tear when suddenly stretched.’
‘Ah,’ he said as my glass arrived. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to talk shop, I’m sure. How was your day?’
‘Hot. Tedious. Yours?’
‘The same.’ He poured, passed me the glass and raised his own. ‘To you,’ he said, and waited as I lifted the glass to my lips.
We were presented with the menus and guided through the chef’s recommendations of the day by the maître d’, an affable chap who made an impression on account of his immense bulk. It occurred to me as he and Scott went on to talk of vintages and regions, the terroir of some obscure valley in the Languedoc region of France, that it was a position usually held by a very thin person.
I declined the option of a starter and went for John Dory with clams for the main course. Under normal circumstances, I would choose something slow cooked and indulgent – roasted pork belly with a port wine jus – something I would never cook for myself at home. But this was work. And I was nervous. And, as I mentioned earlier, Scott was in good shape. The night could turn athletic on a sixpence, and I would be sure to regret a heavy stomach.
This was what was going through my head when Scott leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re frowning. Relax.’
‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘It doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the evening. I asked you here because I want you to have a good time, I don’t want you to be on edge.’
I dropped my head.
‘Do you regret coming?’ he asked.
And I hesitated.
Reaching out, he touched the skin of my throat with his middle finger. His manner was lazy, as though he’d done this action a thousand times before, and I found myself casting around the room, furtively, as though he’d performed something terribly illicit. ‘I don’t regret it for a second,’ he said, and then our table was ready.
Though the British countryside was enjoying another hot summer evening, the light inside the dining room was subdued and dim. Dark, heavy curtains lined the windows and the walls were covered in a chocolate, hessian-type of wallpaper, which gave the room an elegant, sultry feel.
For no reason other than I was programmed to do so (every twenty minutes), my thoughts turned to George. Instinctively, I opened my handbag to check for the red warning flash of my mobile.
‘All okay?’ Scott asked as we were seated, and I nodded.
‘No disasters to report.’
I went to speak again and thought better of it, closing my mouth.
‘You were going to say something?’ he said.
‘It’s not important.’
‘You were going to tell me about your son.’
It was true. I was.
‘Go ahead, please,’ he urged.
So I rambled on for a while about nothing in particular, all the while Scott regarding me with a keen interest, as if what I had to say was both enlightening and humorous, neither of which was accurate. I’d been around enough people to know that divorced parents of an only child can talk about the kid until hell freezes over if allowed to. Parents of three or four children barely mention them. I made a concerted effort not to bore people about George and had decided before the start of this evening that the whole point of it was to let Scott talk about himself. He wasn’t paying to hear about me.
Except now it seemed as though he was.
He poured more wine and, when I’d got to the end of my anecdote, I leaned forward, rested my chin on top of my hands.
‘Tell me why we’re here,’ I said bluntly.
He laughed, replying with, ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’
I shook my head. ‘I want to know why. Why me? Why like this?’
And he shrugged.
‘Scott,’ I said in a forced whisper, ‘there are plenty of options available for a man in your position. I mean, if we’re going to get real about it, I’m quite sure there are women – plenty of women – you come across in your everyday life, who would be willing to become your mistress for free.’
‘For free?’ he answered, his tone
‘Ah,’ he said as my glass arrived. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to talk shop, I’m sure. How was your day?’
‘Hot. Tedious. Yours?’
‘The same.’ He poured, passed me the glass and raised his own. ‘To you,’ he said, and waited as I lifted the glass to my lips.
We were presented with the menus and guided through the chef’s recommendations of the day by the maître d’, an affable chap who made an impression on account of his immense bulk. It occurred to me as he and Scott went on to talk of vintages and regions, the terroir of some obscure valley in the Languedoc region of France, that it was a position usually held by a very thin person.
I declined the option of a starter and went for John Dory with clams for the main course. Under normal circumstances, I would choose something slow cooked and indulgent – roasted pork belly with a port wine jus – something I would never cook for myself at home. But this was work. And I was nervous. And, as I mentioned earlier, Scott was in good shape. The night could turn athletic on a sixpence, and I would be sure to regret a heavy stomach.
This was what was going through my head when Scott leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re frowning. Relax.’
‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘It doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the evening. I asked you here because I want you to have a good time, I don’t want you to be on edge.’
I dropped my head.
‘Do you regret coming?’ he asked.
And I hesitated.
Reaching out, he touched the skin of my throat with his middle finger. His manner was lazy, as though he’d done this action a thousand times before, and I found myself casting around the room, furtively, as though he’d performed something terribly illicit. ‘I don’t regret it for a second,’ he said, and then our table was ready.
Though the British countryside was enjoying another hot summer evening, the light inside the dining room was subdued and dim. Dark, heavy curtains lined the windows and the walls were covered in a chocolate, hessian-type of wallpaper, which gave the room an elegant, sultry feel.
For no reason other than I was programmed to do so (every twenty minutes), my thoughts turned to George. Instinctively, I opened my handbag to check for the red warning flash of my mobile.
‘All okay?’ Scott asked as we were seated, and I nodded.
‘No disasters to report.’
I went to speak again and thought better of it, closing my mouth.
‘You were going to say something?’ he said.
‘It’s not important.’
‘You were going to tell me about your son.’
It was true. I was.
‘Go ahead, please,’ he urged.
So I rambled on for a while about nothing in particular, all the while Scott regarding me with a keen interest, as if what I had to say was both enlightening and humorous, neither of which was accurate. I’d been around enough people to know that divorced parents of an only child can talk about the kid until hell freezes over if allowed to. Parents of three or four children barely mention them. I made a concerted effort not to bore people about George and had decided before the start of this evening that the whole point of it was to let Scott talk about himself. He wasn’t paying to hear about me.
Except now it seemed as though he was.
He poured more wine and, when I’d got to the end of my anecdote, I leaned forward, rested my chin on top of my hands.
‘Tell me why we’re here,’ I said bluntly.
He laughed, replying with, ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’
I shook my head. ‘I want to know why. Why me? Why like this?’
And he shrugged.
‘Scott,’ I said in a forced whisper, ‘there are plenty of options available for a man in your position. I mean, if we’re going to get real about it, I’m quite sure there are women – plenty of women – you come across in your everyday life, who would be willing to become your mistress for free.’
‘For free?’ he answered, his tone
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