CHAPTER 32
George
As we pull up outside the restaurant, I cringe immediately. There’s nothing wrong with it, but the people are always there to be seen, to show off, not to enjoy. They’re certainly not there for the food.
Perhaps I’m being a snob. It’s just not my thing.
I see Leo waiting by the entrance. She’s turned away from us, but looks fantastic in all black, her smart jeans hugging that grabbable arse.
I’ll have to keep my hands to myself tonight though. The last thing I need is Gordon on my case, although it’s pretty obvious what’s happening. I just don’t want him to be a part of it. It’s too new, too special for his negativity.
I get out and immediately there’s a flash. I turn, frowning as I see a few photographers waiting at the side. Another reason I avoid places like this.
I walk forward quickly, not waiting for Gordon, and I open the door, signalling for Leo to go through first. Head bowed, she hurries in, and I shut the door behind us, hoping for a few seconds alone.
She turns and I fight my smile. She’s wearing her signature pearls, hair tucked back; her green eyes are sparkling, seductive, brown flicks either side, with thick dark lashes. Her lips are a kissable shiny cherry red, I wonder if they taste as good as they look.
‘Fuck me, Leo.’ I look her up and down, giving a quick wink as she ducks to smile, just as Gordon walks in.
He’s angry. ‘How did they know we were here?’ He turns to Leo. ‘You didn’t tip them off I hope.’
She blanches but recovers well, her face bland.
‘No, Mr Hampden, I can assure you it was neither me nor the restaurant. They’re used to dealing with celebrities.
’ She looks at him, unafraid. ‘Likely they’re stationed there most evenings, waiting for someone to turn up; it’s often the case with this kind of restaurant. ’
‘Mmm.’ Gordon doesn’t bother with a real response. He turns to the hostess. ‘Table for four, Gordon Hampden.’
‘Four?’ I ask, confused. ‘Who else is joining?’
‘You’ll see, Georgy,’ Gordon smirks as they lead the way.
The table is smack bang in the middle of the room and I’m already uncomfortable. I hate being looked at and this is prime position. I can already feel the glances, hear the whispers. I school my features, jaw set, eyes down as we make our way over.
Little difficult to be inconspicuous at 6 foot 4.
‘Oh, my darling boys!’ I look up and actively fight the anger rising within me. ‘I haven’t seen you in so long, my little Gordy, my gorgeous Georgy!’
As predicted, she’s looking younger than ever. It’s scary, cold. There’s nothing maternal about this woman. I think of Leo, soft and real. The contrast is obvious.
My mother jumps up, air kissing Gordon before moving over to me. ‘My beautiful boy, so handsome . . .’ she sighs, pushing forward her cheek for a kiss. I robotically oblige.
‘Mother.’ Leo is standing awkwardly to the side. ‘This is Leo James. My—’ I pause, noting Gordon’s eyebrows raise. ‘She’s working with us. From Mayfair Lifestyle.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hampden.’ Leo holds out a hand sweetly.
‘Lady Hampden, dear.’ My mother barely takes it, before dropping hers and turning to Gordon. ‘Why did you book this ghastly place? L’Avenue busy?’
The hostess is still next to us, waiting for us to sit down. I feel myself turning inward again.
‘It was Miss James’s choice. Popular with their members apparently!’ He smirks, taking out her chair. ‘Couldn’t get us into L’Avenue. Should have called myself.’
‘I . . .’ Leo stutters, her cheeks slightly pink with frustration, before taking a breath. ‘Apologies, Lady Hampden. But if you like L’Avenue, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it here too.’
The hostess leaves the menus, clearly wanting to escape. My mother doesn’t look at Leo. ‘Let’s see.’ She turns to Gordon, then me. ‘So, my darlings, how are you? What brings you to Paris?’
I see Leo’s brow crease. She’s not used to this.
‘George has a tournament, Mother,’ Gordon supplies.
‘Oh really? How is it going, Georgy?’ She feigns interest.
‘My first match is tomorrow.’ I keep my eyes down, not wanting to catch Leo’s expression.
‘How fun! Well do keep me posted. Maybe I’ll come and watch,’ she says flatly. She looks at her menu, distracted. ‘Where is it?’
‘Roland-Garros.’ I don’t bother to explain.
‘Oh. I recognize the name.’ She thinks for a second. ‘Is that a famous one? Clarissa is going with her husband, I think. I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about when she mentioned it.’
Gordon shrugs. ‘It’s fairly big, Mother.’
‘It’s one of the biggest tournaments in the world. It’s a Grand Slam.’ I look up at Leo’s voice. She’s calm. Polite.
‘Is that right?’ My mother’s voice is bored. ‘Well, well, Georgy.’ She nods her head before turning to Gordon. ‘Darling, how is Hugo? Awful news, I can’t believe he would do that, and with her!’
They’re off, chatting away about people I don’t care about, doing things I also don’t care for.
It’s excruciating at the best of times spending time with my mother, not that it happens often.
Growing up, the endless supply of nannies, coaches, tutors, even the gardener once, were the ones picking me up from school, spending the evening with me.
Getting to know me. Supporting me and helping me through my formative years.
But as close as those relationships can be, it’s not the same when they’re getting paid to be with you.
And eventually they leave. I learned to deal with it growing up and it didn’t seem so abnormal at boarding school.
But I still feel a pang every time I see a player call their mum after a win.
Or when they head over for a cuddle for comfort after a loss.
I can’t remember a single time when my mother hugged me.
But, as I said, I’m used to it. And, thanks to Hope, I’m over it. Mostly.
I try to peek at Leo without being obvious. Her face is bland, professional. I recognize it from the first day we met in Cece’s office. I desperately want to know what’s going on underneath. She’s not used to this.
The hostess returns. ‘May I offer a complimentary glass of champagne?’
My mother looks her up and down. ‘From who?’
‘From us, madame.’ She looks to Leo, who nods encouragingly. ‘Organized by Mademoiselle James.’ She smiles.
‘How presumptuous,’ my mother mutters under her breath, before breaking into a fake smile. ‘Of course, thank you.’
Leo takes hers, turning to me. ‘You have kombucha. I thought it might be best with the match tomorrow, but I can always get you something else.’
‘Thank you.’ My voice comes out cold, a result of being in the presence of my family, but inside I feel a warm spark at her thoughtfulness. I hold onto that.
My mother raises an eyebrow along with her glass. ‘Gosh, you’ve thought of everything.’ It could be a compliment, but not the way she’s saying it.
Leo takes a gulp of champagne.
It’s going to be a long night.