Anyway, what' ?5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn't even notice whether I paid it in or not. A poxy ?5,000, when he's got ?25 million! If you work it out as a fraction of his wealth it's… well, it's laughable, isn't it? It's the equivalent of about fifty pence to normal people. I'm talking about pinching fifty pence. Why am I even hesitating?
'Rebecca?'
Tarquin is staring at me, and I realize my hand is still inches away from the cheque. Come on, take it, I instruct myself firmly. It's yours. Take the cheque and put it in your bag. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the cheque. I'm getting closer… closer… almost there… my fingers are trembling with the effort…
It's no good, I can't. I just can't do it. I can't take his money.
'I can't take it,' I say in a rush. I pull my hand away and feel myself flushing. 'I mean… I'm not actually sure the foundation is accepting money yet.'
'Oh, right,' says Tarquin, looking slightly taken aback.
'I'll tell you who to make a cheque payable to when I've got more details,' I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. 'You'd better tear that up.'
As he slowly rips the paper, I can't look. I stare into my champagne glass, feeling like crying. Five thousand pounds. It would have changed my life. It would have solved everything. Tarquin reaches for the box of matches on the table, sets the scraps of paper alight in the ashtray, and we both watch as they briefly flame. Then he puts down the matches, smiles at me and says,
'Do excuse me a minute.'
He gets up from the table and heads off towards the back of the restaurant, and I take another gulp of champagne. Then I lean my head in my hands and give a sigh. Oh well, I think, trying to be philosophical.
Maybe I'll win ?5,000 in a raffle or something. Maybe Derek Smeath's computer will go haywire and he'll be forced to cancel all my debts and start again. Maybe some utter stranger really will pay off my VISA bill for me by mistake.
Maybe Tarquin will come back from the loo and ask me to marry him.
I raise my eyes, and they fall with an idle curiosity on the Coutts chequebook which Tarquin has left on the table. That's the chequebook of the fifteenth-richest man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it's like inside? He probably writes enormous cheques all the time, doesn't he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.
On impulse, I pull the chequebook towards me and open it. I don't know quite what I'm looking for really, I'm just hoping to find some excitingly huge amount. But the first stub is only for ?30. Pathetic! I flip on a bit, and find ?520. Payable to Arundel and Son, whoever they are. Then, a bit later on, there's one for ?7,515 to American Express. Well, that's more like it.
But I mean, really, it's not the most exciting read in the world. This could be anybody's chequebook. This could practically be mine. I close it and push it back towards his place, and glance up. As I do so, my heart freezes. Tarquin is staring straight at me.
He's standing by the bar, being directed to the other side of the restaurant by a waiter. But he isn't looking at the waiter. He's looking at me. As our eyes meet, my stomach gives a little lurch. Oh damn.
Damn. What exactly did he see?
Quickly I pull my hand back from his chequebook and take a sip of champagne. Then I look up and pretend to spot him for the first time. I give a bright little smile, and after a pause he smiles back. Then he disappears off again and I sink back into my chair, my heart thumping.
OK, don't panic, I instruct myself. Just behave naturally. He probably didn't even see you. And even if he did – it's not the hugest crime in the world, is it, looking at his chequebook? If he asks me what I was doing, I'll say I was… checking he'd filled in his stub correctly. Yes. That's what I'll say I was doing if he mentions it.
But he doesn't. He comes back to the table, silently pockets his chequebook, and says politely, 'Have you finished?'
'Yes,' I say. 'Yes, I have, thanks.'
I'm trying to sound as natural as possible – but I'm aware my voice sounds guilty, and my cheeks are hot.
'Right,' he says. 'Well, I've paid the bill… so shall we go?'
And that's it. That's the end of the date. With him peccable courtesy, Tarquin ushers me to the door of Pizza on the Park, hails a taxi and pays the driver the fare back to Fulham. I don't dare ask him if he'd like to come back or go for a drink somewhere else. There's a coldness about my spine which stops me uttering the words. So we kiss each other on the cheek and he tells me he had a delightful evening, and I thank him again for a lovely time.
And I sit in the taxi all the way back to Fulham with a jumpy stomach, wondering what exactly he saw. As the taxi pulls in front of our house, I say goodnight to the taxi driver and reach for my keys. I'm thinking that I'll go and run a hot bath and sit in it, and calmly try to work out exactly what happened back there. Did Tarquin really see me looking through his chequebook? Maybe he just saw me pushing it back towards his place in a helpful manner. Maybe he saw nothing at all.
But then why did he suddenly become all stiff and polite? He must have seen something; suspected something. And then he'll have noticed the way I flushed and couldn't meet his eye. Oh God, why do I always have to look so guilty? I wasn't even doing anything. I was just curious. Is that such a crime?
Perhaps I should have quickly said something made some joke about it. Turned it into a lighthearted, amusing incident, But what kind of joke can you make about leafing through someone's private chequebook? Oh God, I'm so stupid. Why did I ever touch the bloody thing? I should have just sat, quietly sipping my drink.
But in my defence… he left it on the table, didn't he? He can't be that secretive about it… And I don't know that he saw me looking through it, do I? Maybe he didn't. Maybe I'm just paranoid.
As I put my key into the lock, I'm actually feeling quite positive. OK, so Tarquin wasn't that friendly just now – but he might have been feeling ill or something.
Or maybe he just didn't want to rush me. What I'll do is, tomorrow I'll send a nice chatty note to him, saying thanks again, and suggesting we go and see some Wagner together. Excellent idea. And I'll mug up a bit about the Preludes, so that if he asks me which one again, I'll know exactly what to say. Yes! This is all going to be fine. I need never have worried.
I swing the door open, unbuttoning my coat – and then my heart gives a flip. Suze is waiting for me in the hall. She's sitting on the stairs, waiting for me – and there's a funny expression on her face.
'Oh Bex,' she says, and shakes her head reproachfully. 'I've just been speaking to Tarquin.'
'Oh right,' I say, trying to sound natural, but aware that my voice is a frightened squeak. I turn away, take my coat and slowly unwind my scarf, playing for time. What exactly has he said to her?
'I don't suppose there's any point asking you why?' she says after a pause. 'Well,' I falter, feeling sick. God, I could do with a cigarette.
'I'm not blaming you, or anything. I just think you should have. ' She shakes her head and sighs. 'Couldn't you have let him down more gently? He sounded quite upset. The poor thing was really keen on you, you know.'
This isn't quite making sense. Let him down more gently?
'What exactly…' I lick my dry lips. 'What exactly did he say?'
'Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you'd left your umbrella behind,' says Suze. 'Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone…'
'And… and what did he say?'
'Well,' says Suze, and gives a little shrug. 'He said you'd had a really nice time – but you'd pretty much made it clear you didn't want to see him again.'
'Oh.'
I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that's it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his chequebook. I've ruined my chances with him completely. But he didn't tell Suze what I'd done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.
In fact – he was a gentleman all evening, wasn't he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all throughout the date, was tell him lies. Suddenly I want to cry.
