Kitabı oku: «The Wish List», sayfa 5

Chapter Three

ON THE TUBE TO Green Park, my stomach writhed like a sack of snakes. Mia and Ruby had forbidden me from walking because they said it would make me sweaty. Or sweatier, I thought in my seat, peering underneath my jacket to see dark damp patches already spreading across my armpits. I was wearing a knee-length green dress of Ruby’s which belted at the waist. ‘Emphasizes your tits,’ Ruby had said.

I’d replied that I didn’t have any but she said that was rubbish and I needed to stop hiding them in ‘boring old work shirts’.

While sitting on a stool in front of her bathroom mirror, Mia had set to with a bewildering array of make-up brushes. Foundation, concealer, highlighter. Dab, dab, dab. A light dusting of eyeshadow. ‘Just to make your eyelids less purple,’ she’d explained. ‘And you need to sort out your brows.’

‘What’s wrong with them?’

‘They need their own stylist. Hold still.’

A waggle with an eyelash curler. Multiple coats of mascara. Eyebrow gel. Bronzer smoothed across my forehead and down my nose. The flick of a blusher brush along my cheekbones.

‘Lipstick,’ mused Mia, scrabbling through her make-up bag.

‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve got some Carmex in my bag.’ Thinking of it on the Tube, I reached for the small pot and unscrewed the lid before running my finger along my mouth. I exhaled into my hand to check my breath. Better have a Smint.

When the doors opened at the station, I was so nervous I didn’t want to get out. Then, while the escalator rolled upwards towards daylight, I rechecked my armpits and reminded myself to keep my jacket on at all times.

As I walked under the archway into the academy’s cobbled courtyard, I slipped my fingers underneath my sleeve to feel my pulse. Should it be beating that fast or was I seconds away from a medical emergency? I looked up at the pale stone of the academy walls and started counting the windows as a distraction: ‘One, two, three, four…’

‘Florence! Over here!’ said a voice, and I squinted in the corner to see Rory waving. He was leaning casually against the stone wall in a pale blue suit and a brown trilby and didn’t look nervous at all, but if you’d asked me my own name and what year it was, I couldn’t have told you. To me, he seemed as intimidatingly handsome and composed as a male model.

‘Hello,’ he said, when I neared him. He took off his hat and leant forward to kiss me on the cheeks. That citrus smell again.

‘Hi,’ I managed back, already blushing. I could hardly look at him but when he caught my gaze, I saw his eyes matched the colour of his suit.

‘Shall we go in?’ he added. ‘It’s had terrific reviews. Have you read any?’

I shook my head. I didn’t know much about art – art books were Eugene’s territory.

Rory rattled on as he held open the main door and led us towards the staircase. ‘I’m not a huge fan of their religious work. Too flowery and idealized. But the Telegraph called this “a sexy riot of flesh” and I thought, well, we can’t miss that, can we?’ He laughed and stepped up to a desk at the top of the stairs. ‘Two, please.’

I looked up at a huge poster on the wall in front of us. ‘Sex, Power and Violence in the Renaissance Nude,’ it said, above a painting of a naked woman, asleep. One hand was draped over her head, the other was rootling between her legs.

‘Medieval masturbation,’ said Rory, nodding at it.

I laughed and blushed again. Was it possible to die from blushing?

‘Come on,’ he said, and I felt his hand on my back as he ushered me through the door into the first gallery. I edged my way around a large woman in a fur coat to read an introduction on the wall but the text was too small.

‘Let’s not bother with that,’ said Rory, waving a hand at the wall. ‘I’ll tell you about them as we go.’

It was excruciating to begin with. The first painting we stood before was by Titian, a naked Venus washing her hair in the sea, nipples as bold as raspberries. ‘See that?’ said Rory, pointing at a shell floating beside her thigh. ‘She was born and carried ashore on it.’

