endless indulgence and socialising.’
‘My life isn’t endless indulgence.’ Adriana slipped soft fingers beneath his shirt and kissed his neck. ‘I work very hard for my pleasures.’
‘Indeed you do,’ replied Leo, returning her kiss. ‘You’re a very industrious and energetic girl.’
Adriana fell silent for a moment. Her fingers stopped stroking Leo’s chest. Then she said, ‘Sometimes, you know, being rich is quite lonely.’
‘It is?’ He wound a finger in her blonde hair.
‘I don’t meet many men of my – what is it you say?’
‘Temperament?’
‘Mettle. My mettle. I think that is right. Is it?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Most men are a little afraid of me. Not you. You are your own person. For instance, I am the client, and you run my case for me, but you do it exactly the way you want to. Oh, you pretend to listen to the things I say, but you go ahead with your own ideas. Don’t think I don’t know.’
‘Nonsense. I’m your lawyer. Of course I listen to you.’ Leo put his hand over hers, edging her fingers downwards towards the belt of his trousers.
‘But you’re not afraid of me. I know that. I know it when you make love to me. You are completely in control … you know everything I want …’ Her eyes grew soft, and she shivered a little. ‘I sometimes think I would be prepared to beg you … Maybe I would like to …’
‘That can be arranged.’ Leo slipped the straps of her dress from her shoulders.
‘I never thought I would find a man like you,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, you know, Leo, I could give you such a nice life.’
‘I don’t accept gifts from strange women,’ murmured Leo, pulling her dress down gently. ‘Besides, I have a nice life.’
She pulled away a little, studying his face. ‘Nothing like the kind we could have together. We could stay like
this. You could work for me. No, you could work
with
me. You could run the legal side of Silakis, make as much money as you want. I need someone as clever as you.’ Leo said nothing. She drew herself against him once more, unfastening his trousers. ‘I have never wanted a man in my life, until you. I thought at first that I just wanted – well, to take you as my lover. Nothing more.’
‘I should remind you,’ murmured Leo, shifting slightly to help her, ‘that you’ve only known me for a few days.’
‘That’s not true. I have known you for some months now. I have watched you, listened to you, and I know we would be good together. We are alike. We amuse one another. There is a great deal we share. We could share much, much more. Everything I have, you could enjoy.’
‘I rather think I enjoy the best bits of you already.’ Her flimsy underwear was the work of seconds. ‘Besides—’ He gave a smile, resting his hand tantalisingly on the curve of her stomach.
‘What?’ Her voice was weak; she was longing to be touched.
‘I can’t help remembering something you said earlier today.’
‘What did I say?’ She took his hand and moved it gently downwards.
‘You said, ‘It’s nice to be able to buy the things one wants.’ Or words to that effect.’
This made her pause. ‘You think I would buy you?’
‘I think you might try.’ He watched her, waiting, wondering if this would prompt some minor outburst. He
would rather not destroy the delicacy of the moment.
But Adriana merely smiled. ‘You are right. I might. But somehow, Leo, I think you are a man who does things only on his own terms.’
‘How very true,’ he said, covering her mouth with his, and reflecting that those terms could always be negotiated.
When Anthony drove down to see Rachel on Saturday morning, the day was warm and sultry, with a hint of a gathering storm in the air. The house which Rachel shared with Charles Beecham, and from which she commuted daily to her London office, lay just outside Newbury. It was a comfortable, pretty place built of soft ochre stone, and set in a couple of acres of stone-walled garden. It had an air of solidity, of permanence, and Anthony thought he could sense the security which Rachel must feel, living here. He parked his car and got out, retrieving the flowers he had brought from the back seat.
Rachel, who had caught sight of the car turning in at the gateway, came out to meet him, Oliver at her heels.
They exchanged a kiss. Anthony bent down to say hello to Oliver, who returned the greeting with a thoughtful, considering glance, disarmingly like Leo’s, then turned and trotted back into the house. ‘I obviously didn’t make much
of an impression last time,’ said Anthony, straightening up.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Rachel. ‘He’s going through a laconic phase.’
