LADY MO: Two men and a date! Like three men and a baby! But not really, of course, due to the lack of baby. Which is good because, let me tell you, baby is big cramp of style on a date.
DARRELL: More like three men and a boat. I am all at sea, and feeling queasy.
LADY MO: Pourquoi? That is French for WTF? You are going on a date with the dishy ducal duo! Before, it was just like you were observing an amusing spoof of one of your whimsical smut-fests. Now, you are a main character! Life is imitating art! Well, not that your books could ever be classified as art, of course …
DARRELL: Thank you.
LADY MO: My point is not to pour scorn on your endeavours, though that is always good fun. My point is that if I were in your shoes, I would not be queasily half-hearted about it! I would be excited to the point of internal combustion! Like my first date with Chad. Had to put an ice pack on my face to calm the flush.
DARRELL: Chad is a nice person, though. I’m not so sure about ducal the younger.
LADY MO: Oh ho! Telling! Mention of ducal younger before ducal elder! Has object of your futile fantasy shifted?
DARRELL: Might I remind you that he called me cute and funny!
LADY MO: Leaving aside the fact that makes you sound like a Zhu Zhu Pet – may I remind you that only three seconds ago you wanted to boff toff one, not toff two!
DARRELL: Not sure toff one wants to boff me. Or anyone for that matter …
LADY MO: Will be very strange date then. Which is par for the course for posh freaks. But at least you’ll get a free dinner out of it.
DARRELL: Toff two says he does want to boff me. But he boff s anything with pulse, I suspect …
LADY MO: Hello! Are you seriously considering doing ducal younger? Or have you embarked on magic carpet to La-La Land? Tell the truth because despite my cynicism re: your fantasies, I have glimpsed the possibility of living vicariously through your hot sex escapades and if promised raunch does not eventuate, I will hunt you down and commit murder.
DARRELL: Sigh. Don’t know. I am hardly his type. Combo of us is all wrong – like hot pink and mustard yellow.
LADY MO: Actually, I have a Hermès scarf with touches of hot pink and mustard yellow. Looks quite swish, if I do say so.
DARRELL: All right then – maroon and teal.
LADY MO: Accept that is a shuddersome combo. My mother wears maroon stretch-waisted pants with teal high-neck jumpers. And dark blue cardies with matching slip-on shoes. Will never give in to teal and maroon when I am older! Will wear silver and look like Helen Mirren!
DARRELL: Arghh!! Hitting forehead against desk in despair! Had not yet thought of clothing requirement! WHAT SHALL I WEAR??????
LADY MO: What is your current choice of posh clobber?
DARRELL: Sod all. Only flash frock = plunging red halter-neck I wore for tenth wedding anniversary shindig.
LADY MO: Recall the pics. Very nice frock, too. But if you wear it, it will indicate your willingness to give blow job. Is that the signal you wish to give out? Many do …
DARRELL: What do you THINK?
LADY MO: In that case, I suggest something simple and classic with a hint of sexual unavailability. No spangles or sequins or gauzy mesh that makes it obvious you’re not wearing underwear. Black is always good.
DARRELL: Always thought little black dress = sexy?
LADY MO: Is very sexy but only because it conveys taste and restraint. A black dress says sex is all very well, but for now could you just light my cigarette?
DARRELL: Don’t smoke. But do get the point. Black makes no promises, but at same time doesn’t say no. One problem. Don’t have a black dress. Also don’t have any money.
LADY MO: Black dress or kneepads. Your choice. Sorry. Must dash. Harry has woken up. Cannot type while Harry is breakfasting. Apple porridge splatters infiltrate keyboard and cannot be removed except by initiation of nuclear device. Remember – if hot sex happens, I expect a report before sweat has dried! (Blow-by-blow if wearing red dress.)
DARRELL: May have died from humiliation by then.
LADY MO: Have fun! Report immediately. Bye-ee!
When I was sixteen, my father astonished me by saying, ‘We all have choices.’ I was less taken aback by the philosophical nature of his statement – my father generally preferred more concrete pronouncements, such as ‘Those who spell barbecue with a “q” have absolved their right to be treated as functioning members of society’ – than by what it said about him. Did he really believe that? As far as I could see, there had only ever been one path my father could have trod – the safe one. Career. Wife. Suburb. All safe. Car? A Volvo. Investments? Bonds. Secure, respectable and unlikely to cause comment – those were my father’s criteria for every aspect of his life. If he had been offered a V-necked sweater in any colour other than navy blue, he wouldn’t have even picked it up to check the size. Looking back now, I think both my parents made exactly the choices that suited them best, and they were happy with them. But at sixteen, I hated the thought that the only choice was a safe and dull one. At sixteen, I desperately wanted more.