Next were a naked Adam and Eve, Eve rubbing an apple forlornly against her cheek. Then a picture of a fat and completely hideous baby Jesus by a Flemish painter. With each one, Rory explained its backstory and my embarrassment at being surrounded by so much nakedness dissolved. As did my claustrophobia from the packed galleries because it meant I could lean into Rory to listen to him.

‘How do you know about all this?’ I asked him.

‘My mother. She’s always loved art and I’m an only child so I got the full education. The full monty. No beach holidays. It was Rome, Florence, Venice… Off to see whatever exhibition she could find. Oh look, this Titian is exquisite,’ he said, reaching for my hand and pulling me in front of another reclining woman. Although one of her hands was also resting in her groin, she was staring at us with a bored expression.

‘Isn’t it extraordinary?’ said Rory, his eyes scanning the canvas. ‘It’s one of his most famous, painted for an Italian nobleman of his new wife. Do you see the dog and the maids?’ He pointed at a small spaniel curled on the sheets and two women in the background.

I nodded.

‘It’s supposed to serve as a reminder to his wife, with all the drudgery of marriage, not to forget about the bedroom.’

He turned and winked at me and I burst out laughing, before clapping a hand over my mouth. The atmosphere in the galleries was too hushed for hoots of laughter.

‘Shall we get a coffee?’ he said, grinning back.

‘Yes, good plan,’ I said gratefully. I felt that imbued sense of cultural improvement at having drifted through a set of galleries, but the naked ladies – all rounded hips, hair tumbling artfully over their shoulders, and breasts as round as rock cakes – were starting to blend into one another.

Rory told me to bag a seat by the café’s windows while he queued. I glanced at the other tables as I sat and wondered whether we looked like two people on a date or two friends catching up. Surrounded by tourists and tables covered in empty sugar packets, this suddenly didn’t feel much like a date. More an interview, like Jaz had said. Perhaps Rory would come back to the table and ask me what my strengths and weaknesses were and where I saw myself in five years’ time? I looked at my phone.

Ruby: Update please!

Mia: Is he coming to the wedding?

I slid it back into my bag as Rory twisted his way between the tables towards me with a tray.

‘Here we go,’ he said, lifting off the coffees and a plate of shortbread, before sliding the tray on to a spare chair so it was hidden underneath the table. ‘Otherwise it’s like we’re at school. Urgh,’ he shuddered.

‘How’s your book?’ I asked, having thought of the question while he was queueing. Good to have something prepped and avoid awkward silences.

Rory frowned.

‘The Struggle.’

He screwed his eyes shut. ‘I have a confession.’

‘What?’

‘I’d read it before.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Before I came into the shop. And Dooley’s first book, In the Middle of the Night. You were right. It is terrific.’

‘But how come you…’

‘Bought it? Because I wanted to keep talking to this charming woman who worked in the shop. She’s called Florence, and her surname is…?’

‘Fairfax,’ I replied, blushing again. I’d have to see a doctor.

‘Called Florence Fairfax, exactly. I wanted to keep talking to her. And to gloss over the fact my mother had just bought a book about eroticism.’

I laughed then leant backwards, fearful that I’d just wafted coffee breath all over him. ‘Oh I see,’ I said. ‘So it was an evil ploy?’

‘For it to be evil, there’d have to be evil intentions, wouldn’t there?’

‘And you don’t have evil intentions?’ I asked, trying to replicate his coolness when it was the sort of question on which so much depended. The sort of question some of us take to heart, rolling the answer about in our heads like a marble in case any intelligence can be gleaned from it.

Rory shook his head. ‘Not in the least. I am a thoroughly upstanding sort.’ He leant back and hooked his thumbs through his braces.

‘What do you do?’ I asked. I couldn’t imagine him in an office sweating over a spreadsheet.

‘I work in the Foreign Office.’ He announced this as casually as if it was the post office.

‘Blimey. Doing what?’

‘I’m a spad. It’s a nickname; it means a special advisor.’

‘To who?’

