Leftovers (22 page)

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she says.

‘What? Nothing! … I mean you’re hanging out of your dress!’

‘I know you and Polly don’t like Mark …’

‘Dalia …’

‘You think he’s using me, and that I’m some sort of an idiot or something. But he
is
a good guy. And I’m telling you it is
the best sex
of my entire life. I am talking full on, heated, rampant, can’t-concentrate-at-work-because-I’m-thinking-about-it, bloody-great, pin-me-up-against-the-wall sex.’

‘Alright!’

‘And I
personally
refuse to live without that,’ she says. Dalia thinks I should at least find myself a fuck-buddy. But I don’t want to segregate my heart from the rest of my body. So I am learning to live without that sort of sex. And I am almost used to not having it; almost at a point where I don’t miss it.

Not almost enough.

‘And what’s more,’ she says, ‘I refuse to apologise for the fact that I am a passionate person who knows what she wants.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Dalia, all I was doing was tucking your bra strap back in – nothing more! You don’t need to go on and on about it like that.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘Fine. It just feels like you judge me all the time.’

‘How’s work?’ I say, with forced jollity. ‘Boss still off?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘I can’t believe it – a month off with stress, after she threw her iPhone at the work placement’s head! Still, at least she’s not micro-managing my every move. How’s yours?’

‘I’m off at Christmas, as soon as they promote me.’

‘You’ll leave?’

‘I hate it,’ I say, realising that hate is a strong word – yet, thinking about Nick and his scripts, perhaps not strong enough. ‘I’m not learning. It’s not fun. The only good things are my friends, and I’ll still see them if I quit.’ Funny, that’s what Jake used to say and I’d always shoot him down.

‘It’s a bad time to be out of work, they’re talking triple dip recession.’

‘You sound just like my mum,’ I say.

She looks at her watch again. ‘Shit, I’ve got to go or he’ll be pissed off. Let me give you some cash,’ she says, checking her make-up again. She holds the mirror an inch from her eyes, and prods gently at her cheekbones before shaking her head. ‘Mark’s right – I do look old and tired. I think I’m going to have to start getting filler.’

‘Nonsense. You look beautiful. You are beautiful. Wine’s on me. Go. You don’t want to be late.’ For a man who tells you how knackered you look …

She gives my arm a quick squeeze as she goes. I can tell she feels slightly bad about ditching me again on a Saturday night, but not as bad as I feel now, slightly tipsy Norman No-Mates with my bottle of wine. I turn the bottle round and pretend to inspect the label. I sense the man who’d given Dalia the once-over glance briefly at me. When he’s stopped looking I glance back.

Old. Expensive suit. Portly. A thick shot of white hair. He too has a bottle of wine all to himself, and not even the cover of a now-vanished friend to share it with. His booze is considerably finer than mine, however, and sits in its own shiny silver bucket. He has a couple of small plates of food – one with meatballs, another with what look like tiny mozzarella balls in a pale sauce. Without my glasses I can’t tell. They look too shiny to be cheese … They look tasty …

‘Excuse me,’ I say, my wine getting the better of me. ‘Is that mozzarella?’

‘Quail’s eggs. With tuna. Try some?’

‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘I was just trying to work out what they were.’

‘They’re terribly good.’ He pushes his plate towards me.

‘Only if you’re sure.’ I hastily pull the plate nearer. ‘And do you mind, the bread basket?’ In for a penny …

‘Verdict?’ he says, as I swipe a soft square of focaccia through the sauce.

‘Totally delicious. Thank goodness someone’s got the patience to peel a quail’s egg.’

‘I come here often,’ he says, looking around the room as if it’s his. ‘I’ll have a few bits here, then go next door for my main course.’

‘What’s next door?’

‘Lydia’s.’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Lydia’s!’

‘I’ve been a member since 1958. Lydia and I were great chums, used to ski a lot together,’ he says. ‘If you fancy dinner, we can go there now?’

I look at him carefully. He is unfit, overweight, double my age. His complexion has the glowing redness of sunburn but I suspect it’s a lifetime of long lunches. If he tried to attack me I reckon I could hold my own. Besides, people don’t get abducted from swanky members’ clubs in Mayfair. Unless of course he slips me a Rohypnol …

‘So if you used to hang out at Lydia’s in the sixties did you know Lord Lucan, then?’ I say.

‘Bastard won a Jag off me playing backgammon.’

‘What’s your name?’ I wonder if he’s a politician.

