Page 6 of Wild Horses

Grey clouds obscured the sun, casting sombre light over the Brisbane streets as Tyler gripped the wheel of his sleek black Mercedes.

He stole a glance at Leo, who sat slouched in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

Silence filled the car like a thick, suffocating fog.

For the first time he could remember, Tyler had switched off his phone and was resisting the urge to check it.

He could just imagine the frantic pile-up of messages and emails.

The owner and executive chef of Providence, Brisbane’s premier fine-dining restaurant, didn’t suddenly go incommunicado without causing a stir.

They reached the imposing gate of their residence and Tyler pressed the remote.

The sight of the apartment block’s modern, minimalist design usually pleased him, but today it seemed cold and austere.

Grace, his late wife, would have hated it.

After she died he’d sold their Federation home with its rambling grounds and wide verandahs.

He’d sold Leo’s pony and given away Grace’s beloved Bengal cats.

They’d harboured too many painful memories.

He tried not to think about what that must have been like for five-year-old Leo – not only losing his mother and his pets, but at the same time going from sandpit, cubbyhouse and adventure garden to this spare place. It didn’t even have a courtyard.

As Tyler waited for the gate to open, the import of the day’s events settled even more heavily on his shoulders.

He checked the time. Five o’clock. He had to get Leo to Currawong Creek by tomorrow afternoon and it was at least a three-hour drive.

They didn’t have much time to prepare and pack.

Leo’s boarding school wouldn’t be a problem.

They’d expelled him two days ago. The restaurant was more of a challenge.

He could imagine what Henri, sous chef at Providence, would say when he told him.

I’ll be leaving for a month, mate. You’re in charge.

The International Food Festival? Yeah, I know it’s about to start, and we’ve just won that award and there’s a television special coming up. But you can handle things, right?

The door closed behind them and a private lift took them upstairs.

The apartment was a testament to Tyler’s success as a celebrity chef.

High ceilings were adorned with crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow across the polished marble floors.

Opulent furnishings nestled among tasteful artworks.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the river and Brisbane’s skyline.

Tyler glanced at Leo, who suddenly seemed small amid the grandeur. He slumped into the plush sofa; his thin frame was almost swallowed by the cushions.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Tyler. ‘What say I whip up some pancakes?’

‘Whatever.’

Well, that wasn’t a no . Tyler went to the kitchen and deftly sifted flour, letting it cascade like talc into a mixing bowl.

Cracking eggs with one hand, he blended them seamlessly, relaxing into the process.

The sizzle of batter hitting the hot pan was soon accompanied by the comforting aroma of pancakes.

As he flipped them with a flourish, a smile played on his lips.

This wasn’t gourmet fare for his high-end clientele; it was a simple dinner, but one imbued with love, meant for his most important critic – his teenage son.

When Tyler took the plates of pancakes into the sitting room, he found Leo in animated conversation with someone on his phone. ‘Who are you talking to?’

Leo glanced up, rolling his eyes. ‘A friend. What’s it to you?’ The conversation continued.

A surge of anger hit Tyler. One or more of Leo’s so-called friends had caused all his problems. He must have bought the weed from somebody. Tyler snatched the phone from his son and shoved it into his own pocket.

Leo leaped up and his face went red. ‘Give me the fucking phone!’

Tyler shook his head, warding him off when he tried to grab it.

Leo stood, feet apart, panting like he’d been for a run. ‘About that stupid horse camp? I’ve changed my mind. I’m staying here in Brisbane.’ Then he went to the table and upended the plates of pancakes. Maple syrup dripped all over the Mark Alexander rug.

Tyler wrestled to regain his cool. The school counsellor had diagnosed Leo with depression, labelling him as fragile .

Tyler had to tread carefully, had to build bridges rather than tear them down.

But Leo wasn’t making it easy. ‘I know this is hard to accept,’ he said, ‘but it’s important to understand that your friends may not have been the best influence on you.

They were part of the reason you ended up in this mess. ’

‘You don’t know anything about me or my friends!’ Leo crossed his arms defensively. ‘They actually care about me, and not just when it’s convenient.’ With that he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Tyler realised with a pang of shame that he didn’t even know who Leo’s friends were. His PA was responsible for facilitating Leo’s social life when he wasn’t at boarding school. The sound of another door banging signalled Leo’s retreat to his bedroom – a fortress against the world.

Tyler followed, calling his name. But there was no response from behind the locked door, only the muffled sounds of angry, frustrated sobs. Fear grabbed hold of Tyler’s chest, making it difficult to breathe. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip away – for both their sakes. ‘Leo, we need to talk.’

‘Go away,’ came the muffled reply. ‘I’m not going anywhere, and you can’t make me!’

‘Damn it, Leo!’ said Tyler. ‘This is your future we’re talking about – your life. Don’t you want a chance at something better than jail?’

There was a long silence. Tyler could imagine his son on the other side of the door, his back pressed against the wall, eyes filled with tears, unsure of what to do next. For the millionth time he wished that his wife, Grace, was there with them.

‘Leo,’ Tyler pleaded, ‘I don’t want to do this, but if you won’t open the door and agree to go to Currawong Creek, I’ll call the police and they’ll arrest you tonight.

’ A tense, gut-wrenching moment passed before he heard the soft sound of a lock turning.

The door swung open, revealing Leo’s red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face.

‘Can I come in?’ Tyler asked, torn between relief his son had relented, and the anguish he felt for pushing him to this point.

Leo stepped aside, allowing Tyler into the room. A suffocating tension hung between them. As Tyler surveyed the cluttered space – posters of rock bands plastered on the walls and dirty laundry scattered on the floor – it struck him just how little he knew about his own son’s world.

‘Pack your stuff,’ Tyler said, forcing himself to focus. ‘We leave first thing in the morning.’

Leo shrugged.

‘I’m trying to be there for you, Leo. Can’t you see that?’

‘By threatening to call the cops on me? Yeah, great job, Dad.’

‘Come on, Leo!’ Tyler’s voice rose, his own hurt surfacing. ‘I’m doing the best I can.’ He swallowed hard as tears threatened. ‘Just pack, okay?’

Tyler watched as Leo grabbed a sports bag from the top of his wardrobe and began randomly throwing clothes into it.

His face was blank, his eyes downcast. Tyler’s heart ached as he thought back to a time before Grace died.

When Leo was small enough to sit on his shoulders as they walked along the beach near their old house.

His delighted laughter as Tyler swung him through the air.

The way Leo would fall asleep curled against him as they read bedtime stories.

Leo zipped up the bag with a decisive jerk. ‘I’m packed,’ he said flatly, not meeting Tyler’s eyes.

‘Get some rest, then. We have a long drive tomorrow.’ Without waiting for a response, Tyler turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door behind him.