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.'
I have to admit, for one heart stopping moment I think… This Is It! He's Proposing! (Funnily enough, the very next thought that flashes into my mind is Thank God I'll Be Able To Pay Off My Overdraft. Hmmm. When he proposes for real, I must make sure to think something a bit more romantic.)
But of course, he's not proposing, is he? He's just giving me a little present.
I knew that.
So I open it and find inside the box a little gold brooch in the shape of a horse. Lots of fine detail; beautifully crafted. A little green stone (emerald?) for the eye.
Really not my kind of thing.
'It's gorgeous,' I breathe in awe. 'Absolutely… stunning.'
'It's rather jolly, isn't it?' says Tarquin. 'Thought you'd like it.'
'I adore it.' I turn it over in my fingers (hallmark good) then look up at him and blink a couple of times with misty eyes. God I'm drunk. I think I'm actually seeing through champagne. 'This is so thoughtful of you,' I murmur.
Plus I don't really wear brooches. I mean, where are you supposed to put them? Slap bang in the middle of a really nice top? I mean, come on. And they always leave great brooch-holes everywhere.
'It'll look lovely on you,' says Tarquin after a pause – and suddenly I realize he's expecting me to put it on.
Aaargh! It'll ruin my lovely Whistles dress! And who wants a horse galloping across their tits, anyway?
'I must put it on,'I say, and open the clasp. Gingerly I thread it through the fabric of my dress and clasp it shut, already feeling it pulling the dress out of shape. How stupid do I look now?
'It looks wonderful,' says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. 'But then… you always look wonderful.'
My stomach gives a flip as I see him leaning forward.
He's going to try and hold my hand again, isn't he? And probably kiss me. I glance at Tarquin's lips parted and slightly moist – and give an involuntary shudder. Oh God. I'm not quite ready for this. I mean, obviously I do want to kiss Tarquin, of course I do. In fact, I find him incredibly attractive. It's just… I think I need some more champagne first.
'That scarf you were wearing the other night,' says Tarquin. 'It was simply stunning. I looked at you in that, and I thought…'
Now I can see his hand edging towards mine.
'My Denny and George scarf?' I cut in brightly, before he can say anything else. 'Yes, that's lovely, isn't it? It was my aunt's, but she died. It was really sad, actually.'
Just keep talking, I think. Keep talking brightly and gesture a lot.
'But anyway, she left me her scarf,' I continue hurriedly. 'So I'll always remember her through that. Poor Aunt Ermintrude.'
'I'm really sorry,' says Tarquin, looking taken aback. 'I had no idea.'
'No. Well… her memory lives on through her good works,' I say, and give him a little smile. 'She was a very charitable woman. Very… giving.'
'Is there some sort of foundation in her name?' says Tarquin. 'When my uncle died-'
'Yes!' I say gratefully. 'Exactly that. The… the, Ermintrude Bloonwood Foundation for… violinists, I improvise, catching sight of a poster for a musical evening. 'Violinists in Malawi. That was her cause.'
'Violinists in Malawi?' echoes Tarquin.
'Oh absolutely!' I hear myself babbling. 'There's a desperate shortage of classical musicians out there. And culture is so enriching, whatever one's material circumstances.'
I can't believe I'm coming out with all this rubbish. I glance apprehensively up at Tarquin – and to my complete disbelief, he's looking really interested.
'So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?' he asks. Oh God. What am I getting myself into, here?
'To… to fund six violin teachers a year,' I say, after a pause. 'Of course, they need specialist training, and special violins to take out there. But the results will be very worthwhile. They're going to teach people how to make violins, too, so they'll be self-sufficient and not dependent on the West.'
'Really?' Tarquin's brow is furrowed. Have I said something that doesn't make sense?
'Anyway.' I give a little laugh. 'That's enough about me and my family. Have you seen any good films, recently?'
This is good. We can talk about films, and then the bill will come, and then-
'Wait a moment,' says Tarquin. 'Tell me – how's the project going, so far?'
'Oh,' I say. 'Ahm… quite well. Considering. I haven't really kept up with its progress recently. You know, these things are always-'
'I'd really like to contribute something,' he says, interrupting me.
What?
He'd like to what?
'Do you know who I should make the cheque payable to?' he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. 'Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?'
And as I watch, paralysed in astonishment, he brings out a Coutts chequebook.
A pale grey Coutts chequebook.
The fifteenth-richest man in the country.
'I'm… I'm not sure,' I hear myself say, as though from a great distance. 'I'm not sure of the exact wording.'
'Well, I'll make it payable to you, then, shall I?' he says. 'And you can pass it on.' Briskly he starts to write:
Pay Rebecca Bloomwood
The sum of
Five…
Five hundred pounds. It must be. He wouldn't just give five poxy…
Thousand pounds,
T. A. J. CleathStuart
I can't believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a cheque, addressed to me. Five thousand pounds which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Malawi.
If they existed.
'Here you are,' says Tarquin, and hands me the cheque – and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out towards it.
Pay Bebecca Bloomwood the sum of five thousand pounds.
I read the words again, slowly – and feel a wave of relief so strong, it makes me want to burst into tears.
The sum of five thousand pounds. More than my overdraft and my VISA bill put together. This cheque would solve all my problems, wouldn't it? It would solve all my problems in one go. And, OK, I'm not exactly violinists in Malawi – but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he? He'd never check up.
Or if he did, I could come up with some story.