But as they went into the house, Oliver reappeared and handed Anthony a book.
Rachel smiled. ‘I’m afraid he wants you to read to him. Take it as a compliment. Why don’t you go into the garden with him while I finish making lunch? I’ll bring you both some lemonade.’
To Anthony’s considerable gratification, Oliver put his small hand in his and led him through the house to the garden, where a rug was spread out on the lawn with a few toys on it.
Oliver instructed Anthony to sit down on the rug, and Anthony did so. The little boy clambered confidingly on to his lap – more gratification – and Anthony glanced at the book he had been given. ‘Thunderbirds. Okay, here we go.’ He opened the book and began to read.
A few minutes later Rachel appeared with a jug of homemade lemonade and two glasses. ‘Thanks,’ said Anthony, as she handed him his drink. He tapped the book. ‘This is cool. I used to love Thunderbirds.’
Oliver gripped Anthony’s chin with small, damp fingers and gently but firmly tried to turn his face back to the book. ‘Read,’ said Oliver. ‘Read de book.’
‘All right, mate. Give us a chance.’ Anthony took a gulp of his lemonade and turned his attention back to Scott and Virgil.
Half an hour later they ate lunch in the large, cool
kitchen. Attempts at conversation between Rachel and Anthony were largely broken up by Oliver’s babbled commentary on the state of Tracy Island and the relative merits of Thunderbirds One and Two.
‘I’m afraid my son is in the grip of an obsession,’ said Rachel, as she cleared the plates away.
‘He certainly seems to have inherited his father’s intellectual tenacity,’ said Anthony.
While Rachel brewed coffee, Anthony dealt gravely with a series of probing questions from Oliver, reaching a crescendo of absurdity which Anthony suspected was designed especially to test him, about the theoretical capabilities of Thunderbirds Four.
‘You’re very good with him,’ said Rachel, smiling as she set a small bowl of grapes down in front of Oliver. ‘Not many men your age would be so patient.’
‘He’s fun. I must say, he’s got the art of cross-examination down to a fine art, just like his dad.’
‘You don’t have to keep doing that,’ said Rachel abruptly. ‘I mean – saying how like Leo he is. I know he is.’
‘Sorry,’ said Anthony.
She tucked her dark hair nervously behind her ears. ‘Forget it. I’m the one who should say sorry. Here, have some coffee.’ Since his arrival, it had seemed to Anthony that Rachel’s cheerful manner masked a faint unease. It was as though she was grateful for the diversion of Oliver’s presence.
When Oliver had almost finished his grapes, Rachel passed a gentle hand over his hair, and looked thoughtfully
into his blue eyes. ‘Come on, little man – time for a nap.’
She picked him up. He was a small, solid weight against her slender figure. Oliver regarded Anthony pensively over his mother’s shoulder, and handed him his last grape.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Anthony. The grape was warm, slightly squashed. ‘See you later.’
Oliver settled his cheek against this mother’s shoulder and allowed himself to be carried upstairs to his cot.
A few minutes later, Rachel came back down. ‘Shall we take our coffee into the garden?’
They went out into the sunshine, and crossed the lawn to where a table and chairs stood in the shade of a clump of apple trees.
‘When does Charles get back from the States?’ asked Anthony, settling in a chair.
‘Oh, a couple of weeks, I suppose. He went back last Sunday, so – yes, another fortnight.’
‘It must be lonely here without him.’ Anthony wasn’t quite sure why he was talking about Charles. Perhaps because it was the obvious thing to do. Here they were, after all, sitting in his garden, in his chairs. Rachel was his girlfriend. It seemed suddenly absurd to Anthony that he had ever imagined that any romantic possibilities might arise during this visit.
‘I get used to it. Charles being away, I mean. Every time he comes back, it feels more and more like an intrusion. Which is sad, in a way.’
‘Well, I imagine it’ll get back to rights once he’s finished the documentary.’
