her? Tanya was stunning, tempestuous, a handful. The sort of woman who broke men’s hearts for a pastime. Although Simon protested that he had fallen out of love with her years and years ago, Stephanie knew that you could still love someone who treated you badly. Even when you’d found a replacement. And I don’t know what I’d do without you wasn’t the sort of thing you said to someone you’d lost your soul to. It was the sort of thing you said to a reliable cleaning lady.
Stop it , Stephanie told herself. Where on earth was this paranoia coming from? Of course Simon loved her. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? And it was probably because she was nothing like Tanya. Tanya: who dressed provocatively and flirted outrageously and took cocaine in the loo at dinner parties even though she knew it would ruin Simon’s career if it ever got out, because Tanya was, above all else, selfish.
Simon was probably relieved to have someone calm and sensible and trustworthy by his side. And she wasn’t that boring, Stephanie chastised herself. Starting your own café and having people queue out of the door every lunchtime wasn’t boring. She thought of her café window with pride – the giant pistachio-studded meringues, the raspberry tartlets, the legendary brownies – everything piled high, higgledy piggledy to the onlooker but actually just so, proportions and colours and amounts exactingly calculated so the display looked its absolute enticing best . . .
Tanya, Simon told her, was only good at spending money.
Besides, Stephanie thought with a minxy grin, she had fifteen years on Tanya. She might not be quite so glam, but she didn’t need Botox.
She brushed her misgivings to one side. She wasn’t going to sulk. Simon had given her an explanation, and an apology, and that was enough.
Seven
I t was the crispest of April mornings: still cold, but optimistically bright, the kind that filled your heart with joy at the thought of the warmer months to come. People blinked at the dazzling sun as they emerged from the Tube into Victoria Station and spilled out onto the concourse. Pigeons pecked for crumbs amidst the scurrying feet and litter. Train announcements boomed out over the heads of the commuters, the words floating up into the tiny puffs of white cloud in the blue sky, never to be heard again.
Archie strode under the departure board, past all the people with upturned faces waiting for their platform to be announced. He had a battered leather Gladstone in one hand, and an ancient Burberry mac that had belonged to his grandfather slung over his right shoulder. He was wearing a Tattersall check shirt and a silk tie and corduroys – he hoped he was smart enough. He didn’t want to wear his dark suit. It had had enough wear over the past couple of weeks, what with all the trips to the solicitor and, of course, the funeral. He didn’t care if he never saw it again.
Across the crowded platform, he could see the lounge where passengers waited for the English rake – the Pullman that would take them to Folkestone. There they would cross the Channel to Calais, where the Continental rake, comprising the historic wagons-lits, would await them. An elegant couple, arm in arm, were about to walk in. She was in golden, calf-length fur, while he was sporting an immaculately cut Savile Row suit. Archie watched as the door was opened for them by a uniformed steward, and they slipped inside.
He wasn’t ready for this. He looked around to see if he could find a bar open. Just a quick Scotch, to give him some Dutch courage. Anyone would need a drink in this situation, surely? Although . . . did he really want to turn up with booze on his breath and start slurring? He’d had no breakfast, after all. He’d just get a coffee from one of the booths, take five minutes to gather himself.
He bought an espresso and felt the caffeine give him a jolt. Half of him wanted to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation. The other half wanted
Stop it , Stephanie told herself. Where on earth was this paranoia coming from? Of course Simon loved her. He’d said as much, hadn’t he? And it was probably because she was nothing like Tanya. Tanya: who dressed provocatively and flirted outrageously and took cocaine in the loo at dinner parties even though she knew it would ruin Simon’s career if it ever got out, because Tanya was, above all else, selfish.
Simon was probably relieved to have someone calm and sensible and trustworthy by his side. And she wasn’t that boring, Stephanie chastised herself. Starting your own café and having people queue out of the door every lunchtime wasn’t boring. She thought of her café window with pride – the giant pistachio-studded meringues, the raspberry tartlets, the legendary brownies – everything piled high, higgledy piggledy to the onlooker but actually just so, proportions and colours and amounts exactingly calculated so the display looked its absolute enticing best . . .
Tanya, Simon told her, was only good at spending money.
Besides, Stephanie thought with a minxy grin, she had fifteen years on Tanya. She might not be quite so glam, but she didn’t need Botox.
She brushed her misgivings to one side. She wasn’t going to sulk. Simon had given her an explanation, and an apology, and that was enough.
Seven
I t was the crispest of April mornings: still cold, but optimistically bright, the kind that filled your heart with joy at the thought of the warmer months to come. People blinked at the dazzling sun as they emerged from the Tube into Victoria Station and spilled out onto the concourse. Pigeons pecked for crumbs amidst the scurrying feet and litter. Train announcements boomed out over the heads of the commuters, the words floating up into the tiny puffs of white cloud in the blue sky, never to be heard again.
Archie strode under the departure board, past all the people with upturned faces waiting for their platform to be announced. He had a battered leather Gladstone in one hand, and an ancient Burberry mac that had belonged to his grandfather slung over his right shoulder. He was wearing a Tattersall check shirt and a silk tie and corduroys – he hoped he was smart enough. He didn’t want to wear his dark suit. It had had enough wear over the past couple of weeks, what with all the trips to the solicitor and, of course, the funeral. He didn’t care if he never saw it again.
Across the crowded platform, he could see the lounge where passengers waited for the English rake – the Pullman that would take them to Folkestone. There they would cross the Channel to Calais, where the Continental rake, comprising the historic wagons-lits, would await them. An elegant couple, arm in arm, were about to walk in. She was in golden, calf-length fur, while he was sporting an immaculately cut Savile Row suit. Archie watched as the door was opened for them by a uniformed steward, and they slipped inside.
He wasn’t ready for this. He looked around to see if he could find a bar open. Just a quick Scotch, to give him some Dutch courage. Anyone would need a drink in this situation, surely? Although . . . did he really want to turn up with booze on his breath and start slurring? He’d had no breakfast, after all. He’d just get a coffee from one of the booths, take five minutes to gather himself.
He bought an espresso and felt the caffeine give him a jolt. Half of him wanted to laugh at the ludicrousness of the situation. The other half wanted
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