Yet standing in the last clothes shop I’d visited, the most expensive one by miles, I realised my genes were more powerful than I’d suspected. I’d been to all the high street shops, and I’d found some nice enough black dresses at a good price. But they were all made of fabric that had a sheen of cheapness on it. Few were lined, and you could feel the seams against your skin. Darts were puckered and obvious, hems were uneven. If I’d been going out with friends, I wouldn’t have hesitated. High heels, a big, bold necklace, perhaps a belt, and any of the dresses would have been fine. But I wasn’t going out with friends. And I wasn’t going to the London Dungeon. I was going out with men who were in a whole different league, and who would expect a certain minimum standard. For the same reasons Julia Roberts had to go shopping on Wilshire Boulevard and Eliza Doolittle had to have a bath, I knew that if I rocked up tonight in a high-street dress, I would not fit in. I would embarrass the pair of them. I needed a dress like the one on the rack in front of me. It was a simple, classic, almost nineteen-forties-style dress with three-quarter sleeves, a sexily demure neckline and a skirt just above the knee. The fabric was light and velvety soft, and cut on the bias so I knew it would feel slinky and gorgeous. It was the perfect dress. It was also two hundred and fifty pounds.
Technically, I had the money. It was there, in the bank. But during my panicky phase, I had calculated how long all my money should last me, and then, as now, it did not seem long enough. Technically, if my book money came in, I could afford to splurge at least once. But I couldn’t be sure that it would. And I couldn’t bring myself to take the risk.
I walked out of the shop empty-handed. And sat on a bench in Islington Green and cursed Michelle for making it impossible for me to wear the red halter-neck, and cursed myself for being my father’s child, and cursed the fact I was going to settle for a dress that would probably make me sweat in all the wrong places and ride up whenever I walked.
‘Have the builders driven you out?’
It was Clare, my pregnant landlady. With a small grimace, she lowered herself onto the bench beside me and let out a sigh of relief.
‘I was quite fit once, you know,’ she said to me. ‘Decent core body strength. Good aerobic stamina. But it’s beaten me.’ She pointed at her bump. ‘Sapped every last bit of energy and muscular capacity. How can something that weighs barely three kilos do that to you?’
‘My friend says it all comes back,’ I told her.
‘Does it?’ She gave me a hard stare. ‘Tell me the truth. When this thing is out, am I going to look like one of those people who’ve lost vast amounts of weight, all yards of skin folds sagging like damp washing down to my knees?’
‘I’m pretty sure you won’t.’
‘Ha! Pretty sure!’ She glared at a passing pigeon. ‘I should be at work right now. But when I woke up, I had gastric reflux so bad I thought someone was in my stomach trying to shove a fistful of vindaloo all the way to my tonsils.’
‘That goes away. So do the fat ankles and the grossly inflated boobs.’
‘Oh.’ Clare sounded disappointed. ‘I quite like the boobs.’
‘Not the pregnant boobs. The breastfeeding boobs. The ones that make you feel – so I’ve been told – as if you have two Hindenburgs filled with milk strapped to your chest.’
‘Patrick would love that,’ she muttered darkly. ‘He’d care not a jot if I turned into a grotesquely swollen bovine, just as long as I had huge boobs.’
She gave me another hard stare. ‘Did the flowers look all right?’
My heart gave a sudden lurch. ‘Flowers?’
‘The roses!’ she said impatiently. ‘I used to buy yellow roses for myself every week. They looked so good with the colours of the house. I thought you might like them too.’
So it had not been Claude. I was jolted with disappointment. But what else could I say but, ‘I did like them. Thank you. It was – unexpectedly generous of you.’
‘You’re looking after my house,’ she said quickly, as if embarrassed. ‘And these stupid hormones are making me prone to expansive gestures. Most unlike me. I usually favour quite another kind of gesture.’ Then with an accusing tut, she added: ‘You didn’t say – are you here to escape the builders?’
I resisted pointing out that she hadn’t let me answer. ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I’m buying time to avoid buying a dress–’ I gave her the potted version. I was honest-ish about my financial state, but I did leave out Michelle’s prediction about what would happen if I wore the red halter-neck.