He suddenly looks wary. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘I can’t go to dinner with a man whose name I don’t know.’

He pauses for a moment to consider this. ‘Peter.’

‘And your surname?’

‘You don’t need to know that.’

Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Either way I’m going to Google him when I go to the loo in a minute to check he’s not a murderer. The man used to gamble with Lucan – I mean, who knows?

‘Help me finish this Chablis,’ he says, clicking towards the barman for a clean glass, then filling it almost to the rim. If he is going to slip me a Mickey Finn right now is when. I watch the pour carefully. No sign of white powder falling from his Savile Row sleeve.

‘Back in a sec,’ I say, heading to the loo, smartphone at the ready. I type in ‘Peter’, ‘Lydia’s nightclub’ and ‘Lord Lucan’ and come up with five possible old aristos called Peter, then add in ‘backgammon’ and ‘Jaguar’ and find him – thank you, internet, for once you’re on my side!

Peter Emerson-Black, born in 1940 … yes, double my age. Made his money in the City in the eighties … Owns cars, a small plane, a football team – yep, he can pay for dinner. One ex-wife, no children … and no history of murder.

I check my face in the mirror. Why is he asking me to dinner, I wonder. I look OK tonight, quite well turned out I suppose in a knee-length navy dress with a high neck. And I guess I look quite classy compared to some of the women in here who are in head-to-toe leopard print. Why am I going for dinner with him is probably the question I should be asking. I don’t remotely fancy him.

But it’s Saturday night, I’ve been ditched by my friend. I’m drunk. I’m hungry. And I’ve always wanted to go to Lydia’s to see what all the fuss was about. All those famous paparazzi shots over the years of people falling out of its doors at 3 a.m., with people they shouldn’t be falling out of doors with. This might be my only opportunity to get in. So it’s that or go home for a fish-finger sandwich and
The Killing
. Though I do love Lund. But I guess I could catch up on iPlayer …

I can’t possibly go home at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night when everyone else in London is out having fun. Besides, I’m here now. And Lydia’s is right next door. And Peter looks lonely. He does, poor old man, sitting with a bottle of wine and no one to drink it with …

‘What sort of food do they do at Lydia’s?’ I say, as Peter helps me on with my coat.

‘They can make you whatever you want,’ he says, as we head out of the door and turn right. I wonder if they would make me a fish-finger sandwich – it’s actually what I really fancy.

A doorman in a bowler hat greets Peter warmly and ushers us through a heavy black door. Inside we climb a staircase and walk through gold curtains and into a low-ceilinged dining area. The walls are lined with purple velvet and guests sprawl on banquettes drinking champagne under chandeliers that I’m sure I’ve seen in Homebase. There isn’t a woman over forty in this room with the face she was born with. One diner moves a fork unsteadily across her plate like it’s a fawn on ice. If eating is cheating, why go to a restaurant?

The maître d’ seats us at a corner booth and before I’ve even eyeballed the menu Peter has ordered for us both. ‘You do eat meat, don’t you, Sarah?’ he says as an afterthought.

I nod. I think about correcting him on my name but don’t really see the point.

‘You like food, don’t you?’ he says.

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘You’re not a nutritionist by any chance?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I put my back out in Barbados at Christmas, haven’t been able to play golf since. I need to lose three stone.’

‘Not three,’ I say, assessing his paunch. ‘Maybe one at a push.’

‘You’re an angel,’ he says. ‘But my friends say I look terrible.’

‘Get new friends,’ I say. ‘It’s simple. Eat less, move more. There are six hundred calories in a bottle of wine, all of which are nutritionally empty.’

‘Six hundred, you say? Is that a lot? You know, I think you’d be perfect for the job.’ He reaches out and grabs my hand. His small hand is unexpectedly dry. I smile anxiously, willing him not to move any closer. ‘Sarah, say you’ll be my nutrition advisor, please?’

I have no idea what I’m dealing with here. Is this code? Is he actually propositioning me for sex? Does he genuinely just want advice? Or is he a lonely old man, looking for an excuse for a conversation? His hand gives mine a gentle squeeze. Is there any way, in any conceivable universe, that I could imagine dating this man? Fundamentally he is far too old for me. He is also shorter than me – though I could probably get past that. Also I suspect he’s an alcoholic – I don’t really want to have to get past that …

His face is inoffensive though. And his eyes do have a certain sparkle and warmth. He’s generous. And smart. And he hasn’t tried to move my hand to his crotch yet … Oh it’s no use. There’s just no way. He’s far too old. Does that make me terribly shallow?

