A Perfect Obsession (3 page)

‘Love to, but I’m afraid Anthony and I have already made plans. We were just on our way out.’

Although her smile didn’t slip, this news was not welcome to Sarah. She had always been aware of some special relationship between Leo and Anthony, and its existence galled her. She had taken considerable satisfaction from the events of that evening last autumn, when Anthony had found her there at Leo’s flat, particularly since it came close on the heels of the demise of his affair with Camilla. Everyone wanted a little piece of Leo, Sarah knew, but Anthony should learn that he couldn’t have everything. It irked her now to learn that whatever rift she had managed to create between Leo and Anthony had apparently healed.

‘Why don’t I join you?’ she suggested, scenting the possibility of mischief.

Leo smiled and eased himself away from the bookcase.

‘I don’t think so. After what you’ve just told me, I don’t think Anthony would welcome your company, do you?’

‘Possibly not.’ Sarah sighed and slipped off the desk. ‘Have a nice evening, then.’

‘Thanks,’ said Leo, smiling as he left the room and went back downstairs.

Anthony was waiting for him. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’

‘I helped Sarah take those papers up to David’s room.’ They went out together into the chilly early-evening air. ‘Rather churlish of you not to help her as well, if I may say so,’ added Leo, as they passed through the cloisters and headed for the foot of King’s Bench Walk, where Leo’s car was parked.

Anthony flushed slightly. ‘The less I have to do with Sarah the better.’

‘Yes, I gather she’s made something of a nuisance of herself. Still, try not to let your animosity get the better of your good manners.’

Anthony said nothing. Leo gave him a quick sideways glance, wondering whether Sarah, in spite of what Anthony said, still exercised some fascination for him. Clearly, Anthony had been prepared to risk his relationship with Camilla just to be able to bed her. Once acquired, Sarah could be a difficult habit to shake off. Maybe Leo had had it all wrong. Maybe when he’d found Sarah at his flat that evening, his jealousy had been directed at Leo. He pondered this as they crossed the cobblestones. He unlocked the car and they got in. Leo put the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine. He turned to Anthony.

‘You know, we haven’t spoken about that evening, when you came round and Sarah was there.’

Anthony said nothing for a few seconds as he clicked his seat belt into place. Then he glanced up. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Why
did
you come round? I don’t think I ever found out.’

Anthony gazed at Leo, at the familiar features etched in the half-darkness. Feelings of love and confusion cut deep
into him. It was too long ago now, the moment had passed, and he had already decided that he wasn’t going to go down that path. Not again. That was over and done with. It was a friendship, no more. ‘I told you – it doesn’t matter. I just came to see you. The fact that Sarah was there—’ He paused. ‘She said something once about how well she knew you, but I didn’t realise quite how well.’

Leo sighed and turned the key in the ignition. He reversed out of the space and set off towards Middle Temple Lane. ‘Look, Sarah and I—’ He hesitated, wondering what he had intended to say. He certainly couldn’t tell Anthony about Sarah and James and the summer of a couple of years ago. So, what
was
there to say about himself and Sarah? He scarcely knew. He had never given it much thought. She was there, tantalizing, devious, not always when he wanted her, but occasionally when he did. ‘Sarah and I have known one another for quite a while. We see one another – well, intermittently.’

‘You mean you fuck her now and again?’ Anthony’s voice was angry and abrupt.

Leo glanced at him in puzzlement. ‘Anthony—’

‘Sorry. I’m sorry. But it’s another way of putting it, isn’t it?’ He turned to gaze at the lights of the river as they sped along the Embankment. He hadn’t meant to get angry. It was just that he could do without being reminded of how easily and indiscriminately Leo took lovers.

Leo decided to let it go. He didn’t want any more antagonism between them. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he replied. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

When they reached Shoreditch they parked the car and went for a drink in a pub close to the museum. It was only
six o’clock and the meeting wouldn’t start for another hour.

‘I’ll get these,’ said Leo. ‘What’ll you have?’ ‘Just a pint of bitter, thanks.’

Leo went to the bar, glancing round. The last time he had been in this place was with Melissa Angelicos, a co-trustee of the museum, appointed by Chay by virtue of the fact that she hosted a moderately influential arts programme on Channel 4. God, what a mistake that evening had been. He’d been having problems with Joshua at the time, and had tried to forget about them by passing a drunken few hours with Melissa, after which they’d gone back to her place for coffee. Only it hadn’t been coffee that Melissa had in mind. Leo winced as he recalled the subsequent events.

