We arrive at the city center, where the fog obscures Park Lane up to Brook Street, and I park the car in Grosvenor Square.
“What an elegant neighborhood,” observes Elisa, as I help her out of the car. “I don’t see any restaurants, though.”
“You have to know where they are.” I offer her my arm, accompanying her toward the entrance of one of the ancient buildings that surrounds the square.
“Here?” she asks me doubtfully.
“Right here.”
“Are we going straight to the chef’s house?”
“More or less. Ladies first.”
60
Elisa
“You need a gown just to enter this elevator,” I observe, noting the rose gold–plated walls molded into the texture of an elaborate brocade. “I hope you booked the right date this time.”
“Pinchiorri’s was a lesson I’ll never forget, but they always keep a table for me here.”
“Modest.”
“Knowledge is everything in life, and as I told you, it’s averyexclusive circle.”
It’s finally dawning on me that this must be one of those exclusive clubs that posh English people like. “Let me guess: members only?”
“Highly selective.” We arrive at the right floor, and Michael enters a code on a keypad fixed to the door, which opens the lock.
We enter an apartment that can only be defined one way: white.
“May I?” he asks, removing my jacket. “You’ve been hiding a secret weapon.”
“What?”
“You’re wearing the most revealing gown I’ve ever seen,” he comments, staring at the back, which is cut so deep it stops an inch above my buttocks.
“Too revealing?”
“Never.”
“I can change if you want.”
“I want you to give me a second. I’ll be right back.” Michael disappears, leaving me alone in a sea of white.
White mohair sofas on which it seems no one has ever sat; a white carpet from which I immediately move away, terrified at the idea of staining it; furniture that reflects the lights to the point of blinding me; and a polished Carrara marble floor that looks like an ice-skating rink. No sign of a life lived. It looks like a house in a real estate catalog.
The sound of two sliding doors behind me draws my attention, so I turn.
“Welcome to Chez Michael,” he announces, wearing a black chef’s apron, on the threshold of a kitchen that is the size of a small village.
“If I’m your only customer, business must not be going so well.” I tease Michael to distract myself from the sight of him, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his haute cuisine apron, which is enough to short-circuit my hormones.
“It’s our opening night. I only wanted the most important guest.”
“So you’re depending entirely on my reviews?”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