‘I’d make sure you were remunerated appropriately,’ he says.

A meal ticket out of NMN … No more of Berenice’s crap … I could be like that girl in Primrose Hill, shopping all day. I’d never need to worry about the price of cheese.

‘I can give you some simple advice but I can’t take your money,’ I say.

He looks confused. ‘Are you some sort of operator?’ he says, slurring slightly.

Terrific. He thinks I’m a prostitute. Ironic, really, given that the woman on the table next to us surely is. She’s the blondest, largest-busted woman I’ve ever seen. Dressed in an Hervé Léger white minidress, she’s sitting on the lap of a wizened old Monty Burns look-alike. I’m sure I’ve seen him in
ES Magazine
. I think he owns all the steel in the world. Or maybe it’s all the copper mines.

I’m contemplating how to reply to Peter’s question without sounding offended, when the waiter comes over and presents a bottle of wine. Peter swirls the golden liquid ostentatiously round his glass, then swigs it back with an appreciative gasp.

‘My ex-wife insisted on serving Montrachet at our wedding,’ he says, staring at the ceiling. It is covered in black velvet with little diamante sparkles throughout, which cast a weird shimmer over all the flesh in the room. ‘Yet when we met she’d never even heard of Montrachet.’ Well then she and I have something in common.

He takes a large sip of wine, pauses to look at the remaining liquid, then downs it. ‘Though I dare say she’d heard of a patsy …’ He gestures to the waiter to pour him another.

‘When did you get divorced?’

‘Last summer,’ he says, gripping the stem of his glass tightly. ‘We were only married for eleven months and yet she tried to unburden me of four million pounds.’ He shakes his head. ‘Does that seem just to you?’

Depends on how bad a husband you were, I guess.

‘I take it you’re no longer on speaking terms,’ I say. He snorts a response.

‘Are you tempted to try again?’ Perhaps he’s given up on love at his age. Burnt financially, emotionally …

‘Why ever not? I’ve got twenty good years left!’

That’s the spirit. I wonder if I should try to fix him up on a date with Rebecca’s mum? Make it clear that I’m not interested and at the same time do a bit of matchmaking. Of course, Marjorie would be more his age but these rich old guys don’t want to date women their own age. Plus, Marjorie gave up on intimate relations and politeness around the mid-1970s. Rebecca’s mum on the other hand is another matter. Divorced ten years ago, she’s gorgeous, probably fifty-five but passes for forty. She’s sparky, lots of fun, well travelled …

‘My friends are trying to set me up with some women. Met a charming lady the other day,’ he says. ‘Flew her to St Tropez, had a marvellous dinner down there, an excellent Pauillac from ’78.’

‘That’s quite full on for a first date.’

‘She’d never been to France,’ he shrugs.

‘Never been to France? Is she English?’ Maybe she was one of those mail-order brides …

‘Sure, she’s English.’

Hang on a minute. ‘How old is she?’ I say.

‘Mid-twenties, I suppose. Ah, food!’

The waiter descends on us with a tray bearing two plates covered by giant silver domes. He places them in front of us and I catch sight of my reflection. Even though the curve of the dome is distorting my face you can still register my shock.

‘Tournedos Rossini,’ says Peter, poking his fork into a nugget of meat placed perfectly in the centre of a large white plate. ‘Nothing better than a bit of foie gras.’

‘I was actually going to ask if you’d be interested in taking my friend’s mother out? She’s lovely.’

‘Her mother?’ he says, doubtfully. ‘How old is she?

‘Early fifties?’

‘No use I’m afraid, I need someone who’s fertile. Early thirties, thirty-four maximum.’

I find myself involuntarily pushing my plate away. Marvellous. I am having dinner with a seventy-three-year-old who considers me too old for him! I had grudgingly accepted that every man my own age wants to date younger. But where does this leave me? What is left out there? A hot centenarian who might be persuaded, just this once, to lower his standards?

‘Not hungry?’ he says, reaching out for my hand, which I quickly move to my lap.

‘Actually I feel a bit peaky,’ I say, holding my napkin to my mouth while I think. If I race over to Bond Street tube now, I can still be home for
The Killing
. I bet the murderer’s that good-looking guy … I’ll open that nice Malbec that Frandrew brought round, drink away this whole tawdry experience.