He took the drinks back to the table where Anthony was sitting, took off his overcoat and sat down. There was silence for a few seconds, indicative of unease on Anthony’s part. Leo was aware that the coolness of the last few months could not simply be brushed aside. He’d tried to address it earlier in the car. Perhaps now he should try again.

He drew his chair closer to the table. ‘Look, what I said earlier about Sarah—’ Anthony glanced at him sharply, but Leo continued, ‘—I was wondering whether that’s the reason you’ve been so distant of late.’ Anthony said nothing. ‘I know you had a relationship with Sarah in the past. I thought it was over. I certainly had no wish to hurt you. If you still have feelings for her—’

Anthony interrupted him with a laugh. ‘The only feelings I have for Sarah are – well, I don’t really think I can decently express them. She is a complete bitch.’

Leo sipped his whisky, and nodded. ‘True.’

‘What I can’t understand, Leo, is why you would waste your time with someone as – as sly and manipulative as she is.’ The warmth with which Anthony spoke took Leo a little closer to what he suspected was the truth. But it wasn’t something he would touch upon yet.

Leo took a small, silver cigar case from his breast pocket, lit a cigar, then blew out a little cloud of smoke. ‘She amuses me.’

‘She amuses you? Christ, Leo, don’t you look for anything a bit deeper, something with more meaning, in your relationships with people?’

Leo shrugged. ‘That invariably produces disappointment. Sarah is intelligent, attractive and stimulating in a rather bizarre way. But above all, she makes no demands.’

‘You mean she simply makes herself available.’

Leo shook his head. ‘Actually, one of her most compelling qualities is her elusiveness. Anyway—’ He glanced at Anthony, ‘—why should you concern yourself with Sarah, if she’s not the reason for your offhand manner for the past couple of months?’

‘It’s you, Leo – it’s you! Finding Sarah at your place that night – well, it just shows how trivial relationships are to you. I thought you were meant to be heartbroken about Joshua, and yet there you were, not two weeks later, carrying on with her!’

The small pang of pain which touched Leo at the mention of Joshua’s name was not betrayed in his expression. ‘You know me, Anthony, and yet you don’t know me. Don’t concern yourself with what goes on between Sarah and myself. It doesn’t touch the relationship between you and
me, after all.’ He paused, glancing up at Anthony. ‘Does it?’

Anthony’s temper, still simmering, cooled a little at the quiet tone in which Leo spoke. He hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You made it clear a long time ago that you didn’t want our relationship to be anything more than a friendship. I’ve always understood that to be the case, though there have been times when I’ve had my doubts.’ He paused for a long, reflective moment and looked up at Anthony. ‘Or did you come to my flat that night to tell me something different?’

The question hung in the air between them.

Anthony looked away, unable to bear the intensity of Leo’s gaze, which threatened to undermine his resolve. ‘No,’ he replied at last. ‘I came round to see how you were. I was still worried about you.’

Leo drew on his cigar, his eyes still fastened on the younger man’s face. He felt the force of the moment melt away. He would have to accept the denial at face value. ‘I see. In that case, there’s no need for any anger.’

Anthony raked his fingers through his hair. ‘I just want you to – to care more about the way you behave.’

Leo smiled. ‘I love your principles. No – no, truly. I mean it. I wish I could be more the kind of person you want me to be. Still—’ He sipped his whisky. ‘You’ll have to make do with me as I am. Now – can we forget the wretched Miss Colman and try to behave like friends again?’

Anthony relented. When Leo smiled in that way, he couldn’t help it. So what if he hadn’t been entirely honest in answering Leo? There were lots of different truths, and a person couldn’t tell them all. This was the best way. ‘Yes.
All right. I’m sorry about the way I’ve been.’

‘I should have said something sooner.’ Leo glanced at his watch. We’re due at the brewery in half an hour. Just time for another.’

‘Let me get them,’ said Anthony, and drained his glass.

So they sat companionably over another drink, immersed in talk of their world, of cases and arbitrations, and Sarah was not mentioned again.