‘I’m hoping,’ I finished up, ‘that if I wait here long enough, someone will cast a size-ten vintage Chanel from a passing car. Or take pity on me and press the exact cost of the dress I want into my hand.’
‘Where’s the dress you want?’
‘Susy Harper.’
‘Ohh–’ Clare invested the word with such longing that I gazed at her in mild alarm. ‘I love that shop,’ she breathed. ‘It was my favourite. I haven’t been able to shop there in eons.’
She frowned at me, as if it were my fault. Then she said, ‘Where did you say you were going again? On this date?’
‘The Anderson? It’s a hotel–’
‘Yes, I know it.’ She gave me a sideways look. ‘It’s very glam. A place to be seen.’
‘Dimly lit glam like a jazz club?’ I asked hopefully.
‘That would rather defeat the idea of being seen, don’t you think? The restaurant is reasonably subdued. But the bar is all white walls and arty lighting. The bar itself looks like one of those novelty ice cubes that glow in your drink.’
My heart sank. I was done for. Burning shame would be mine tonight …
Clare was eyeing me up and down, somewhat critically I thought. ‘You and I are about the same size,’ she said. ‘Well, not now, of course. But I might have some dresses that will fit you. Are you interested?’
Is a shipwrecked man interested in not smelling like shark treats?
‘That would be enormously generous,’ I told her.
‘How could it be anything but?’ she said. ‘Look at the size of me.’
I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of house a rich London property developer should live in, but this one didn’t even feature among the contenders. I suppose I’d expected either something with a lot of glass and black and chrome furniture overlooking the Thames, or a mock mansion with fake columns and the latest in video surveillance.
Clare and Patrick’s house looked like the Big Bear version of mine. Admittedly, there was no council estate across the road, only other houses like it. And the street was quiet and leafy – no man on a bike yelling obscenities. And the cars parked along it were sleek, black Audis and Mercedes, instead of a brown Vauxhall Cavalier and a rustpitted Austin Princess. But apart from that, my – Clare’s old house and Clare’s new house were very similar.
Clare was rummaging in her bag for her keys.
‘You might be thinking it’s a bit creepy that Patrick’s house and mine are only ten minutes apart – like we were part of some neighbourhood sex-swapping circle–’
It hadn’t occurred to me in the slightest, but that didn’t matter because Clare pressed on.
‘Actually, we met at the Italian café. We were both early-morning regulars there–’ Clare wrenched her bag open wider and glared into it. ‘Where is that bloody key?’
Suddenly, the door swung open. A very large man loomed at us, causing me momentarily to catch my breath. But, of course, it was Patrick.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ demanded his loving wife.
‘A seagull that was either very unwell or in the pay of my enemies decided to shit all over my suit.’ He let us in and shut the door behind us. ‘So I came home to change.’
‘Don’t you have minions to do that sort of thing for you?’ Clare asked.
‘What? Shit on me? Sometimes it seems that way.’ Patrick bent and kissed her cheek. ‘How are you feeling? Better?’
She glowered at him. ‘You–’ She gave the word special emphasis. ‘–have no idea.’
Patrick grinned at me, unabashed. ‘I have no idea,’ he informed me. ‘How are you, Darrell? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Darrell,’ said Clare before I’d even opened my mouth, ‘is going to borrow a dress. A dress I used to fit into. A dress I used to look sexy and desirable in. A dress that will be going to Oxfam after this thing is out because of all the sagging fat folds I will be left with.’
I saw Patrick wince a little at the use of the word ‘thing’. But, in tones that were obviously meant to be hearty and reassuring, he said, ‘You’ll be back in shape in no time. You’re young. You’re fit.’
Clare’s look would have reduced a lesser man to a small smoking pile of ash. ‘Oh, so I’ll need to get back in shape, will I? Because you wouldn’t want a fat wife, would you now? No, I’ll need to slave for hours in the gym each day, won’t I, stopping only to plug the baby to my breast at perfectly timed intervals because God forbid I should do anything as un-maternal as bottle feed! And then, after all that, me and my toned arms will be put to work making you a three-course gourmet dinner, which I will serve wearing a glamorous dress unmarred by baby spit or breastmilk leakage, because that’s what real women do!’
