‘Not really. London’s crawling with would-be artists. The market’s a bit saturated. Still, it’s what I like to do, and working here pays the bills.’ He gave Leo a candid smile. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever make a living as an artist.’
‘What you need,’ said Leo, ‘is a return to the old-fashioned system of patronage. Someone with enough money to pay you and promote your work.’
‘My work’s probably not worth it.’
‘But maybe you are,’ said Leo gently. He drew on his cigar, watching the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Joshua.’ His expression as he looked at Leo was somehow more intent, as though Leo’s words had made an intimate connection. ‘Joshua Spencer.’
‘A good name for an artist. I’m Leo Davies.’ He held out a hand, and the boy shook it. It did something strange to Leo’s heart, just to feel those young, strong fingers in his.
‘You were in here a couple of weeks ago,’ said Joshua. Surprised, pleased, Leo nodded. ‘With Chay Cross - that’s why I remember.’ Leo gave a rueful little smile. The innocent tactlessness of the young. But if Joshua had been here thatnight, Leo was astonished that he should have not seen and remembered him. ‘He comes in here quite often,’ added Joshua.
‘I work with his son,’ said Leo. ‘We’re barristers.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Joshua nodded, preparing to move away.
‘I meant what I said,’ murmured Leo. ‘About patronage. Every young artist should have some sort of - protection.’ Joshua’s eyes met his, and Leo knew instantly that he had found his wavelength. It was unmissable. Was the boy gay? How could he look the way he did and not be? ‘I’d like us to get together some time, to talk about your work. Maybe I could help you.’
This was the moment. If he wanted, Joshua could just walk away. But instead he held Leo’s gaze and said, ‘I’d like that.’
‘Tonight?’ asked Leo. ‘When do you finish?’
Joshua shook his head and glanced quickly in the direction of the bar, as though embarrassed or guilty. ‘Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I finish around eleven.’
Oh, Lord, thought Leo. Late nights weren’t much his thing any more. Still, this boy had to be worth it. ‘Fine.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘You can bring the bill with the coffee.’
When Leo left the Galleria Flore, it was with a new sense of pleasure and anticipation. He had no illusions. There was no reason to suppose that the young man found him attractive, though Leo didn’t regard himself as quite past it at forty-five, but he had detected a spark of interest there. Maybe it was mercenary. Maybe it was intellectual. He would find out. Joshua Spencer, whom he had met only this evening, wanted to spend some time with him and that was a start.
Charles Beecham glanced up as Rachel came into the kitchen. ‘Hello. I wasn’t expecting you this early.’ He leant sideways from the sink where he was peeling potatoes and kissed her. He was a tall, rangy man, with greying blond hair and features which, though now a little worn, still possessed enough boyish charm to captivate countless female viewers of his popular historical television documentaries. ‘How did it go?’
‘Don’t ask,’ sighed Rachel. ‘Just the same old Leo, as obstinate and unreasonable as ever.’
‘I have to say’, said Charles, shaking his head, ‘that that’s not the Leo Davies I recall. When I knew him he was persuasive, adaptable, thoroughly reasonable and utterly charming.’
‘You only have that slant on him because he was so successful for you and the other Lloyd’s Names,’ remarked Rachel, subsiding into a chair and slipping off her shoes.
‘True, he did save me from financial disaster. For which I am eternally grateful.’
‘I don’t deny that Leo can be all the things you think he is. But where Oliver is concerned, it’s like talking to a brick wall. He can’t see how unreasonable it is to want to have him to himself every other weekend.
‘What you need,’ said Leo, ‘is a return to the old-fashioned system of patronage. Someone with enough money to pay you and promote your work.’
‘My work’s probably not worth it.’
‘But maybe you are,’ said Leo gently. He drew on his cigar, watching the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Joshua.’ His expression as he looked at Leo was somehow more intent, as though Leo’s words had made an intimate connection. ‘Joshua Spencer.’
‘A good name for an artist. I’m Leo Davies.’ He held out a hand, and the boy shook it. It did something strange to Leo’s heart, just to feel those young, strong fingers in his.
‘You were in here a couple of weeks ago,’ said Joshua. Surprised, pleased, Leo nodded. ‘With Chay Cross - that’s why I remember.’ Leo gave a rueful little smile. The innocent tactlessness of the young. But if Joshua had been here thatnight, Leo was astonished that he should have not seen and remembered him. ‘He comes in here quite often,’ added Joshua.
‘I work with his son,’ said Leo. ‘We’re barristers.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Joshua nodded, preparing to move away.
‘I meant what I said,’ murmured Leo. ‘About patronage. Every young artist should have some sort of - protection.’ Joshua’s eyes met his, and Leo knew instantly that he had found his wavelength. It was unmissable. Was the boy gay? How could he look the way he did and not be? ‘I’d like us to get together some time, to talk about your work. Maybe I could help you.’
This was the moment. If he wanted, Joshua could just walk away. But instead he held Leo’s gaze and said, ‘I’d like that.’
‘Tonight?’ asked Leo. ‘When do you finish?’
Joshua shook his head and glanced quickly in the direction of the bar, as though embarrassed or guilty. ‘Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I finish around eleven.’
Oh, Lord, thought Leo. Late nights weren’t much his thing any more. Still, this boy had to be worth it. ‘Fine.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘You can bring the bill with the coffee.’
When Leo left the Galleria Flore, it was with a new sense of pleasure and anticipation. He had no illusions. There was no reason to suppose that the young man found him attractive, though Leo didn’t regard himself as quite past it at forty-five, but he had detected a spark of interest there. Maybe it was mercenary. Maybe it was intellectual. He would find out. Joshua Spencer, whom he had met only this evening, wanted to spend some time with him and that was a start.
Charles Beecham glanced up as Rachel came into the kitchen. ‘Hello. I wasn’t expecting you this early.’ He leant sideways from the sink where he was peeling potatoes and kissed her. He was a tall, rangy man, with greying blond hair and features which, though now a little worn, still possessed enough boyish charm to captivate countless female viewers of his popular historical television documentaries. ‘How did it go?’
‘Don’t ask,’ sighed Rachel. ‘Just the same old Leo, as obstinate and unreasonable as ever.’
‘I have to say’, said Charles, shaking his head, ‘that that’s not the Leo Davies I recall. When I knew him he was persuasive, adaptable, thoroughly reasonable and utterly charming.’
‘You only have that slant on him because he was so successful for you and the other Lloyd’s Names,’ remarked Rachel, subsiding into a chair and slipping off her shoes.
‘True, he did save me from financial disaster. For which I am eternally grateful.’
‘I don’t deny that Leo can be all the things you think he is. But where Oliver is concerned, it’s like talking to a brick wall. He can’t see how unreasonable it is to want to have him to himself every other weekend.
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