What if it's lobster? I've never eaten a lobster in my life. Shit. It's going to be lobster, isn't it? And I won't know what to do and it'll be hideously embarrassing. Why haven't I ever eaten lobster? Why? It's all my parents' fault. They should have taken me to expensive restaurants from an early age so I would develop a nonchalant savoir-faire with tricky food.
'I thought we'd just have a nice quiet supper,' says Tarquin, looking over at me.
'Lovely,' I say. 'Nice quiet supper. Perfect.'
Thank God. That probably means we're not heading for lobster and silver domes. We're going to some tiny tucked-away place that hardly anyone knows about. Some little private club where you have to knock on an anonymous-looking door in a back street, and you get inside and it's packed with celebrities sitting on sofas, behaving like normal people. Yes! And maybe Tarquin knows them all!
But of course he knows them all. He's a multimillionaire, isn't he?
I look out of the window and see that we're driving past Harrods. And for just a moment, my stomach tightens painfully as I remember the last time I was here. Bloody suitcases. Bloody Luke Brandon. Huh. In fact, I wish he was walking along the road right now, so I could give him a careless, I'm-with-the-fifteenth-richest-man-in-Britain wave.
'OK,' says Tarquin suddenly to the taxi driver. 'You can drop us here.' He grins at me. 'Practically on the doorstep.'
'Great,' I say, and reach for the door.
Practically on the doorstep of where? As I get out I look around, wondering where on earth we're going. We're at Hyde Park Corner. What's at Hyde Park Corner? I turn round slowly, and glimpse a sign – and suddenly I realize what's going on. We're going to the Lanesborough!
Wow. How classy is that? Dinner at the Lanesborough. But naturally. Where else would one go on a first date?
'So,' says Tarquin, appearing at my side. 'I just thought we could get a bite to eat and then . . . see.'
'Sounds good,' I say, as we start walking.
Excellent! Dinner at the Lanesborough and then on to some glam nightclub. This is all shaping up wonderfully.
We walk straight past the entrance to the Lanesborough, but I'm not fazed by that. Everyone knows VIPs always go in through the back to avoid the paparazzi. Not that I can actually see any paparazzi – but it probably becomes a habit. We'll duck into some back alley, and walk through the kitchens while the chefs pretend they can't see us, and then emerge in the foyer. This is so cool.
'I'm sure you've been here before,' says Tarquin apologetically. 'Not the most original choice.'
'Don't be silly!' I say, as we stop and head towards a pair of glass doors. 'I simply adore . . .'
Hang on, where are we? This isn't the back entrance to anywhere. This is . . .
Pizza on the Park.
Tarquin's taking me to Pizza Express. I don't believe it. The fifteenth-richest man in the country is taking me to bloody Pizza Express.
'. . . pizza,' I finish weakly. 'Love the stuff.'
'Oh good!' says Tarquin. 'I thought we probably didn't want anywhere too flashy.'
'Oh no.' I pull what I think is a very convincing face. 'I hate flashy places. Much better to have a nice quiet pizza together.'
'That's what I thought,' says Tarquin, turning to look at me. 'But now I feel rather bad. You've dressed up so nicely . . .' He pauses doubtfully, gazing at my outfit. (As well he might. I didn't go and spend a fortune in Whistles just to be taken to Pizza Express.) 'I mean, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere a bit smarter. The Lanesborough's just around the corner . . .'
He raises his eyes questioningly, and I'm about to say, 'Oh, yes please!' when suddenly, in a blinding flash, I realize what's going on. This is a test, isn't it? It's like choosing out of three caskets in a fairytale. Everyone knows the rules. You never choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you're supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there's a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels. So this is it. Tarquin's testing me, to see whether I like him for himself or if I'm only after him for his money.
Which, frankly, I find rather insulting. I mean, who does he think I am?
'No, let's stay here,' I say, and touch his arm briefly. 'Much more relaxed. Much more . . . fun.'
Which is actually quite true. And I do like pizza. And that yummy garlic bread. Mmm. You know, now I come to think about it, this is quite a good choice.