Patrick said, ‘You forgot a couple of details. When I come home, I’ll expect the house to be spotless and the fridge well stocked with beer.’
Then he burst out laughing, drew his wife to him and tenderly kissed the top of her head.
‘I hate you.’ Clare’s voice was muffled by his shirt.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He kissed her again. And for a moment there, I thought I was going to die. Literally expire from the pain that ripped through me. I suppose I could be grateful it was only the second grief bomb that had struck me in Patrick’s presence. Now, just like at the café, I froze up but I did not cry. A grief bomb never resulted in tears. It was as if they stripped me of even that small release. When they hit, it felt as if everything that kept me warm and hopeful and alive was extracted from me abruptly and all at once, leaving me shivering in a skin that was now paper thin and unable to protect me.
Clare and Patrick. So different from Tom and me. But the love – that was exactly the same. And I missed it so badly, I did not think I could bear it.
Patrick released his wife from his embrace and she turned to me, her face smiling and relaxed and happy.
‘So? Shall we go and raid my wardrobe?’
I once heard a comedy skit on the radio, in which a British journalist in the Antarctic kept stating how glad he was of his Harris tweed. As I sat on a tall chair at the bar at the Anderson, which was less than half full at this early hour, I was very glad of Clare’s Matthew Williamson pleated georgette cocktail dress. I had no idea what it had cost her, but suspected that two hundred and fifty pounds didn’t even come close. The dress was not proper black but I thought Michelle would approve. The filmy fabric had a black ground, covered by a swirly, feathered pattern in the shimmery colours of oil on water. It had a high, straight-across neckline, softened by ruffle-edged short sleeves. Clare had leant me a wide, black patent belt that cinched in my waist. The skirt fell above the knee, which I was afraid might be a deal-breaker. But Clare pooh-poohed my fear of bulging knees. ‘Wear it with opaque black stockings,’ she said. ‘They suck in everything. Add black high heels, and you’ll look as though your legs go on forever.’
That wasn’t quite the case, as I saw when I looked in the mirror. But the rest of my reflection definitely passed muster. Someone who knew more about fashion than I did would probably be able to point out how the superior cut led the fabric to fall in such a flattering way, and how the overall look was so ‘now’ and yet also so classically timeless, blah, blah. All I could do was be very, very grateful.
Still, I wished that Marcus and/or Claude had offered to pick me up from my house rather than meet me at the bar. Clare was spot on – this was a glamorous place, for glamorous, socially confident people. The walls were covered in white gauze curtains. The long, wide bar did indeed glow, lit artily from within. The tall chairs around it were silver and white, and on each rounded back was painted a single large eye. It was as if the bar itself were assessing you as you came in. I wondered what would happen if you were found wanting. Would the eyes close slowly, as if in pain?
I had arrived just after eight, hoping like hell that Marcus and Claude would already be there. They weren’t. I’d found a chair and, doing my best not to touch the painted eye, I’d managed to get up onto it with reasonable grace. Clare had offered me another dress – a tight black Karen Millen sheath. I was glad I hadn’t been able to wrestle my way into it; I would never have made it onto the chair, let alone been able to sit down.
A barman coasted over to greet me and presented the cocktail menu. I hoped no one saw my eyes bug out as I clocked the prices. There was nothing under eleven pounds! The dress I’d been planning to buy from the high street only cost fifty-five! And I’d have been able to keep that!
But I couldn’t sit there and take up space. I ordered something called a Lady Killer. It was twelve pounds – I didn’t want the barman to think I was forced to go for the cheapest drink on the menu. I paid with my incredibly low-rent green Visa, but the barman took it without a second glance, instead of, as I’d feared, carrying it off by one corner as if it were a dead mouse.
As I waited for the drink to arrive, I worked hard to give the impression that I was perfectly at ease sitting here on my own. That required me to seem cool and aloof, completely uninterested in the bar’s other patrons. In truth, I was dying to gawk. But being unable to, I had to settle for a peripheral sense of what type of people were here. The buzz of conversation was animated and familiar, as if most people here knew each other. Body language was assured. Perfume smelled expensive. There were no flashes of garish colour; clothes were clean and stylish. I was not aware of anyone taking the slightest bit of notice of me. That was either a good sign – I was fitting in – or a bad one – I wasn’t interesting or pretty enough to draw attention.