The ex-brewery which housed Chay Cross’s museum of modern art was a cavernous building in the heart of Shoreditch, in a state of some dilapidation when Chay had taken it over, but now the product of startling changes. The heart of the building was a vast central area, around which ran a gallery at first-floor level, and from which radiated a network of smaller, satellite rooms. When Leo and Anthony arrived, Chay was busy working out which exhibits would be housed in which rooms. Paintings in protective packaging lay stacked against walls in uneven rows, and in the central area a half-finished circular wooden plinth was being erected. Workmen’s tools and welding gear littered the floor. Voices echoed, bouncing off the high walls and windows.

Chay came to greet them, a tall, spindly man in his late forties, with grizzled grey hair and designer stubble, dressed in the fashion of an ageing rock star. His manner, which was one of faux-naif self-deprecation and modesty, masked an ego of considerable proportions and a talent for shameless self-publicity. Having initially managed to seduce the capricious mandarins of the modern art world into
accepting his work as brilliant and innovative, Chay was well aware that to keep his stock high depended as much on his personal visibility and the maintenance of a fashionable profile as it did on producing work of any intrinsic merit. To this end he cultivated the great and good from the diverse worlds of art, music and fashion, and was as likely to be found in the front row at Vivienne Westwood’s latest collection as to be seen slumming it in a trendy coffee bar in Whitechapel.

‘Hi.’ Chay transferred his Gauloise to his mouth and shook Leo’s hand. ‘Good to see you. Come and have a look round before the others get here. Most of the stuff’s still in storage, but some of the exhibits arrived today. This—’ He pointed to the half-finished plinth, ‘—is for the Beckman installation. It’s going to be enormous. A spiral of metal steps winding round a central bronze column, with video screens at intervals. They’ll be showing continuous film of Beckman washing his dog, interspersed with clips of ants gathering grains of rice. And I thought this room at the end here would be ideal for the dematerialists …’

Leo, who had an interest in modern art and a modest collection of his own, wandered off with Chay. Anthony, who couldn’t stand the stuff, his father’s work in particular, went through to the office to make himself some coffee.

Two of the other trustees had just arrived – Derek Harvey, the art critic, looking crumpled and weary, sporting his perennial raincoat over a polo-necked sweater and baggy jeans, and Graham Amery, a prominent banker whose elegant, pinstripe suit and shining, black shoes contrasted sharply with Derek Harvey’s appearance. Amery
and Anthony chatted while Derek wandered round the main gallery morosely examining unwrapped exhibits.

Tony Gear, Labour MP for Parson’s Green, arrived five minutes later. He cultivated a deliberately scruffy look, that of a man too busy to be concerned with his appearance, content with an M&S suit and a tie that had seen better days, and battered suede shoes which he fondly imagined were becoming something of a trademark. Gear was a man who believed in the profile and the soundbite, and although his interest in modern art was negligible, he had jumped at the chance to become a trustee of Chay’s museum. The word in Westminster was that the Prime Minister, keen to deflect recent attacks on the government’s arts-funding policy, intended to establish a new Ministry for Artistic and Cultural Development. In the true socialist spirit, Tony Gear was keen for advancement. He longed to hold that ministerial post, yearned to enjoy all the trappings of high office. To be associated with the Shoreditch venture did his reputation no harm in this regard. He raised a swift hand in greeting to Anthony and Amery, and went straight to the office to fetch himself some coffee, his pager already bleeping. Derek pulled a chair up to the makeshift meeting table and sat down, unfolding his copy of the
Evening Standard.

Just as Chay and Leo returned to the main gallery, Melissa Angelicos arrived, clad in a voluminous coat and a swirl of silken scarves, her capacious bag bulging with papers, her blonde hair loose. From three feet away Anthony could catch the heady drift of her perfume. She dumped her bag on a chair and began to divest herself of coat and
scarves, already addressing Derek in a rapid voice about the contents of Brian Sewell’s column in the
Standard.

Leo was careful to sit at the other end of the table from Melissa. She was, as far as he was concerned, bad news. He had seen the jittery, intense creature that lived behind the attractive facade, and mistrusted her. From the very first she had pursued him, and even when he had rejected and humiliated her, she seemed unwilling to give up. Leo was accustomed to the attentions of hungry, single, middle-aged women, but never had he come across one whose passion, he suspected, could turn poisonous and obsessive, if given free rein. He had no intention of allowing that to happen. On the infrequent occasions when he met her now, he was formally, almost frigidly polite. To his relief, she seemed of late to have cooled towards him. Well, he could live with that.