As the waiter hands us our menus, I give a cursory flash down the list, but I already know what I want. It's what I always have when I go to Pizza Express – Fiorentina. The one with spinach and an egg. I know it sounds weird, but honestly, it's delicious.
'Would you like an aperitif?' says the waiter, and I'm about to say what I usually do, which is, Oh, let's just have a bottle of wine, when I think sod it. I'm having dinner with a multimillionaire here. I'm bloody well going to have a gin and tonic.
'A gin and tonic,' I say firmly, and look at Tarquin, daring him to look taken aback. But he grins at me, and says,
'Unless you wanted champagne?'
'Oh,' I say, completely thrown.
'I always think champagne and pizza is a good combination,' he says, and looks at the waiter. 'A bottle of Moët, please.'
Well this is more like it. This is a lot more like it. Champagne and pizza. And Tarquin is actually being quite normal.
The champagne arrives and we toast each other and take a few sips. I'm really starting to enjoy myself. Then I spot Tarquin's bony hand edging slowly towards mine on the table. And in a reflex action – completely without meaning to – I whip my fingers away, pretending I have to scratch my ear. A flicker of disappointment passes over his face and I find myself giving a really fake, embarrassed cough and looking intently at a picture on the wall to my left.
Oh God. What did I have to go and do that for? If I'm going to marry the guy, I've got to do a lot more than hold his hand.
I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I can be attracted to him. It's just a matter of self-control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily, 'I'm going to be a millionaire's wife! I'm going to be a millionaire's wife!' And when I look back at Tarquin, he already seems a bit more attractive (in a stoaty kind of way). Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital happiness.
My head is filled with a happy vision of our wedding day. Me in some wonderful designer dress; my mum and dad looking on proudly. No more money troubles ever. Ever. The fifteenth-richest man in the country. A house in Belgravia. Mrs Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Just imagining it, I feel almost faint with longing.
Oh God, it could all be mine. It can be mine.
I smile as warmly as I can at Tarquin, who hesitates – then smiles back. Phew. I haven't wrecked things. It's all still on. Now we just need to discover that we're utter soulmates with loads of things in common.
'I love the—' I say.
'Do you—'
We both speak at once.
'Sorry,' I say. 'Do carry on.'
'No you carry on,' says Tarquin.
'Oh,' I say. 'Well . . . I was just going to say again how much I love the picture you gave Suze.' No harm in complimenting his taste again. 'I love horses,' I add for good measure.
'Then we should go riding together,' says Tarquin. 'I know a very good livery near Hyde Park. Not quite the same as in the country, of course
'What a wonderful idea!' I say. 'That would be such fun!'
There's no way anyone's getting me on a horse. Not even in Hyde Park. But that's OK, I'll just go along with the plan, and then on the day, say I've twisted my ankle or something.
'Do you like dogs?' asks Tarquin.
'I love dogs,' I say confidently.
Which is sort of true. I wouldn't actually like to have a dog – too much hard work and hairs everywhere. But I like seeing labradors running across the park. And the Andrex puppy. That kind of thing.
; We lapse into silence, and I take a few sips of champagne.
'Do you like EastEnders?' I ask eventually. 'Or are you a . . . a Coronation Street person?'
'I've never watched either, I'm afraid,' says Tarquin apologetically. 'I'm sure they're very good.'
'Well . . . they're OK,' I say. 'Sometimes they're really good, and other times . . .' I tail off a bit feebly, and smile at him. 'You know.'
'Absolutely,' exclaims Tarquin, as though I've said something really interesting.
There's another awkward silence. This is getting a bit sticky.
'Are there good shops, where you live in Scotland?' I say at last. Tarquin pulls a little face.
'I wouldn't know. Never go near shops if I can help it.'
'Oh right,' I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. 'No, I . . . I hate shops too. Can't stand shopping.'
'Really?' says Tarquin in surprise. 'I thought all girls loved shopping.'
'Not me!' I say. 'I'd far rather be . . . out on the moors, riding along. With a couple of dogs running behind.'
