‘No. I’m going to Emma and John’s wedding anniversary. They’re throwing a garden party. They live on this square.’
At the mention of their names, her tone recalibrated.
‘A wonderful couple. But they’re not hosting the party here. They have a garden of their own.’
He knew this, of course.
‘I’m waiting for my partner to arrive.’
The woman suggested, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if she met you at the party?’
Danny took another hit on his vape, exhaling and wondering if he should bother to correct the mistake.
‘My partner is a man.’
She nodded, as if with that admission his clothes, his cake and his failure to understand the rules of this place now made sense.
‘Let me show you to the house.’
Danny stood up and followed her to the gate. No doubt this woman, the Sheriff of Pembridge Square, would watch him until the moment he rang the doorbell. Holding the tennis racket in one hand and the cake stand in the other, he climbed the stone steps to the front door, accepting that he would now have to enter the party by himself.
Opening the door Emma said his name as though there were no one else in the world she would rather see, before asking, ‘Where’s Luis?’
Danny attended these parties by way of a guest pass rather than full membership. If you wanted Luis, the deal was some guy called Danny would tag along. He explained that Luis was running late. Emma expressed her admiration that Danny had come alone.
‘I didn’t want to miss the speeches.’
She placed her hand on his arm, letting him into a secret.
‘I have no idea what I’m going to say.’
‘You always know what to say.’
Perhaps it was an inappropriate observation, too direct and personal, but Danny often misjudged conversational cues. Emma reminded herself of precisely that fact before changing the subject.
‘You baked this?’
Bashful, he nodded.
‘The stand is for you as well.’
It was Wedgwood china with an herbarium print found in a Bermondsey flea market, priced at five pounds, bought for five pounds. Danny hated to haggle.
‘I read somewhere that you’re supposed to give a gift of china on a twentieth wedding anniversary.’
Emma seemed impressed, claiming that Danny knew far more about wedding anniversaries than she did. Accepting the stand, she studied the cake under the cloche.
‘I see roses, but I smell watermelon?’
Danny made a mental note never to vape around his cakes again.
‘You don’t have to serve it.’
Emma dismissed the suggestion.
‘You’re the only person who bothered to make us something.’
Emma’s father had been the British ambassador to Nepal,and she had grown up mingling with dignitaries and politicians, cultivating an effortless manner around people of power. Partly for this reason Danny always felt childish around her – she was so profoundly adult, not merely in terms of age. She was forty-nine, only four years older than him. Yet their lives were solar systems apart. As they walked through her family house she discreetly inspected his outfit.