As the minutes dragged, I found it harder to keep up the aloof act. My cocktail had long since arrived and though I had sipped at it slowly, it was nearly gone. Surreptitiously, I checked my watch. Eight-twenty. Past the point of not quite on time, and into the category of undeniably late.
I have never been purposefully stood up by a date. There had been a few times where he’d been delayed, or we’d cocked up the venue and missed each other – but those had been genuine mistakes. I had never been left alone by someone who had no intention at all of turning up. My heart started to beat faster. All the trouble I’d been through today! All the worry and effort! The humiliation of borrowing another woman’s dress! And I’d just spent twelve bloody quid on a drink I didn’t even want!
I bet it was Marcus’ fault. Claude would no more be unpunctual than he would wear unpressed trousers. I decided I’d give them five minutes, and then I’d leave. And I knew I’d be angrier at myself than at Marcus. What was I thinking, accepting an invitation from an arse? I should have known.
‘My God, you look amazing.’
He was standing at my shoulder, his head on a level with mine. Before I could say anything, he kissed me on the corner of my mouth, and for a second I went all weak and woozy. Until I glanced over his shoulder and failed to see his brother.
‘Where’s Claude?’
‘Ah–’
‘What do you mean Ah? Ah is not good, in any circumstance.’
‘Even when doctors ask you to say it?’
‘Especially then!’
‘Mm …’
‘And Mm is worse!’
My resentment intensified a hundredfold as I watched Marcus take a seat. Whereas I’d had to clamber, he sort of flowed onto the tall chair beside me. Then he offered me a brief apologetic smile. ‘Claude couldn’t come.’
‘Why couldn’t he? Did you actually ask him? And what kind of time do you call this?’
‘Any preference for which question I answer first?’
But then the barman slid over and asked Marcus what he’d like. He said, ‘Peroni.’ And the bar man slid away again.
‘That’s a beer,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s not on the menu.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘I’m a beer man.’
‘It’s not on the menu,’ I said again.
He eyed my cocktail. ‘Would you prefer a beer?’
My glass was empty but I had too much pride to order another. And not enough money, of course. Which helped with the pride thing. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘But I didn’t know I had a choice.’
His mouth twitched, as if I amused him. ‘You look amazing,’ he said again. ‘That dress is superb.’
‘Greaser.’
‘Guilty. But I do mean it.’
He looked pretty darn superb himself, I reluctantly had to admit. He was wearing a grey wool jacket with a faint white stripe. Under it he wore a shirt in a lighter grey, and a chunky tie just a shade darker. The trousers were dark grey and quite slim fitting. With all that grey on grey, it could have looked dull, but it all came together to make him look rather like a raffish schoolboy. One who was risking a caning for the unacceptable length of his hair.
However, I would sooner order another twelve pound cocktail than tell him he looked good. ‘Why couldn’t Claude come? You didn’t ask him, did you?’
He was no longer smiling. ‘Actually, I did. Look–’
His beer arrived, with a glass. He ignored the glass and took a quick swig straight from the bottle.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Parched. Look, you can tell me it’s none of my business, but did you seriously have designs on Claude – or was that just a bit of banter between us? Sometimes I lose track.’
I could feel the humiliating rise of another blush. Yellow roses leapt to mind, which didn’t help. But this time the jolt was more one of embarrassment than disappointment. Deep down, I knew those flowers could never have come from Claude. Just as I wasn’t really surprised that he was not here with us tonight.
I avoided Marcus’ eye, but I did at least answer honestly. ‘They weren’t very serious …’
‘Good. Because Claude is as clamped tight as an oyster, and has not the least intention of being shucked any time soon.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
He sighed. ‘It’s what he demonstrates with every facet of his life! I’m not entirely convinced it’s what he really wants, but–’
‘What do you care about what he wants?’ I was feeling hard done by and it was making me spiteful. ‘All you do is wind him up.’
‘Because when I’m around him, I feel utterly deficient. And it manifests itself in very bad behaviour. It always has …’
‘You don’t think–’ I stopped.
Marcus gave me a look. ‘What? That Claudie’s a closet arse-bandit?’
Obviously, this evening would be one continuous blush-fest. ‘Well–’
‘He isn’t. Believe me, I’ve had enough passes made at me by the real deal to know the signs.’