‘To the minister, but I’m hoping, at the next election, to run as a candidate.’

‘As an MP?’ I tried not to sound incredulous.

He nodded. ‘My grandfather was one and since I was a teenager I’ve thought, well, why not?’

‘Conservative?’ I was guessing as much from his Radio 4 accent as well as his clothes.

Rory twisted one side of his mouth into a grimace before answering. ‘If I said yes, would you hate me?’

I smiled. ‘No, I think it’s… amazing to want to go into it at all. I can’t imagine it. All those speeches.’ It was my turn to shudder.

‘But let’s not talk politics,’ said Rory, crumbling the shortbread and holding a piece out. ‘I spend my life talking about politics. What about you? How is it that Florence Fairfax comes to be working in a Chelsea bookshop? What’s her story?’

‘Just always have,’ I said, fiddling with the handle on my coffee cup. ‘Studied English at uni and wasn’t sure what to do with it. But I loved reading. So ended up there.’

‘You think you’ll stay?’

‘At the shop?’

He nodded.

‘Yes. Although…’ I paused and sighed, ‘the rent’s going up and Norris, he’s the owner, is in a flap about it. So who knows. But I write children’s books on the side. Well, not books. Book, singular. About a caterpillar called Curtis. So I’m hoping that I can do something with that.’

‘Sweet, and what about your family?’

‘About them?’ I asked, momentarily confused. He’d rattled off a number of questions so quickly, almost as if it was an interview, and I was worried that I’d answer the wrong thing.

‘What are they like? Do you get on with them?’

‘Oh I see. Yes, mostly. I live with my two sisters in Kennington. Well, technically they’re my half-sisters. And my dad, actually, hang on, you might have come across him, he’s called Henry Fairfax, the ambassador to Argentina?’

‘You’re joking?’

I shook my head.

‘No, I haven’t met him but I know who you mean. What a coincidence that he’s your father. Wasn’t he in Pakistan, before?’

‘Exactly. Good knowledge!’

Rory grinned. ‘Part of the job description. Do you go out there much?’

‘Argentina?’ I shook my head again. ‘Never have. He comes back every now and then, although usually it’s pretty brief and just for meetings.’

‘Is your mother with him?’

‘Nope. She died when I was three.’ I’d become so used to explaining this that I forgot the effect it had on other people, their stammery awkwardness.

‘Oh Christ, there I go with my big feet. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK. It was years ago.’

‘What happened?’ he asked, his eyes remaining on mine.

‘Car crash. Not her fault. Just… one of those accidents.’

He winced. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. I’m pretty lucky in many ways; I’ve still got family around me.’ I reminded myself of this whenever I woke in the sort of mood where I wished I could swap lives with somebody else I saw on Instagram. I was lucky; I had a good job and I still lived in my childhood home. I’d fall in love eventually. Had to. Even Hitler had a girlfriend. I couldn’t be the only person who’d never have a proper relationship.

‘I think that’s a bit harsh on yourself, isn’t it?’

I frowned. ‘How come?’

‘Well,’ Rory started, leaning across the table, ‘I think if you grew up without your mother, you don’t have to tell yourself that it’s all right because you’ve still got a couple of sisters and a father. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘I’ve also got a very involved stepmum,’ I added, grinning at him.

‘In that case I take it all back. What are you grumbling for?’ he said, which made me laugh, and nobody had ever made me laugh when it came to conversations that skirted around my mother. Normally I tried to avoid the subject altogether.

We sat at the table for another hour chatting, finding our way around one another. He’d grown up in Norfolk and now lived in Pimlico. I told him about my French grandmother and my half-sister developing a wedding fetish.

‘You don’t want to get married?’ Rory asked and I instantly felt like I was about to trigger a tripwire. What was the right, casual, unstudied answer to this in front of a man you already liked?

‘Er, yeah, I think so,’ I started. ‘I just… can’t imagine losing my mind over it.’

‘I can’t wait.’

