Rosa Samarasekera sashays towards Tom’s table in the Groucho, teetering on cocktail-stick-thin ankles, her royal blue Roland Mouret dress not doing much to restrict her enthusiastic stride.
‘Tommmmmm!’ she gushes, as she outstretches her arms for him to take her.
‘Rosa, hi,’ says Tom, as he stands and smooths down his shirt.
Rosa gives Tom two kisses and takes her Mulberry bag off the crook of her elbow, to place it on the leather wing-backed chair on the other side of Tom. She doesn’t want it to get in the way. He inhales her musky perfume and remembers the other night and then he thinks of Nena, crying in his arms about being a bad mother.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asks. Businesslike, formal.
Rosa looks around. At the sports broadcaster holding court at the bar; at the theatre director who just won an Oscar; at the former Bertie & Betty presenter who is coked up to the eyeballs and Tom is relieved not to have been spotted by. He leans back in his chair.
‘Cheeky Dog,’ she says with a wink.
Tom looks at the menu. Copper Dog whisky, Appleton rum, apple juice, lemon juice and ginger ale.
‘Sure,’ he says with a smile, as he calls a waitress over.
Rosa’s face is studious. Her gaze intent, as she watches him order, and they both watch the woman walk away.
‘Look, about the other night,’ Tom says, shuffling in his chair against the glossy petrol-blue wall behind him.
Rosa’s face lights up. She was hoping she could get his attention, to see him again, in another intimate corner of London. To be close to him again.
‘You made a mistake?’ she asks, raising one eyebrow and giving a little laugh.
‘No, really. I didn’t,’ Tom says, looking seriously into Rosa’s knowing eyes.
Rosa sighs and decides not to beat around the bush. She lowers her long hand and strokes Tom’s crotch. He feels her imprint and looks at her with pleading eyes.
‘I meant what I said.’
‘Come on. Don’t be such a tease, Tom. Honestly! Making me beg…’
‘I don’t want you to beg. In fact I don’t want any part of it.’
‘What?’
Rosa leans back and checks Tom’s face to see if he’s joking.
‘I meant it at The Savoy and I mean it now. I’m a happily married man and I don’t want to have sex with you.’
Rosa is so shocked, she lets a little gasp escape out of her glossed lips and removes her hand. Her face looks as wounded as her ego. She has never met a man who hasn’t wanted to sleep with her. Whether it’s the men she’s set up with on blind dates, enthusiastic junior doctors taking her from behind during a night shift, or consultants who shower her with luxurious gifts. She has never been turned down before. It is Rosa who says no. This has never happened, and she’s completely thrown. She tucks her neat hair behind her ear.
‘What are you talking about? You know we both want it. I can feel the chemistry, Tom, I know you can too.’
‘Rosa, you’re a beautiful woman, and I’m sure I’m extremely lucky – in fact I’m flattered that you would even look at me like that, but I’m just not interested.’
‘I thought you dragged me here—’
‘I hardly dragged you.’
‘Invited me here to put the other night right, to have me slide onto you. We could be doing that, Tom. I thought we had a connection.’
Rosa tries again, pressing her hand into Tom’s crotch under the table, stroking it more vigorously, more aggressively now.
‘Well, you thought wrong.’
Rosa’s face becomes petulant as she realises it’s not working.
‘And if you don’t take your hands off me, I will speak to HR about unwanted sexual attention and harassment.’
Rosa backs off sharply and laughs. ‘Are you serious?’
The waitress arrives with a Cheeky Dog and a sparkling water.
Tom picks up his glass and looks into it.
‘When was it a crime to tell someone you find them attractive? I can’t help the passion I feel for you.’
‘I didn’t invite you to touch me. I wouldn’t expect to touch you uninvited.’
‘You can! I won’t tell if you don’t…’ Rosa gives a sultry smile.
‘Please, Rosa, let’s not make this any more awkward than it already is. You’re doing a great job on My Brilliant Body, I don’t want this to get in the way of a bright career you have in broadcasting.’
Rosa stands, leans over the table and grabs her Mulberry tote, before throwing her Cheeky Dog in Tom’s face as she strides out.
‘What the—’
‘Bastard,’ she sighs under her breath.
As Rosa Samarasekera storms out through the low-lit and opulent bar, she makes eye contact with the sports presenter who’s holding court.
He wants me.