listening intently. None of them even glances up.
This is getting a bit embarrassing. I’m standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn’t he leaping up, shrieking “Have you heard about Foreland Investments?” It’s not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pretend I was heading toward the Ladies’?
A waiter barges past me with a tray, and I’m pushed helplessly forward, toward Luke’s table — and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn’t even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I’ve got to go through with it now.
“Hi, Luke!” I say brightly. “I just thought I’d say. . hello!”
“Well, hello,” Luke says eventually. “Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca — my parents.”
Oh God. What have I done? I’ve table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.
“Hello,” I say, and give a feeble smile. “Well, I won’t keep you from. .”
“So how do you know Luke?” inquires Mrs. Brandon.
“Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,” says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Gosh, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)
I grin confidently at Mr. Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I’m a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?
“Financial journalist, eh?” grunts Mr. Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. “So what do you think of the chancellor’s announcement?”
I’m never going to table-hop again. Never.
“Well,” I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.
“Dad, I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t want to talk shop,” says Luke, his lips twitching slightly.
“Quite right!” says Mrs. Brandon, and smiles at me. “That’s a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?”
“Yes, it is!” I say brightly, full of relief. “I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking so. .
Oh fuck. How can I be so stupid?
“In the sale. . for my aunt,” I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. “I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she. . died.”
There’s a shocked silence and I look down. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said.
“Oh dear,” says Mr. Brandon gruffly.
“Aunt Ermintrude died?” says Luke in a strange voice.
“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to look up. “It was terribly sad.”
“How awful!” says Mrs. Brandon sympathetically.
“She was in hospital, wasn’t she?” says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. “What was wrong with her?”
For an instant I’m silenced.
“It was. . her leg,” I hear myself say.
“Her leg?” Mrs. Brandon’s staring at me anxiously. “What was wrong with her leg?”
“It. . swelled up and got septic,” I say after a pause. “And they had to amputate it and then she died.”
“Christ,” says Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. “Bloody doctors.” He gives me a suddenly fierce look. “Did she go private?”
“Umm. . I’m not sure,” I say, starting to back away. Why didn’t I just say she gave me the bloody scarf? “Anyway, lovely to see you, Luke. Must dash, my friends will be missing me!”
I give a nonchalant kind of wave without quite looking Luke in the eye and then quickly turn round and walk back to Suze, my legs trembling and my fingers twisted tightly by my sides. God, what a fiasco.
I’ve managed to recompose myself by the time our food arrives. The food! I’ve ordered grilled scallops and as I take my first bite, I nearly swoon. After so many torturous days of cheap, functional food, this is like going to heaven. I feel almost tearful — like a prisoner returning to the real world, or children after the war, when rationing stopped. After my scallops I have steak bearnaise and chips — and when all the others say no thanks to the pudding menu, I order chocolate mousse. Because who knows when I’m next going to be in a restaurant like this? There could be months ahead of cheese sandwiches and homemade coffee in a flask, with nothing to relieve the monotony.
While I’m waiting for my chocolate mousse, Suze and Fenella decide they simply must go and talk to Benjy, on the other side of the room. So they leap up, both lighting cigarettes as they do so, and Tarquin stays behind to keep me company. He doesn’t seem quite as into table-hopping as the others. In fact, he’s been pretty quiet all evening. I’ve also noticed that he’s drunk more than any of us. Any moment I’m expecting his head to land on the table.
For a while there’s silence between us. To be honest, Tarquin is so weird, I don’t know how to talk to him. Then, suddenly, he says, “Do you like Wagner?”
“Oh yes,” I say at once. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard any Wagner, but I don’t want to sound uncultured. And I have been to the opera before, though I think that was Mozart.
“ ‘The Liebestod’ from Tristan,” he says, and shakes his head. “ ‘The Liebestod.’ ”
“Mmm,” I say, and nod in what I hope is an intelligent manner. I pour myself some wine, fill his glass up, too, and look around to see where Suze has got to. Typical of her just to disappear off and leave me with her drunken cousin.
“Dah-dah-dah-dah, daaaah dah dah. .”
Oh my God, now he’s singing. Not loudly, but really intensely. And he’s staring into my eyes as though he expects me to join in.
“Dah-dah-dah-dah. .”
Now he’s closed his eyes and is swaying. This is getting embarrassing.
“Da diddle-idy da-a-da-a daaaah dah. .”
“Lovely,” I say brightly. “You can’t beat Wagner, can you?”
“Tristan,” he says. “Und Isolde.” He opens his eyes. “You’d make a beautiful Isolde.”
I’d make a what? While I’m still staring at him, he lifts my hand to his lips and starts kissing it. For a few seconds I’m too shocked to move.
“Tarquin,” I say as firmly as I can, trying to pull my hand away. “Tarquin, please—” I look up and desperately scan the room for Suze — and, as I do so, meet the eye of Luke Brandon, making his way out of the restaurant. He frowns slightly, lifts his hand in farewell, then disappears out of the door.
“Your skin smells like roses,” murmurs Tarquin against my skin.
“Oh, shut up!” I say crossly, and yank my hand out of his grasp so hard I get a row of teeth marks on my skin. “Just leave me alone!”
I would slap him, but he’d probably take it as a come-on.
Just then, Suze and Fenella arrive back at the table, full of news about Binky and Minky — and Tarquin reverts into silence. And for the rest of the evening, even when we say good-bye, he barely looks at me. Thank God. He must have got the message.
Seven
IT DOESN’T SEEM HE has, though, because on Saturday, I receive a card of a pre-Raphaelite girl looking coyly over her shoulder. Inside, Tarquin has written: Many apologies for my uncouth behavior. I hope to make it up to you. Tickets to Bayreuth — or, failing that, dinner?Tarquin.
Dinner with Tarquin. Can you imagine? And what’s he going on about, anyway? I’ve never heard of