'Sounds perfect,' says Tarquin, smiling at me. 'We'll have to do it some time.'
This is more like it! Common interests. Shared pursuits.
And OK, maybe I haven't been completely honest, maybe they aren't exactly my interests at the moment. But they could be. They can be. I can easily get to like dogs and horses, if I have to.
'Or . . . or listening to Wagner, of course,' I say casually. Ha! Genius!
'Do you really like Wagner?' says Tarquin. 'Not everyone does.'
' I adore Wagner,' I insist. 'He's my favourite composer.' OK, quick – what did that book say? 'I love the . . . er . . . sonorous melodic strands which interweave in the Prelude.'
'The Prelude to what?' says Tarquin interestedly.
Oh shit. Is there more than one Prelude? I take a gulp of champagne, playing for time, desperately trying to recall something else from the book. But the only other bit I can remember is 'Richard Wagner was born in Leipzig.'
'All the Preludes,' I say at last. 'I think they're all . . . fab.'
'Right,' says Tarquin, looking a bit surprised. Oh God. That wasn't the right thing to say, was it? Change the subject. Change the subject.
Luckily, at that moment a waiter arrives with our garlic bread, and we can get off the subject of Wagner. And Tarquin orders some more champagne. Somehow, I think we're going to need it.
Which means that by the time I'm halfway through my Fiorentina, I've drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and I'm . . . Well, frankly, I'm completely pissed. My face is tingling and my eyes are sparkling, and my arm gestures are a lot more erratic than usual. But this doesn't matter. In fact, being pissed is a good thing – because it means I'm also delightfully witty and lively and am more or less carrying the conversation single-handedly. Tarquin is also pissed, but not as much as me. He's got quieter and quieter, and kind of thoughtful. And he keeps gazing at me.
As I finish my last scraps of pizza and lean back pleasurably, he stares at me silently for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and produces a little box.
'Here,' he says. 'This is for you.'
I have to admit, for one heartstopping moment I think . . . This Is It! He's Proposing! (Funnily enough, the very next thought that flashes into my mind is Thank God I'll Be Able To Pay Off My Overdraft. Hmmm. When he proposes for real, I must make sure to think something a bit more romantic.)
But of course, he's not proposing, is he? He's just giving me a little present.
I knew that.
So I open it and find a leather box, and inside is a little gold brooch in the shape of a horse. Lots of fine detail; beautifully crafted. A little green stone (emerald?) for the eye.
Really not my kind of thing.
'It's gorgeous,' I breathe in awe. 'Absolutely . . . stunning.'
'It's rather jolly, isn't it?' says Tarquin. 'Thought you'd like it.'
'I adore it.' I turn it over in my fingers (hallmark – good) then look up at him and blink a couple of times with misty eyes. God I'm drunk. I think I'm actually seeing through champagne. 'This is so thoughtful of you,' I murmur.
Plus I don't really wear brooches. I mean, where are you supposed to put them? Slap bang in the middle of a really nice top? I mean, come on. And they always leave great brooch-holes everywhere.
'It'll look lovely on you,' says Tarquin after a pause – and suddenly I realize he's expecting me to put it on.
Aaargh! It'll ruin my lovely Whistles dress! And who wants a horse galloping across their tits, anyway?
'I must put it on,' I say, and open the clasp. Gingerly I thread it through the fabric of my dress and clasp it shut, already feeling it pulling the dress out of shape. How stupid do I look now?
'It looks wonderful,' says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. 'But then . . . you always look wonderful.'
My stomach gives a flip as I see him leaning forward. He's going to try and hold my hand again, isn't he? And probably kiss me. I glance at Tarquin's lips – parted and slightly moist – and give an involuntary shudder. Oh God. I'm not quite ready for this. I mean, obviously I do want to kiss Tarquin, of course I do. In fact, I find him incredibly attractive. It's just . . . I think I need some more champagne first.
'That scarf you were wearing the other night,' says Tarquin. 'It was simply stunning. I looked at you in that, and I thought
Now I can see his hand edging towards mine.
