Errors of Judgment(30)

Anthony headed aimlessly through the dark courtyards and alleys of the Temple until he reached the Strand. He stood there for a moment, pretending to himself that he had been intending all along to go home, catch up on some work and have an early night, and that he was only now changing his mind. But if he’d meant to do any of that, he would have gone to the Tube. What was the harm in going to Blunt’s two nights in a row? Rigging up in his mind the little pretence that he was doing this because he might bump into Edward, he flagged down a cab.

When Rachel went upstairs to put Oliver to bed, she found him sitting on a beanbag, deeply absorbed in a Richard Scarry book which Leo had given him for his last birthday. She crept across the room, pouncing on Oliver and tickling him till he squirmed giggling off beanbag. ‘Come on,’ she said, picking him up together with his book, ‘into bed.’ She dropped him onto the bed, then lay down next to him as he scrambled under the duvet.

‘Is Daddy coming to my concert on Friday?’ asked Oliver, thumbing through the book for his place.

‘I don’t know, darling. He’s got a very, very important case on at the moment, and he’s working every evening.’

Oliver lay back, his eyes distant. Sometimes he looked so like Leo. She smoothed his dark, soft hair. ‘I could ask him. You never know.’

His eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’ Rachel nodded. As far as Oliver was concerned, it was as good as accomplished. ‘Wait till he hears me play the recorder. I’m sick!’

‘No, you mean you’re very good. “Sick” isn’t the right word.’ That was one problem about having a childminder. Oliver tended to pick up some unfortunate street slang from Lucy’s teenage children.

Oliver shrugged. ‘Whatever.’ He buried his nose in his book again. ‘Can you read to me?’

‘Which story would you like?’

‘The one where the bears go to the hospital,’ said Oliver, handing the book to Rachel and snuggling down expectantly. ‘And you’ve got to do the doctor’s funny voice, the way Daddy does.’

Rachel propped herself up on the pillow next to Oliver and found the page. ‘I’ll try,’ she said, ‘but I’m not promising anything.’

She wasn’t promising anything about Leo going to the concert either, but that wasn’t the way Oliver saw things.

When she’d finished the story, Rachel tucked Oliver in and kissed him goodnight, then switched the light off and went downstairs and rang Leo’s home number. He answered on the first ring.

‘You’re working,’ said Rachel.

‘Too right. The hearing’s coming up soon, and I have to prepare my cross-examination.’

‘Oliver asked me tonight if you would be coming to his concert on Friday.’

‘I don’t know. This case is killing me. I’ve still got—’

‘You don’t have to say yes,’ she interrupted. ‘Just maybe.’

‘Maybe, then. It’s not as though I don’t want to. What’s he doing?’

‘He’s in the recorder group, and he’s been practising like mad. I tell you, listening to a six-year-old play Bob the Builder over and over on the treble recorder every evening for three weeks should come under Amnesty’s definition of torture. Forget waterboarding.’

‘I’d love to be there. I’ll try.’

‘I said I’d ask you, and he thinks it’s a done deal.’

‘The pressure is registering, trust me.’

‘OK. Let me know.’

Rachel hung up, then went to her study and switched on the computer. She had already made up her mind to deregister from those online dating sites. How had she ever let herself be talked into it? At the time, with two glasses of wine inside her and Sophie at her shoulder, signing up had felt amusing and daring. Now it seemed utterly demeaning. When she went on to The Times site, she was surprised to find three messages in her inbox. Why should she be surprised? Just because she didn’t take this seriously, didn’t mean there weren’t men out there who did. She hesitated, then curiosity got the better of her and she clicked them open. The first was from a man called James, a tree surgeon from Luton who listed among his hobbies paragliding and white water rafting. ‘Sorry, James,’ murmured Rachel, and moved on to the next. This was Andy, a banker from Barnes. His photo showed a tubby, cheerful man with a moustache, and the photo’s ragged edge, not quite meeting the side of the frame, indicated that some partner had been excised from it. His letter was sweet, but Rachel didn’t think she shared his interest in heavy metal music, nor did three teenage sons sound like a good thing. Why was she even reading these? She had absolutely no intention of taking this ridiculous thing any further.