‘To get married?’ I checked, surprised.

‘Indeed. The whole shebang: wedding, family, dog.’

‘Oh right,’ I replied, unsure what else to say. It seemed unfair that men could admit this, could declare they were desperate for domestic harmony but women were supposed to keep any such aspirations hidden. ‘I thought you liked cats?’ I asked, mindful of both my list and Marmalade, who was probably, at that moment, cleaning his bottom on my bed.

‘Ideally we’ll have both.’

I tried not to give it away but I felt like my whole face lifted into a smile at the ‘we’ in that sentence.

‘Right,’ he said, reaching under the table for the tray. ‘This has been splendid but I’d better get back. Various bits and pieces to read before tomorrow morning.’

‘Cool,’ I replied, wishing the afternoon hadn’t sped by so quickly. But if this was it and I never saw him again like all the others, it had been nice. Better than nice. It had been great. I hadn’t done anything embarrassing, apart from sweat continually for three hours, and all I needed to do now was get home and have a large glass of water.

‘What are you up to this evening?’ he asked.

I usually spent Sunday evenings making my flapjacks and obsessively refolding my knicker drawer. ‘Not much.’ I shrugged. ‘A book in the bath, probably. Early night.’

He slid the tray into a metal stand and we walked out silently, my heart thumping in time with our steps back down into the courtyard.

‘So,’ Rory said, stopping just before the stone arch on to Piccadilly and turning towards me. ‘How are you getting home?’

‘Walking.’

‘All the way to Kennington?’

I smiled. ‘I like walking. It’s not that far.’

‘Okey-dokes, I’m going to jump on the Tube. But that was lovely, thank you.’

‘Yeah, me too. Shit. I mean, not me too, but thank you, too. If that makes sense?’ I blushed again.

‘I know what you mean,’ Rory said, before kissing me lightly on the mouth. ‘See you soon, Florence Fairfax.’

I watched his back as he walked towards the station. If he turns round in the next six seconds, I told myself, then this is really something and he won’t disappear on me. I counted in my head, feeling a creeping sense of panic. Please could he turn? Please could he look back at me? My excitement would turn to gloom if he didn’t.

He spun when I got to four and grinned, saluting at me as he had in the door of the bookshop. I smiled back then started my walk home. It was astonishing how quickly it could happen. In the space of an afternoon, my brain had pushed out all other thoughts so now there was only room for Rory. I didn’t even notice the colour of the cars passing me.

He messaged the next morning. I realize this is pathetically keen, but I’d like to see you again soon. Are you available for dinner tomorrow?

If it had been my own funeral the following night, I would have leapt up and insisted that, actually, I was feeling much better.

I replied saying I was free and he sent another back saying could I ‘present’ myself at a restaurant in Battersea called Ratatouille at 8 p.m. He messaged like he talked, as if Mr Bingley had got hold of a mobile. It impressed me; it seemed more sophisticated than other men. On the Ambergate Road WhatsApp group that consisted of me, Ruby, Mia and Hugo, Hugo sent messages like ‘Mia, what time ru home?’ and ‘Cn sum1 buy bog roll?’ as if he couldn’t spell really quite basic words.

‘Eugene, do you mind if I take first lunch?’ I asked on Tuesday morning. ‘I’ve just got a few, er, errands.’ I’d rediscovered an old black dress from Whistles in my cupboard but it had a low-cut neckline which needed a new bra that winched everything up a couple of inches.

‘No, absolutely fine, my darling. You go,’ Eugene replied. ‘Good morning, Adrian,’ he added, as one of our regulars stepped through the door. ‘How are we today?’

‘Capital, capital,’ Adrian replied. He was a retired general who liked our history books.

‘Do you need a hand or are you happy left to it?’

‘Not to worry,’ said Adrian as he staggered towards the biographies.

‘If you don’t mind me saying,’ Eugene said, as I returned my attention to the non-fiction table in front of me, ‘you seem unusually cheerful today.’