Rachel said nothing in response to this, merely glanced up at the lichen-covered branches of the trees, narrowing her eyes against the sunlight.
‘Actually,’ went on Anthony, ‘someone gave me one of his books for Christmas. About Assyria. I haven’t finished it yet, but it’s very good so far.’ He felt it impossible to respond to the personal note which she had introduced. It simply didn’t feel right.
They talked about Charles’s work for a while. It seemed to Anthony that Rachel did so on sufferance. Then a silence fell. Anthony gazed across the fields which sloped away at the front of the house. ‘Is that the racecourse over there?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Charles and I have been a couple of times. It’s a pretty course. I’m not that keen on betting, but I quite enjoy the atmosphere.’
‘I’ve never been to Newbury.’ It suddenly seemed to Anthony that the afternoon could be quite a long one, if things stayed as they were. ‘Why don’t we go over, once Oliver’s had his nap? I’d really like to see it.’
‘I don’t know if there’s a race meeting on today. I suppose the paper in the kitchen will tell us.’
As she watched Anthony walk towards the house, Rachel became aware for the first time of her own inner tension. She tried consciously to relax. How stupid she’d been to think anything might happen between them – here, today. He might have said in the wine bar that he wanted to kiss her, but the truth was, this was the last place on earth that he would allow anything like that to happen. Anyway, the fact
that he’d kept Charles’ name well to the foreground in the conversation indicated where he considered the boundaries lay. She wished she could conquer this aching, insatiable longing – this feeling that something physical must happen to her or she would break, snap. A trip to Newbury would be some kind of a diversion, at any rate. Something to do. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to come back.
His footsteps were so quiet on the grass that she didn’t know he was there until he spoke.
‘Yes, there’s a two o’clock meeting.’
Rachel opened her eyes. ‘Let’s go, then. Oliver will probably enjoy it.’
‘How long does he nap for?’
‘I don’t let him sleep for more than an hour. Otherwise he’s hard to settle in the evenings.’ Rachel glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll wake him up soon.’
They drove to the racecourse in Rachel’s car. On the horizon a grey bank of cloud was building up, and an airless pallor seemed to have descended on the countryside.
‘Rain by the evening, I suspect,’ said Anthony.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Rachel. ‘I don’t like this muggy kind of heat. It’s so oppressive.’ She pointed to her left. ‘That’s Greenham Common over there.’
Anthony glanced across at the airfield. ‘Doesn’t that all seem a long time ago?’
‘I know.’
Silence fell, the stilted, striving nature of their conversation failing to mask the underlying tension. The combination of the sultry weather, brooding heat lying in
wait for the storm, gave the day an unnatural stillness.
Parking was difficult, and they had to walk some distance to the course itself, with Oliver in his pushchair. Once inside, Anthony bought a couple of race cards, and an ice cream for Oliver, and they watched the races. Oliver loved it. At the expense of a proper view of the course, they found a spot on the grass near the rails, so that Oliver could see the racehorses at close quarters. He roared ecstatically as they went thundering to the finish. Anthony put on two modest bets, and won, which spurred Rachel to back something, despite her earlier insistence that she didn’t like gambling. She put five pounds each way on an outsider, at odds of twenty-five to one, against Anthony’s advice. To everyone’s astonishment, the horse won.
‘What a fluke!’ Anthony couldn’t help grinning at the sight of Rachel so pleased and excited. She rarely looked like that, was invariably cool, her emotions carefully banked down.
‘I’ve won a hundred and twenty-five pounds!’ squealed Rachel. ‘Isn’t that appalling?’ She bent to give an astonished Oliver a tickle and a squeeze.
‘More than that.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t understand how they work it out, but you get a proportion of what you would have won if it had come second or third. You’re so jammy.’
‘How brilliant. I like racing.’
‘Yes, well – it is possible to lose, you know.’
‘But I didn’t!’
They collected her winnings, and on the way back Rachel caught sight of the champagne tent. ‘Come on. We should celebrate.’
She bought a bottle of champagne. ‘Just one glass for me. I’m driving. You can have the rest.’
