‘Did you find out his name?’ she says, nodding with enthusiasm.
‘It’s Matthew Hollis,’ I say.
Chapter54Wolseley
Monday, 23 December – Evening
The Wolseley is my favourite restaurant, sitting so elegantly and undemonstratively between its more showy neighbours, the Ritz and Fortnum and Mason. Over the past few days, I’ve been sending Stephen loving and slightly flirty texts, often with up to seven kisses, but I’m not convinced that my charm offensive is the sole reason for our night out.
We walk in silence along Piccadilly, our hands clasped together. Since my research, I’ve concluded that his sexual reluctance is down to grief. Besides work, he only goes to his mother’s, the supermarket and the gym. He simply can’t be seeing another woman as he doesn’t have the opportunity.
I’ve chosen a rather daring dress and even more daring underwear. It’s rather breezy, but I’m willing to endure minor irritations for my husband, as I’m hoping that this evening is the start of things to come.
I’ve been trying so hard to control my impatience and be nice, as I’m sure my nagging has pushed him away and left him at the mercy of Madeleine, who is clearly poisoning his mind from her hospital bed. And, I have to say, it feels like I’ve made a breakthrough. When Stephen arrived home last night, he seemedhappier than he’d been in months. And this evening, he’s been enthusiastic and even quite boyish.
The smiling doorman in a bowler hat holds open the door as if we’re old friends and wishes us well. Inside, a dark-haired woman in a waistcoat and white shirt appears and takes our coats. I feel a shiver of pride that he attracts admiring glances as we walk to the table.
My suspicion is that this dinner is the outcome of my candid little conversation with Josh Krill. Stephen has been given the nod at work and will be made a partner. The dream of Hampstead and our new life feels closer than ever.
We sit almost side by side on a soft banquette. Two glasses of rosé champagne appear, followed by sparkling water, crisp bread and French butter. We drink, eat and order. Stephen is charming and attentive. When his hand brushes my arm, I feel an intense shot of electricity. We eat oysters together with a bottle of Chablis Grand Cru and it almost feels as it did before the children arrived to drive out pleasure from all its hiding places.
I wait for the moment. When he asked me to marry him in a charming restaurant in Paris, I had to wait until coffee before he proposed, so I’m used to his tactics to keep me hooked until the end.
I’m proud to have helped secure his partnership. And hope to discover later this evening that those daily dabs of testosterone gel and Aimée’s admiration have had an impact. I have rebuilt him, inside and out. Being made partner has made him like a man again – desirable and powerful – and he’s come back to me.
‘So, Lalla,’ says Stephen, as the coffee arrives. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I brought you here.’
‘Such elegance needs no purpose,’ I say.
‘No, but as you’ve always said, if someone were to have news, you’d want it done beautifully, right?’
‘Why share wonderful things in ugly surroundings?’ I say.
Stephen nods, picks up his coffee, and drinks. He looks to the door almost involuntarily.
‘Lalla, we’ve been married for seven wonderful years.’
‘And what good years they’ve been,’ I interject.
‘Our children are monsters, of course, but delightful and adorable. And you’re truly a unique and special person.’
‘Thank you, Stephen.’
‘What I’m trying to say, Lalla, is that it’s been great. We’ve been great.’ He pauses.
I notice a fly land beside my spoon. It’s one of those winter flies that are clearly already half dead. I turn to Stephen. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ve been thinking about us.’
‘So have I,’ I say. ‘Almost non-stop.’
My hand rises above the fly and hits down hard. My palm presses it flat to the linen tablecloth.
Stephen jumps as the teaspoon flips in the air and clatters down.
‘Missed it, huh?’ says Stephen.
I raise my hand. The half dead fly is stuck to my hand with its innards on display, while its legs cycle helplessly in the air.
