Page 40 of Crave

I set the cup down too hard. “Why is this suddenly my fault? You heard he cheated, yes?”

“Yes, and that’s dreadful.” A beat. I waited for the but. “But honestly, darling, did you really give him your full attention? At the Lords’ party last month, you two were barely in the same room.”

She was right. Of course, she was right. That was the problem.

“You could have a quieter life, you know.” She flicked her gaze over me, appraising. “You just choose not to.”

“Quieter or smaller?” I stirred honey into my tea.

“Safe.” Her smile was too gentle. “You could be safe.”

Safe. What a word to choose.

As if safety were a birthright she could gift, not a luxury most people never touched. She’d heard the stories, of course. Saw the news. Protests, riots, violence creeping into the city. And she heard what Father dealt with in the courtroom. But to her, London’s chaos happened on the other side of tinted glass. My choice not to apply for pupillage this year, to stay a student instead, in a house not smelling of old money and expectation, gnawed at her.

“In the house with Father?” I shook my head. “I’d suffocate before the end of the week.”

“Oh, don’t be unkind. He pushes only because he wants you to be brilliant. You’re so alike.”

That was the tragedy, wasn’t it?

He wanted me to be his reflection, and she wanted to polish the glass.

Mother sighed, leaning back and crossing her legs to drape her silk wrap over them. “You know, Tristan, when you were little, you used to tell people you wanted to be an artist. Or a chef. Or a pilot. Every year it changed. But the moment you shadowed your father in court, you stopped saying anything else. You came home glowing. You’d never looked so proud.”

“I was twelve.” I rolled my eyes. “I glowed because I’d been allowed to skip school.”

“You were proud because you wanted him to be proud. It’s the same thing, really. Same as Marcus. And look how proud we are of him.”

I didn’t answer. The tea had gone lukewarm, and the jasmine smelt faintly of soap.

Raquel appeared then, discreet and smiling. “Would you like to continue your day with a facial or the oxygen treatment, Mrs Hale-Fitzroy?”

“Oh, not today.” Mother slipped her sunglasses onto her head, pushing back her salon-beautiful blonde hair trailing her shoulders in blow-dried perfection. “My son’s had quite enough pampering for one morning. Haven’t you, darling?”

“More than enough.”

Raquel nodded graciously, as if we’d concluded a diplomatic meeting, and drifted away. We collected our things in the changing suite. Her bag, my folded jumper, the perfumed towels waiting in neat stacks. The ritual was smooth, seamless. That’s what luxury buys: the illusion that the world has soft edges.

Outside, Knightsbridge was bright with the early afternoon. The pavement shimmered from the recent rain; taxis lined up like black beetles, engines purring. Across the street, Amelia paid for her shopping, visible through the shop window, a flash of blonde ponytail and shopping bags swinging from her wrist.

Mother looped her arm through mine, then waved to Amelia. “Come. Let’s have lunch. There’s a place in Harcourt Gardens that does a divine truffle risotto.”

I let her steer me because resistance always looked like cruelty with her, but I declined as politely as I could. “I’ve got to get back. I have an essay due. Library. All very academic.”

She looked at me over her sunglasses. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Tristan.”

“I learnt from the best.”

She squeezed my arm. “You make it sound like I’ve done something dreadful.”

“You haven’t; you’ve just perfected gentle manipulation.”

“That’s called parenting.” She prodded my nose. “You’ll understand one day, when you have children.”

“I’m not sure that’s on the cards.”

“Oh, don’t be defeatist. You’re twenty-three, not ninety. You’ll find someone.”