‘How do you think? My mother told me.’
Leo said, as gently and kindly as he could, ‘That rather begs the question.’
‘Look,’ said Gabrielle, ‘we can stand out here on this freezing pavement, or we can go into your house and talk about it.’
He nodded, gazing at her, absorbed in her features, trying to see himself there and almost, but not quite succeeding. The shock of her revelation still hadn’t left him.
‘Well?’
‘Fine. Come in, and we’ll talk.’ He took his keys from his pocket and together they crossed the square.
Leo unlocked the door and switched on the lights, then went to hang up his coat and put his papers in his study, feeling dazed. Gabrielle wandered from the hallway into the living room, shrugging off her jacket. She gazed around, taking in the austere, stylish contents of the room, the pictures and sculptures, the expensive furnishings, the subtle lighting. She turned as Leo came in.
‘Not keen on clutter, are you?’
‘Not much. I prefer order.’
‘In which case, I suppose it’s rather shaken you, me turning up like this.’
She sounded so assured, so much on her mettle, that he followed her cue.
‘I’m used to surprises in my line of work. Generally all they require is a bit of deft footwork.’ He unstoppered the whisky decanter. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
‘Do you have any Coke?’
‘I’ll see.’ He disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, Gabrielle was sitting in one of the capacious armchairs, legs crossed. He handed her a can of Coke and a tumbler of ice. ‘Sorry it’s not cold. There’s ice, though.’ He rattled the cubes in the tumbler.
‘Thanks.’
Leo poured himself a Scotch and sat down opposite. They sipped their drinks in silence, too wrapped up in the moment to notice the similarity of their attitudes and timing.
‘So,’ said Leo, ‘we need to unravel this. Just what exactly has your mother told you?’
‘That’s very lawyerly of you. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather refer to her as my “alleged” mother?’
‘Lawyerly?’ Leo smiled. ‘I’m not sure I know that word.’
‘You know what I mean. Approaching the subject side on. Going for the third-hand hearsay evidence, instead of asking me directly.’
Leo, despite the surreal situation, was amused. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s second-hand hearsay. Anyway, what do you know about hearsay evidence?’
‘I’ve been studying it at Bar School.’
‘Really?’ He sipped his Scotch, interested.
Gabrielle decided to make herself more comfortable, kicking off her boots and tucking her feet beneath her. She was very pretty, Leo thought, and she had an air of challenge about her which he found quite touching.
‘What made you want to become a barrister?’
‘I thought I’d be good at it.’ She looked down at her glass, swirling the Coke and ice. ‘And maybe it had something to do with you. Finding out who you were, what you did.’
‘I see. Which takes us back to the main storyline. Who your mother is, and why she thinks I’m your father.’
Gabrielle looked at him almost defiantly. ‘My mother is called Jacqueline.’ She pronounced it in the French way. ‘When you knew her, she would have been Jacqueline Pujol.’ Her eyes were on Leo’s face, waiting for his reaction.
Leo racked his brain. Jacqueline? He couldn’t remember anyone of that name. Hardly surprising, given the number of women he had slept with over the years. It was embarrassing, given that the apparent fruit of their union was sitting opposite him, eyes fixed expectantly on his face. What the hell had he been up to twenty-however-many years ago? Much the same as now, he supposed – working all hours, making money, and trying to have as much fun as was compatible with the standards of his profession.
‘Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’ She frowned as she said this, and Leo noticed that her brows were dark, thick and delicately winged, like his own mother’s.
‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Twenty years is a long time ago. There were a lot of people in my life. Do you have a picture or something?’
She shot him a glance, then reached down to rummage in her bag. ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember her.’
Although she said this, Leo realised she had come prepared for the possibility he might not remember, and wondered just how fleeting his association with this Jacqueline person had been.
She handed him a photograph, and as soon as he looked at it he was astonished by the force of the recollection it triggered. Jackie. Of course. A lovely French girl he had met at a party. Whose party? His mind stumbled back to a summer night, a flat in Notting Hill, windows wide open to the summer night. Some actor friend – Philip, Patrick some name like that. He looked up at Gabrielle, then back at the photo. It was a publicity picture such as an agent might use, from which Jackie gazed out provocatively, her tawny hair tousled. They had been lovers for just a few fleeting weeks. Then she’d disappeared. Someone said she’d gone back to France. Back then, people weren’t glued together by mobile phones, emails and Facebook. You might know someone, love someone, then circumstances would change and they would leave your life for ever. As Jackie had done.