‘That’s probably because I’ve got a date tonight.’

Eugene clapped his hands to his cheeks. ‘Sound the trumpets! How has this come about?’

‘He came in here, and we had a coffee on Sunday. And now it’s dinner tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Ratatouille? In Battersea?’

He nodded approvingly. ‘Very good choice.’ Then he frowned at me. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Not this, don’t worry,’ I said, brushing my hands down my navy T-shirt and sensible trousers. ‘I’ve found an old black dress.’

‘With which shoes?’

‘With heels and a pair of tights.’

He nodded again. ‘All right, I will allow it. And I do hope you’ve booked yourself a waxing appointment.’

‘What, why?’

Eugene sighed and shook his head at me. ‘Darling, you mustn’t go into battle unprepared.’

‘I’m not sleeping with him yet,’ I replied primly, looking back down to the table of books and straightening a pile of Napoleon biographies. I’d thought about it, obviously. Last night, I’d tried to imagine swinging one leg over Rory’s hips before unbuttoning his shirt but the fantasy was interrupted by Marmalade kneading the pillow beside me.

‘You remember what I said about my very old mother in her retirement home?’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

‘All right,’ said Eugene, holding his hands in the air, ‘just a friendly reminder. But tell me, who is this lucky man?’

‘He’s called Rory. And he seems charming and clever. And he works for the Foreign Office. He wants to be a politician and—’

A bark of laughter interrupted us from the stairs and Zach appeared with his camera around his neck. He was still taking photographs for the new website and seemed to be taking a long time about it, but I told myself that the trail of devastation he left behind him – cold coffee cups abandoned on bookshelves, his motorbike kit cluttering up the wrapping area – was for the greater good of the shop.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ said Zach, stepping towards us, ‘but you’re going on a date with a politician called Rory. A Tory, right? Got to be with a name like that. Rory the Tory. Ha!’

I didn’t reply.

Zach looked from me to Eugene and back again. ‘It’s just, oh come on, he sounds like something from an Evelyn Waugh novel.’

‘You’ve read many of his, have you?’ I couldn’t imagine Zach – black T-shirt and black jeans again today, black hair falling over his forehead – sitting down with a copy of Brideshead Revisited. He looked more like a lumberjack than a reader.

‘I have,’ said Zach, crouching down to take a picture. ‘Most of his, anyway, but Scoop’s my favourite because it’s about war journalism and that’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’ He looked up from his camera. ‘How about you?’

I had to hurry the conversation on because I hadn’t actually read much Waugh and I’d only seen the film version of Brideshead.

‘Rory’s not like one of his characters,’ I said, defensively. ‘He’s clever. And funny. And…’ I was about to go into detail about his wardrobe, mostly for Eugene’s benefit as I knew he’d appreciate the braces, but I stopped myself. Zach would only laugh. ‘And he’s not a politician yet anyway.’

‘But he is a Tory, right?’ needled Zach.

‘So what?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, squinting back into his camera. ‘I’m sure he’s lovely. I’m sure he doesn’t eat babies for breakfast or want to run the NHS into the ground.’

I felt a flash of anger. ‘That’s so predictable.’

‘What is?’

‘Making assumptions about people based on their name. Assuming he’s some sort of monster when you don’t know anything about him. How can you pigeonhole someone like that. It’s just…’ I paused, mentally groping for the right word. Zach looked at me expectantly.

‘It’s just…’ I went on. ‘It’s just… very boring!’

‘Children, children,’ interrupted Eugene, ‘let’s not ruin poor Adrian’s morning by shouting about politics over him.’

‘I’m quite all right,’ croaked Adrian, flapping one hand from the corner.

‘I’m going for lunch,’ I snapped, reaching under the till for my rucksack. I couldn’t slam the shop door because it had a guard on its hinges, but I would have done otherwise. Arrogant, rude computer geek, I thought, while I stood half naked in an Intimissimi changing cubicle and shortened a black bra strap. I’d pity whoever had to date him, frankly.

