Unsettled, he shook his head, trying to erase that absurd thought. He liked his home; he’d hired one of the best interior designers in London to decorate it, and he had been pleased with the result. A couple of comments from your eccentric neighbor, Sinclair, and you change your mind as quickly as Berlusconi changes twenty-something mistresses, he scolded himself. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him lately. He considered himself a reasonably happy man; he had planned his life around very clear goals and had steered toward them without drifting a single millimeter off course. And yet, for a while now, he’d felt a niggling sense of dissatisfaction, as if something was missing. But that has nothing to do with Catalina Stapleton, he told himself. It’s just shock. The shock of realizing that not only do I not love Alison, who I was considering marrying until only a few weeks ago, but that I don’t even like her. Leopold had always felt completely self-aware, and he was at a loss as to how he’d managed to deceive himself about Alison for the last two years.