I did believe him. Mainly because the fact that he was willing and more than ready for any kind of sexual activity was obvious to all but the blind. Even then, it was possible they could scent it. At that moment, he was taking the opportunity to check out the room. His appraisal was swift but comprehensive. I felt sure that he now knew where every beautiful woman was, who they were with, and what level of interest they had shown when he had ever so briefly locked eyes with them. I had no idea whatsoever why he was bothering to have dinner with me.
It suddenly occurred to me that I would have no problem asking him that exact question. Which was a surprise, as being forthright about that kind of stuff was not standard behaviour for me. Angsting and delaying about it, as I’d done with Claude, was much more typical. If Tom hadn’t been the one to speak first on that bus ride, then we might never have got together at all. I wondered why it was different with Marcus? Perhaps it was because he did always tell the truth?
I leaned closer to him. ‘The blonde chick over there, in the blue suede dress,’ I said in his ear. ‘She’ll ditch the fat bald guy she’s with in an instant if you give her the nod.’
He gave a shout of laughter. ‘No, she won’t. He’s rich as Croesus, whereas I’m only a sap on an annual salary.’
‘How can you tell that? He just looks fat and bald to me.’
‘He arrived the same time as I did. Only I came by cab, and he was chauffeured in his Maybach.’
‘Simon Cowell has one of those.’
‘There you are then.’
I eyed him curiously. ‘Were you not left any money?’
‘As it happens, I was. But I can’t touch it until I’m fifty-five.’
‘Fifty-five?’
‘Our father was of the opinion that if I came into it any earlier, I might never do a single productive day’s work.’ He upended his bottle and finished his beer. ‘He was, of course, absolutely correct.’
‘But Claude got his money?’
Marcus gave me an even stare. ‘Claude is the eldest son. There’s a protocol, you know.’
I risked a personal question. ‘Claude said your father wasn’t a very happy man.’
Marcus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did he? Coming from Claude, that’s tantamount to a full and open disclosure. He does like you.’
I blushed yet again. ‘Not that much, it seems–’
He lifted a finger and touched me on the tip of my nose. It was a gesture that, coming from anyone else, I would have found repellently twee. From Marcus, it was delightful. It made me feel like a best friend, a co-conspirator.
‘He talks to you,’ he said, ‘so he must like you.’
I was not so sure Marcus was right. I also wasn’t sure how I felt about knowing that there was no point in pursuing Claude any longer. I was embarrassed that I’d made a bit of a fool of myself, definitely. But was I disappointed?
Marcus touched me on the arm. He clearly liked to touch, and as often as possible. ‘I’m starving. Let’s see if our table’s ready.’
He was about to get down from his chair, but I stopped him. ‘Why are you here with me?’
He blinked, taken aback. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well …’ I screwed up my nose. ‘You could do better.’
He tilted his head to one side, unsmiling. ‘You know, you’re right. I could have that blonde in the blue suede dress if I wanted to. I could have that girl in the see-through silver thing, too. And there’s also a rather handsome young man eyeing me up across the way there.’ He let out a breath and leaned forward. ‘I could have all of them if I chose. But the thing is – I have already chosen. I’ve chosen you.’
The soles of my feet were tingling again. ‘Chosen me for what, exactly?’
‘To relax with. To have fun with. To have, as they say, a laugh. To talk rubbish with. To get pleasantly drunk with. To have a good time with. No pressure. No demands. Does that sound like something you’d like to do, too?’
‘Is that – it? That’s all you want?’
‘Absolutely not! Are you offering?’
‘No!’
‘There was a tiny wobble of doubt in that word. I heard it.’
I bridled. ‘I’m sure you hear exactly what you want to hear.’
‘Indeed I do,’ he admitted with a smile. ‘But usually because people are actually saying it.’
‘Do you ever do anything you don’t want to do?’
‘I’ll put my back into a hard day’s work when it’s required. But apart from that, no. Why should I?’
It was a good question. And such a tough question for someone like me, brought up where the choices had been limited by the bounds of duty and safety. Even Tom – he did aim for the things he enjoyed. But he was also prepared to work for them, to wait. I wasn’t at all sure Marcus knew the meaning of the word. So what was my choice here? What choice should I make? A safe one? One that I wanted? Did I trust myself to know which was which?
I glanced around the bar. One thing I did know: this was not my kind of place.
‘Could we eat somewhere else?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘Anywhere you like.’
‘I don’t know anywhere.’
He stepped elegantly from his chair, and held out a hand to help me down from mine.
‘In that case,’ he said, ‘there’s only one place for us to go.’