I knew I had played my part impeccably and could not be responsible for his change of mood. I’d styled my hair in the fashion he said suited me best, and I was wearing the ugly heart-shaped necklace, which felt like a lead weight on my chest. When he started to bounce his leg under the table, I wanted to scream. I kept quiet even though I had the sense he was daring me to say something. I avoided his eyes but saw he kept catching glimpses of his own reflection and pouting into the mirror. I wanted to laugh, to let him know he was vainer than any woman I had ever known, but I didn’t. Aisling would have. She would have laughed in his face and walked out of the restaurant. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
The menu was written in French. Frightened I would order incorrectly and embarrass him, I whispered this to him. I thought it might even amuse him, make him laugh. The old Thomas at the hospital would have made a quip and set me at ease. This Thomas rolled his eyes and snatched the menu away from me, made a comment about me signing my name with a mark and chose for me. In retaliation, I ordered more wine, and he glared at me.
‘Why order good wine when you can’t tell the difference between that and a glass of witch’s piss?’ he said as soon as the waiter had disappeared.
‘You are beginning to sound like Mrs Wiggs,’ I snapped.
Thomas had preached how this restaurant was popular with writers, artists and actors – beautiful, cultured types. Quite what we were doing there, I did not know. The walls were mirrored, the ceiling and walls painted in thick orange gold and decorated with Cupids. The flickering candlelight and endless reflections made the whole room appear as if it were glowing a hedonistic yellow. The chairs were red velvet. It felt opulent and garish, like being trapped inside a Christmas bauble. To be frank, the style was not so dissimilar from what I had seen at Wilton’s Music Hall in the East End. I went there on a demonstration once: a group of women, all Methodists and Salvationists, forced our way inside, incensed by rumours that the actresses in the gallery could be hired for a few shillings. The Café Royale had the same tawdry and vulgar décor, only its whores were more expensive. I included myself, an overdressed poodle sat tethered to a wealthy brat by a leash that I had chained around my own neck.
The room buzzed with clinking glasses and other people’s conversation, as Thomas and I sat in stony silence. As much as he teased me for my lack of friends, I had seen little of his. He made a great show of discussing people, namedropping, identifying certain individuals as close confidants, but never had any of these so-called friends been to our house. When we attended events or benefits, he would introduce me, but I think now that I did not imagine their discomfort at his over-familiarity. They were polite enough, but confused, as if they had only a vague idea of who he was, and inside I cringed. Thomas was a man of a million acquaintances but no real friends. The more I learned of him, the more disappointing he was.
It was a relief when he announced we were leaving the restaurant, even though he loped off without waiting for me. I emptied the rest of my glass and hurried after him, dragging my fussy skirts. We collected our coats and made our way through the crowded foyer. I was trying to keep up when he stopped abruptly and I barged into his back. He had paused to talk to an older gentleman, a man with a bushy grey beard, cheeks and a red nose from too much brandy, a swollen stomach, and medals on his lapel. The man had a finger pointed in Thomas’s chest. I stood in Thomas’s shadow; he didn’t introduce me and the conversation was rapid and the words didn’t travel. I could tell it was about work, and that the other gentleman certainly had the upper hand. Thomas kept nodding at everything he said, almost like a schoolboy trying to absorb all the instruction he was being given by his master.
The gentleman’s wife was a dumpy little thing and as she smiled, the thread veins on her cheeks made a mesh-like rouge. She leaned over and put her spectacles to my neck.
‘What a charming necklace, my dear. Have you recently had a birthday?’
I shook my head.
‘Your necklace, it’s a birthstone – isn’t peridot for August?’ She nodded, confident in her assumption.
‘Is it?’ My suspicion that the necklace had belonged to someone else came charging back. I put my fingers to my throat to feel it. ‘My birthday is in January,’ I said.
The lady looked bewildered but smiled anyway. The men stopped talking and we were pulled apart, swept along by the crowds and hustled towards the entrance, Thomas, with a gloved hand on my back, pushing me along. Whatever had been said had put him in an even worse mood. Trapped with him in the confines of the coach was like being strapped to the side of a rumbling volcano. I could feel the heat coming off him and I sat at the very edge. If I asked him what was wrong, it would be like baiting a bear, but if I didn’t ask, it might seem neglectful.
‘Is something the matter?’ I asked.
He gave a forced, operatic laugh. ‘It wants to know if something is the matter. Tell me, why bother asking.’ It was not a question.
I looked down at my
