Whistles for Pizza Express.) “I mean, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere a bit smarter. The Lanesborough’s just around the corner. .”
He raises his eyes questioningly, and I’m about to say “Oh, yes, please!” when suddenly, in a blinding flash, I realize what’s going on. This is a test, isn’t it? It’s like choosing out of three caskets in a fairy tale. Everyone knows the rules. You never choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you’re supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there’s a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels. So this is it. Tarquin’s testing me, to see whether I like him for himself.
Which, frankly, I find rather insulting. I mean, who does he think I am?
“No, let’s stay here,” I say, and touch his arm briefly. “Much more relaxed. Much more. . fun.”
Which is actually quite true. And I do like pizza. And that yummy garlic bread. Mmm. You know, now I come to think about it, this is quite a good choice.
As the waiter hands us our menus, I give a cursory flash down the list, but I already know what I want. It’s what I always have when I go to Pizza Express — Fiorentina. The one with spinach and an egg. I know, it sounds weird, but honestly, it’s delicious.
“Would you like an aperitif?” says the waiter, and I’m about to say what I usually do, which is Oh, let’s just have a bottle of wine, when I think, Sod it, I’m having dinner with a multimillionaire here. I’m bloody well going to have a gin and tonic.
“A gin and tonic,” I say firmly, and look at Tarquin, daring him to look taken aback. But he grins at me and says, “Unless you wanted champagne?”
“Oh,” I say, completely thrown.
“I always think champagne and pizza is a good combination,” he says, and looks at the waiter. “A bottle of Moet, please.”
Well, this is more like it. This is a lot more like it. Champagne and pizza. And Tarquin is actually being quite normal.
The champagne arrives and we toast each other and take a few sips. I’m really starting to enjoy myself. Then I spot Tarquin’s bony hand edging slowly toward mine on the table. And in a reflex action — completely without meaning to — I whip my fingers away, pretending I have to scratch my ear. A flicker of disappointment passes over his face and I find myself giving a really fake, embarrassed cough and looking intently at a picture on the wall to my left.
I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can be attracted to him. It’s just a matter of self-control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily “I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife! I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife!” And when I look back at Tarquin, he already seems a bit more attractive (in a stoaty kind of way). Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital happiness.
My head is filled with a happy vision of our wedding day. Me in some wonderful designer dress; my mum and dad looking on proudly. No more money troubles ever. Ever. The fifteenth richest man in the country. A house in Belgravia. Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Just imagining it, I feel almost faint with longing.
I smile as warmly as I can at Tarquin, who hesitates — then smiles back. Phew. I haven’t wrecked things. It’s all still on. Now we just need to discover that we’re utter soul mates with loads of things in common.
“I love the—” I say.
“Do you—”
We both speak at once.
“Sorry,” I say. “Do carry on.”
“No, you carry on,” says Tarquin.
“Oh,” I say. “Well. . I was just going to say again how much I love the picture you gave Suze.” No harm in complimenting his taste again. “I love horses,” I add for good measure.
“Then we should go riding together,” says Tarquin. “I know a very good livery near Hyde Park. Not quite the same as in the country, of course. .”
“What a wonderful idea!” I say. “That would be such fun!”
There’s no way anyone’s getting me on a horse. Not even in Hyde Park. But that’s OK, I’ll just go along with the plan and then, on the day, say I’ve twisted my ankle or something.
“Do you like dogs?” asks Tarquin.
“I love dogs,” I say confidently.
Which is sort of true. I wouldn’t actually like to have a dog — too much hard work and hairs everywhere. But I like seeing Labradors running across the park. And cute little puppies. That kind of thing.
We lapse into silence, and I take a few sips of champagne.
“Do you like EastEnders?” I ask eventually. “Or are you a. . a Coronation Street person?”
“I’ve never watched either, I’m afraid,” says Tarquin apologetically. “I’m sure they’re very good.”
“Well. . they’re OK,” I say. “Sometimes they’re really good, and other times. .” I tail off a bit feebly, and smile at him. “You know.”
“Absolutely,” exclaims Tarquin, as though I’ve said something really interesting.
There’s another awkward silence. This is getting a bit sticky.
“Are there good shops, where you live in Scotland?” I say at last. Tarquin pulls a little face.
“I wouldn’t know. Never go near shops if I can help it.”
“Oh right,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “No, I. . I hate shops, too. Can’t stand shopping.”
“Really?” says Tarquin in surprise. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”
“Not me!” I say. “I’d far rather be. . out on the moors, riding along. With a couple of dogs running behind.”
“Sounds perfect,” says Tarquin, smiling at me. “We’ll have to do it sometime.”
This is more like it! Common interests. Shared pursuits.
And OK, maybe I haven’t been completely honest, maybe they aren’t exactly my interests at the moment. But they could be. They can be. I can easily get to like dogs and horses, if I have to.
“Or. . or listening to Wagner, of course,” I say casually.
“Do you really like Wagner?” says Tarquin. “Not everyone does.”
“I adore Wagner,” I insist. “He’s my favorite composer.” OK, quick — what did that book say? “I love the. . er. . sonorous melodic strands which interweave in the Prelude.”
“The Prelude to what?” says Tarquin interestedly.
Oh shit. Is there more than one Prelude? I take a gulp of champagne, playing for time, desperately trying to recall something else from the book. But the only other bit I can remember is “Richard Wagner was born in Leipzig.”
“All the Preludes,” I say at last. “I think they’re all. . fab.”
“Right,” says Tarquin, looking a bit surprised.
Oh God. That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it? Change the subject. Change the subject.
Luckily, at that moment, a waiter arrives with our garlic bread, and we can get off the subject of Wagner. And Tarquin orders some more champagne. Somehow, I think we’re going to need it.
Which means that by the time I’m halfway through my Fiorentina, I’ve drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and I’m. . Well, frankly, I’m completely pissed. My face is tingling and my eyes are sparkling, and my arm gestures are a lot more erratic than usual. But this doesn’t matter. In fact, being pissed is a good thing — because it means I’m also delightfully witty and lively and am more-or-less carrying the conversation single- handedly. Tarquin is also pissed, but not as much as me. He’s got quieter and quieter, and kind of thoughtful. And he keeps gazing at me.
As I finish my last scraps of pizza and lean back pleasurably, he stares at me silently for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and produces a little box.
“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”