‘I can’t drink the better part of a whole bottle,’ protested Anthony.
‘Then have as much as you want. This is so much fun. I feel very bad and irresponsible.’
‘Why?’ Anthony smiled as he watched her, thinking that she should be like this more often, lit up with pleasure.
‘Exposing my infant son to these licentious pleasures.’ She bent down and gave Oliver a kiss.
They watched the next race, and Anthony drank two more glasses of champagne. It seemed a pity to waste good wine. Oliver was evincing a desire to wander off among the crowds, so Rachel put him in his buggy, which he loudly resented. He began to grow fractious. The thunder which had been rumbling on the far horizon for the past hours suddenly cracked across the sky. People kept glancing up at the lowering clouds moving swiftly over the trees towards the racecourse.
‘It’s going to bucket down in a minute,’ said Anthony. ‘Should we head back?’
‘I think so.’
Much of the crowd had the same idea, and Rachel and Anthony found themselves in a slow sea of people moving through the gates and across the fields of parked cars. The first fat drops of rain began to fall.
‘I haven’t got anything to cover Oliver with,’ said Rachel. ‘The rain canopy for his buggy’s in the car.’
Anthony had brought a denim jacket, which had been tied around his waist all afternoon. He took it off and spread it over Oliver. The rain fell faster, and people began to run. The sky above was entirely leaden, all trace of the earlier sunshine gone.
‘The car’s still miles away!’ said Rachel.
‘Come on!’ Anthony broke into a trot, and the buggy bounced across the rain-slicked grass, much to Oliver’s delight.
By the time they reached the car, they were drenched, though Anthony’s jacket had kept Oliver’s lower half moderately dry.
‘I’ve got a towel in the boot,’ said Rachel, pushing back wet strands of hair from her face as she collapsed the pushchair. She towelled Oliver’s hair dry, and then she and Anthony mopped themselves as best they could. They sat in the haven of the car, watching the downpour, the people hurrying past to their cars, jackets over their heads. A long queue of traffic was heading out of the car park.
‘It’s going to take ages to get out of here,’ said Rachel. ‘Everyone’s leaving at once.’ She sighed and started the engine, and they joined the line of cars.
It took them half an hour to reach the main road, and the rain still showed no signs of stopping. When they reached the house, Rachel got Oliver out of his car seat and made a dash for the house.
‘The rug’s still out in the garden! I forgot to put it away,’ said Rachel.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’
‘Anthony, there’s no point—’ But he had already gone out to fetch the rug and the toys and the sodden Thunderbirds book.
He dumped them all on the kitchen floor. Rachel was busy divesting Oliver of his damp clothes. She glanced at Anthony. ‘You’re wet through. You can’t stay like that. I’ll give you one of Charles’s robes and you can put your things in the tumble dryer.’
She showed Anthony upstairs to Charles’s dressing room, and found a fresh towelling robe. ‘Here, this’ll do. Bring your wet things down once you’ve changed out of them.’
Anthony took off his wet outer clothes and slipped gratefully into the thick robe. He walked slowly to the window and looked down at the rain-soaked garden, at the rivulets of water plashing from the gutter on to the flagstones of the patio. He tied the belt of the robe. For some reason – perhaps the weather, perhaps the after-effects of the champagne – he felt melancholy. It had been a good day, despite the disaster of getting caught in the storm, but he wished he hadn’t come. Last time, when he’d been here for Sunday lunch, it had been much easier. No expectations. Just a friendly meal. Since then, possibilities had arisen which disturbed them both. The situation was so complex. He wanted to say something, to make some sort of overture – but here in this house, surrounded by the evidence of her life together with Charles, he couldn’t begin to contemplate it. He was even wearing the man’s bathrobe, for God’s sake.
He turned and picked up his clothes and went out to the landing. Rachel was emerging from a bedroom, wearing a clean shirt and jeans, tying back her hair. In that moment, as she paused, smiling, he wanted to reach out and touch her, but she merely said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. We could both do with some tea.’