Read A Perfect Obsession for Free Online
Authors: Caro Fraser
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 intoaccepting 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
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 intoaccepting 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