I waited until the others had left that night before changing in the cramped loo downstairs. Squinting in the mirror above the basin, I tried to do my eyeshadow like Mia had demonstrated. Light brown over the eyelid. Dark brown just beneath the eyebrow. Blend. I leant back to inspect it and almost screamed. What was a racoon doing in this bathroom? I took it all off again with a wipe, glanced at my phone and realized I needed to get to the restaurant in half an hour. Shit. Forget the eyeshadow. I reapplied wobbly eyeliner and mascara to eyelids that had turned pink from the rubbing and dabbed blusher into my cheeks.

Next, bus along the King’s Road and over Battersea Bridge as I counted the number of cars we passed. I was sweating, obviously, when I pushed through the restaurant door. How did normal people do it? I wondered, wiping a bead off my upper lip with a finger. How did normal people go on dates and manage to survive it all without dying of shame and embarrassment (and dehydration)? How did the human race manage to reproduce when even sitting across from someone in a restaurant was such a horrifying obstacle course?

I handed my bag and coat to a waiter when I heard him behind me, his voice alone causing a clap of adrenalin to surge through me.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi,’ I replied, spinning round. The greeting! What sort of greeting did you go for if you’d already kissed on the mouth? Did you revert to two kisses on the cheek? Or another peck on the mouth? One kiss with that awkward half hug? I wished that I was more experienced in such matters as Rory leant towards me, kissing me on the cheek and squeezing the top of my arm. Not an option I’d even considered.

A waiter showed us to a dimly lit table in the corner – one candlestick and a small bunch of primroses in a jam jar – and pulled my chair out.

‘’ere you go, sir, madam, thees are thee menus and ’ere is thee wine leest,’ he said, with such a thick French accent I thought he might be faking it.

‘Thank you very much. Glass of champagne?’ Rory asked me across the table, hanging his dark suit jacket on the back of his chair and revealing a pair of red braces.

‘Amazing. Yes please.’

‘Two glasses of Billecart, please, and I’ll keep this,’ he said to the comedic French waiter, tapping his fingers on the wine list.

‘So,’ he said, leaning forwards on the table. ‘How was your day, dear?’

‘Fine,’ I replied, smiling shyly. I’d ignored Zach all afternoon while he took more photos, trailing cables along the floor and moving books from the right place to the wrong place on the basis ‘they looked better’ where he put them. But he forgot to slot them into place again afterwards so I tidied after him while Zach loitered by the counter, talking Eugene through his camera settings. ‘It was fine,’ I repeated. ‘How about you?’

‘Bloody marvellous and we’re celebrating!’

‘How come?’

‘Because today I got the phone call from the party saying I’m on their list.’

‘List?’

‘For becoming a candidate at the next election. There are various hurdles to clear before you can fight a seat and have to get on an official list before you can apply to any constituency. But today I was approved for that list.’

‘Congratulations! How exciting. So what next?’

He exhaled. ‘You have to wait, basically, for a seat to come up. And they have to approve you, and you have to fight an election. And normally first-timers are given marginal seats and it’s a long slog. But I’m hopeful.’

He dropped his voice and boomed across the table, ‘This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’

‘See? You’re made to be a politician,’ I replied, laughing at his performance.

‘It’s actually Churchill who said that.’

‘Right,’ I replied, ‘I knew that.’ I didn’t, so I glanced down at the menu to hide my cheeks for a few moments before the waiter reappeared. He placed two glasses of champagne on the table and took our order.

‘I think we should have a dozen oysters,’ Rory said. ‘You eat oysters, yes? They’re excellent here.’

‘I’ve never actually had one.’

‘Good God! We must correct that instantly. So a dozen oysters, and then, Florence, what would you like?’

‘Could I have the cod, please?’ I said, automatically picking the dish which didn’t come with anything too fiddly and tiny to count.

