‘Well, that should be instructive – though not as much fun as a night at the tables,’ said Leo.
They talked about work for a while, but Leo found himself distracted by a girl at the far end of the pub who kept glancing in their direction. She was petite, attractive, with a fine-boned face, honey-blonde hair and an intense gaze, and Leo had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere. Then he remembered where. She’d been sitting in the back of the court during the Kirkbride hearing. He remembered thinking then that she looked familiar, and supposed she was a student taking notes, though he couldn’t think why any student should bother with such a boring case. Students from the Council of Legal Education were always knocking around the Temple, and he tended to notice the attractive ones. He could only assume that her presence in the pub today was coincidence, and that Anthony, who was lounging elegantly in his chair, was the object of her attention.
‘You seem to have an admirer,’ murmured Leo. ‘Girl in the corner with the dark blonde hair.’
Anthony glanced at the girl. She was undoubtedly pretty – more than pretty. But he was pretty sure it was Leo she was staring at. He was used to Leo attracting female attention, and it invariably aroused in him some resentment which he couldn’t quite fathom. Jealousy of a kind, he supposed, but of what or whom he couldn’t quite determine. ‘You’re too modest,’ Anthony told Leo. ‘It’s you she’s looking at, not me.’
But Leo wasn’t listening. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on. I need to get back. I have to leave early to collect Oliver.’
The girl in the corner watched them leave, quickly finished her drink and then, keeping a careful distance, followed them all the way from the pub back to Caper Court.
That evening, at half past nine, Sophie was curled up on Rachel’s sofa with a glass of wine. Rachel was sitting cross-legged on the rug by the fire, head bent over a notepad, making a list. Sophie stroked the duck-egg blue silk cushions and glanced around, savouring the tranquillity. The room was lit by large table lamps, their soft glow reflected in the dark, polished wood of the floor, casting shadows on the pale walls hung with elegantly framed pictures. Long curtains of grey velvet shut out the autumn night. She loved being here. Rachel’s house was so different from the chaos of her own home. But she was able to survey it all and feel not the slightest tinge of envy. Everything – the carefully placed porcelain bowls, the parchment-coloured sofas and chairs, the perfectly arranged pink peonies and the beautiful prints and ornaments – would drive her nuts inside a week. Not that any of it would survive that long at the hands of her offspring. She articulated the thought which had been troubling her.
‘How do you manage to bring up a six-year-old boy in a place like this?’ she asked Rachel. ‘I mean, all these beautiful things – aren’t you worried Oliver might knock something over, or get chocolate on the cushions?’
Rachel looked up, her silky black hair gleaming in the firelight. ‘Oliver knows not to bring food in here. And I’ve trained him since he was little to be careful of everything. He’s a great respecter of order. Besides, he doesn’t come in here much. He has his bedroom – that’s untidy enough. And his playroom, of course.’ She dipped her head again, and jotted something down on the notepad.
‘Right,’ murmured Sophie. Oliver’s bedroom untidy? Knowing Rachel, it was probably spotless, books on shelves, toys tidied away, dressing-gown hung up, slippers neatly together, pyjamas folded beneath the pillow. She thought of Josh and Billy’s bedroom, the chaos of Action Men and toy cars and trucks strewn across the carpet, the overstuffed plastic dustbin of soft toys, and the mess of books and clothes. She took another sip of wine.
‘So, where do we start?’
‘Well …’ Rachel gazed doubtfully at the notepad on her knee. ‘I thought if I made a list. You know, of necessary qualities. The kind of things I’m looking for in a man.’
Sophie nodded. ‘Fire away.’
‘Well, he has to be educated, obviously. And to be a professional of some kind.’
‘No proles, plumbers or scaffolders.’
‘I’m not being a snob, or anything. It’s just—’
Sophie waved this away. ‘I know you’re not. Carry on.’
‘He has to be intelligent, well read, interesting, fond of cinema, books, theatre, that kind of thing.’
‘Looks?’
‘Oh, you know …’
Sophie gazed at Rachel sitting there with her head on one side, fabulous cheekbones etched by the light, her dark hair framing her face, thoughtful blue eyes contemplating the mysterious charms of some unknown lover. How could any man handle such perfection? It wasn’t just the way Rachel looked. It was everything about her. She was so meticulous in every aspect of her life that to Sophie it sometimes seemed scary. Her house, for instance, the immaculate way she always dressed. Sophie remembered the first time she’d met Rachel at a school play, how intimidated she’d been by her cool, crisp appearance. Yet the Rachel she had come to know wasn’t cool. Not really. Her apparent reserve masked a hesitant, loving nature that longed to be impulsive, but was somehow restrained. Passion strangled at birth.