'My Denny and George scarf?' I cut in brightly, before he can say anything else. 'Yes, that's lovely, isn't it? It was my aunt's, but she died. It was really sad, actually.'
Just keep talking, I think. Keep talking brightly and gesture a lot.
'But anyway, she left me her scarf,' I continue hurriedly. 'So I'll always remember her through that. Poor Aunt Ermintrude.'
'I'm really sorry,' says Tarquin, looking taken aback. 'I had no idea.'
'No. Well . . . her memory lives on through her good works,' I say, and give him a little smile. 'She was a very charitable woman. Very . . . giving.'
'Is there some sort of foundation in her name?' says Tarquin. 'When my uncle died—'
'Yes!' I say gratefully. 'Exactly that. The . . . the Ermintrude Bloomwood Foundation for . . . violinists,' I improvise, catching sight of a poster for a musical evening. 'Violinists in Malawi. That was her cause.'
'Violinists in Malawi?' echoes Tarquin.
'Oh absolutely!' I hear myself babbling. 'There's a desperate shortage of classical musicians out there. And culture is so enriching, whatever one's material circumstances.'
I can't believe I'm coming out with all this rubbish. I glance apprehensively up at Tarquin – and to my complete disbelief, he's looking really interested.
'So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?' he asks.
Oh God. What am I getting myself into, here?
'To . . . to fund six violin teachers a year,' I say, after a pause. 'Of course, they need specialist training, and special violins to take out there. But the results will be very worthwhile. They're going to teach people how to make violins, too, so they'll be self-sufficient and not dependent on the West.'
'Really?' Tarquin's brow is furrowed. Have I said something that doesn't make sense?
'Anyway.' I give a little laugh. 'That's enough about me and my family. Have you seen any good films, recently?'
This is good. We can talk about films, and then the bill will come, and then—
'Wait a moment,' says Tarquin. 'Tell me – how's the project going, so far?'
'Oh,' I say. 'Ahm . . . quite well. Considering. I haven't really kept up with its progress recently. You know, these things are always—'
'I'd really like to contribute something,' he says, interrupting me.
What?
He'd like to what?
'Do you know who I should make the cheque payable to?' he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. 'Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?'
And as I watch, paralysed in astonishment, he brings out a
Coutts chequebook.
A pale grey Coutts chequebook.
The fifteenth-richest man in the country.
'I'm . . . I'm not sure,' I hear myself say, as though from a great distance. 'I'm not sure of the exact wording.'
'Well, I'll make it payable to you, then, shall I?' he says. 'And you can pass it on.' Briskly he starts to write:
Pay Rebecca Bloomwood
The sum of
Five . . .
Five hundred pounds. It must be. He wouldn't just give five poxy . . .
Thousand pounds,
T. A. J. Cleath-Stuart
I can't believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a cheque, addressed to me. Five thousand pounds which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Malawi.
If they existed.
'Here you are,' says Tarquin, and hands me the cheque – and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out towards it.
Pay Rebecca Bloomwood the sum of five thousand pounds.
I read the words again, slowly – and feel a wave of relief so strong, it makes me want to burst into tears. The sum of five thousand pounds. More than my overdraft and my VISA bill put together. This cheque would solve all my problems, wouldn't it? It would solve all my problems in one go. And, OK, I'm not exactly violinists in Malawi – but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he? He'd never check up. Or if he did, I could come up with some story.
Anyway, what's £5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn't even notice whether I paid it in or not. A poxy £5,000, when he's got £25 million! If you work it out as a fraction of his wealth it's . . . well, it's laughable, isn't it? It's the equivalent of about fifty pence to normal people. I'm talking about pinching fifty pence. Why am I even hesitating?
'Rebecca?'
Tarquin is staring at me, and I realize my hand is still inches away from the cheque. Come on, take it, I instruct myself firmly. It's yours. Take the cheque and put it in your bag. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the cheque. I'm getting closer . . . closer . . . almost there . . . my fingers are trembling with the effort . . .
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic: Page 18
