Chapter 20

JOHN WAS APPALLED by everything at PizzaExpress, and although he tried manfully to avoid showing it, the rushed, sweating waiters, screaming children, and unwiped tabletop brought out the worst in him. Being John, he became more and more stuffy. “I suppose this establishment is very American?” he inquired, using a napkin to blot the grease from the top of his pizza slice.

“We have many pizza places in New York that are much better than this,” I replied calmly.

“Daddy, isn’t this brilliant?” Henry enthused. A long string of cheese dangled from his chin like a wispy goatee, and his cheeks wore smears of tomato sauce. He was having a marvelous time.

“Delightful,” John agreed politely. He forked up a piece of limp iceberg lettuce and eyed it dubiously. I had warned him against the “salad,” but he’d refused to listen.

Jane, more perceptive than her siblings, jumped into the fray. “Daddy, have you ever met the prime minister?” she asked with a show of interest.

He unbent enough to smile at her. “Yes, darling, many times.”

“Is his wife pretty?” asked Katherine.

“Uh . . .”

I thought of the dowdy, frumpy wife currently ensconced at 10 Downing Street; she never appeared in public without her giant mastiff dog, whom she very closely resembled.

“One misses Cherie Blair,” John finally said.

Katherine looked blank. “Who?”

“Did you like Tony Blair, then?” I asked.

John made a rude sound. “New Labour? Ha!”

I had always found Tony Blair quite good-looking, but I held my tongue; John would think me as empty-headed as Katherine if I said so. Instead I said, “Doesn’t your mother live in London, John? Perhaps we should take the children to visit her.” After Jane’s confidences about the countess, I was keen to meet her and see if the resemblance to my mother held up in person.

John looked acutely uncomfortable, and Henry shifted uneasily. “She keeps a very busy schedule,” John said.

“But don’t you think she would like to see—?”

“She always tells me to straighten up and stop nattering,” said Katherine.

“She scares me,” said Mary.

“She practically genuflects to me,” said Jane, surprisingly. “Because I’m Lady bloody Jane Grey.”

I stifled a smile. John said wearily, “Jane, you mustn’t say that.”

“But—”

I interrupted, “So shall we go visit her?”

He shuddered. “I’d rather visit every public loo in London,” he murmured for me alone to hear.

Henry overheard and grinned widely.

As if to compensate for his momentary weakness, John launched into a tedious lecture on the decorative arts at the Victoria and Albert. At last Katherine interrupted. “I’m falling asleep here, and Henry’s head is in his pizza. Could we please go now?”

“Certainly,” John said. “Jordy and I can continue our discussion later. In private.”

He was careful not to look at me, but I felt a delicious little tingle anyway. Whatever we “discussed” in private, it certainly wouldn’t be the decorative arts.

— – — – —

John rarely engaged in pillow talk, either before or after sex. But that night in bed, he put his arm around me afterward and said, “Thanks for making this a good weekend for the kids.”

I told him he was welcome. Perhaps he was so awkward with them because of his own upbringing; I could certainly empathize with that. And it was fun to see the imperturbable John so flummoxed by four young children. Perhaps I should share my Evernotes files with him.

“I always think I have to make sure they’re educated and disciplined,” he continued. “Aline didn’t care if they went to school or not, if they washed or not. Once she even lost Katherine in Trafalgar Square.”

I understood now why he had assumed (so insultingly) that I wouldn’t care properly for the kittens, and I began to forgive him. In his own way, he was trying so hard—perhaps too hard—to be a good father.

“You might find it easier if you didn’t take it quite so seriously,” I suggested. “Children should be fun. Not just hard work.” At least that was what the websites told me.

“How do you know?” he asked, as if he really wanted to know. “And how did you know what they would enjoy here in London?”

“I just Googled ‘London with children.’ I always do my research.”

“I believe that,” said John. “I imagine you were quite good at your job.”

“I was,” I said. “Until I wasn’t.”

He looked at me in inquiry.

“We were taken over by AmCan, and then I was out sick for ages—I had meningitis—and then I made a mistake on a trade. Not a huge mistake, but it was bad timing with a new boss and . . .” I trailed off.

John shrugged. “Mistakes happen.”

In Lucian’s world, mistakes were unforgivable. You’d think I had single-handedly launched nuclear missiles at the White House, Microsoft, and most importantly, AmCan Bank.

“And that reminds me,” John said. He sat up and rummaged through the wallet he’d tossed on the bedside table. “My solicitor received this notice from a law firm in New York. It’s meant for you, but they were unable to reach you so they sent it in care of my solicitor, since I’m your landlord. It appears to be quite serious.” He handed me a thin envelope. I snapped on the discreet bedside lamp and sat up, too, pulling my discarded New York City Ballet T-shirt on over my head. I gazed at the envelope as if it were a snake.

“Legal troubles?” John asked.

I sighed. “Yes.”

“Serious?”

“Yes.”

“Avoiding communications from the solicitors is not sensible,” he advised helpfully.

I glared at him.

“Open the bloody envelope!”

— – — – —

John dragged the whole sorry story out of me, even about Lucian. When I stopped talking, there was a long silence.

Finally, he said, not unsympathetically, “Well. You have been through a bad time, haven’t you?”

For a moment, shockingly, I wanted to throw myself into his arms and sob, let him stroke my hair, tell me everything would be all right. But that would never do. I had been raised to despise that as weakness, and so, I suspected, had John.

“Yes,” I said. “But I’m fine now.”

“Indeed,” he said. “We will see to that.”