‘And I’ll have the bourguignon,’ said Rory. ‘Pomme purée and… some carrots, I think. Ah, hang on, the wine.’ He ran a finger down the wine list and hummed to himself for a few moments. ‘And a bottle of the Côte du Rhone, please.’

‘Absolument, monsieur.’

‘Ah no, sorry, hang on,’ Rory said, and the waiter turned back to him again. ‘We’re having oysters to start so what Sancerre do you have?’

‘We only ’ave one,’ he replied. ‘A very nice 2016.’

‘Fine,’ said Rory. ‘A bottle of that and then the Côte du Rhone, please.’

My head was swimming with oysters and wine as Rory turned his attention back to me and rubbed his hands together. ‘I love the moment when you’ve just ordered and it’s all ahead of you, don’t you?’

I burst out laughing. I wasn’t sure I’d ever met anyone so sure of himself.

He cocked his head at me. ‘What?’

‘You! Your self-confidence. I wish I could be more like it.’

‘Really? You seem a cheerful sort.’

‘Do I? Good. I can be, sometimes.’

‘But not others?’

I thought about the days that my brain seemed locked in battle against me, a small but angry voice telling me the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear. ‘If only you were a stone lighter,’ or ‘Why is your hair so crap?’

‘No, not always.’

‘Everyone has their moments but look at us now.’ He sat back in his seat and stretched out his arms. ‘Here I am in one of my favourite restaurants, opposite a very beautiful and intelligent woman, having just ordered oysters. Nothing much wrong with that, is there?’

I laughed again. ‘Have you always been this positive?’

He nodded. ‘Think so. Why not? It’s why I want to go into politics. More people should be like this. Could be like this, instead of moaning all the time. “Oh, the schools, the housing crisis, the health service.” Well, come on, if we all stopped being so downbeat, things could be better. Don’t you think?’ He leant forward, his elbows on the tablecloth, his blue eyes locked on mine.

‘Yeah, maybe. But I’m not sure it’s as easy for some people.’ Then I paused, and to indicate I was teasing, smiled across at him. ‘What’s the ultimate goal then – Prime Minister?’

‘Ideally,’ he said, as the waiter poured him a thimble of white wine to taste.

‘Seriously?’

He nodded.

‘Marvellous,’ said Rory to the waiter, before grinning at me and leaning forward on the table again. ‘Why not? You have to dream big.’

‘Right, yeah, I guess,’ I replied, remembering that ‘ambitious’ was also on my list. I had a large mouthful of wine and was still mulling this over when another waiter staggered to the table with a large silver bowl.

‘Oh great stuff, the oysters,’ cried Rory. ‘Let’s make space.’ He moved the salt and pepper as the waiter lowered the bowl full of ice, lemon quarters and the oysters, wet and shiny in their shells like the contents of a sneeze in your palm.

I reached for the smallest one and a slice of lemon.

‘Bottoms up,’ said Rory, as he lifted a shell to his own mouth and threw it back.

I let mine slide down my throat without chewing. Was it supposed to be that creamy?

‘Mmm.’ I tried to sound appreciative.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Do you think you’ll always be in London?’

‘Not sure. It’s always been home but it doesn’t seem very adventurous, staying in the same place all your life.’

‘What about the country?’

‘Maybe. How come?’

‘I’m a country person,’ said Rory, seeing off another oyster. ‘I spend my life on a plane now, but ideally I’ll end up with a seat in Norfolk, near home. Do you like Norfolk?’

‘I’ve never been,’ I replied, poking at a shell with a teaspoon.

‘It’s wonderful. The sea, the beaches. The fish! The most outrageously delicious fish. And did you know that it’s the only British county without a motorway in it? Isn’t that a good fact?’

I laughed again and nodded. And as he talked, I relaxed. I even thought I might be enjoying myself instead of worrying about the next thing that could go wrong. Lifting my glass, I finished it and felt suddenly high on the novelty of being in this restaurant and sitting across from him. A real-life date.