Thanks. I feel a lot better.
Hows it going anyway? She slid in across from him, picked up the catalogue. Wow Fascinating. You know, you ought to get out more.
I know, I know, he admitted, running his long fingers through his shaggy curls. But if I can get the business to turn a profit this year, then pretty soon Ill be able to expand, take on a few more guys. I mean, my old man left it in a real state. Everything was about flying by the seat of your pants with him. You want to know what his filing system was? A cardboard box shoved under the kitchen sink.
Ricki stole a slice of toast from his plate. You could do with a bit more flying by the seat of your pants.
Whats that supposed to mean?
It means, she tore off a bite, that youre too bloody serious. When was the last time you went out?
You dont get it.
Ricki looked at him. I do get it. You miss him.
Sam shifted, stared out the window. Yeah. Wellactually, he changed the subject, I was picking on Rose for a change.
Oh, yeah? Ricki grabbed Roses hand, pulled her down onto her knee. Ill take some of that action. So what are we picking on her for today?
Piss off! Rose squirmed but Ricki was strong and held her fast.
Im thinking she can do better than Jacks Café, what do you think?
I agree. Two thousand per cent.
And that blond guy she likes gave her a kiss today! Sam added.
No way? Posh Pants?
Enough! Rose managed to wriggle free. I dont need career or love advice from you two losers! Besides, she straightened her apron imperiously, Ive got plans.
Sam and Ricki looked at each other. Ooooooooo-ooowwwww!
Like what? Sam wanted to know.
Theyre private, Rose sniffed, heading back to the kitchen to get Rickis coffee. But rest assured, it doesnt involve pouring you idiots cups of tea all day long!
Good. Glad to hear it, Ricki called after her. She looked at Sam, shook her head. Fuck.
Yeah, that about sums it up, he agreed. You OK?
Just tired, Ricki yawned. And lonely. And tired of being lonely.
Sam finished off his tea. So get a girlfriend.
Yeah, right. If it were that easy, even you would have one by now.
Hey Im not lonely! he objected. Im just too fascinating and busy and
Old?
Yeah, old. You could always lower your standards.
Ricki snorted. I will if you will.
Actually, he considered, Id rather be alone.
Me too.
Rose came back with her order and, handing her a fiver, Ricki stood up. Well, Id better get my skates on; Ive got a new client today. She kissed Rose on the cheek. Give me a ring if you need a hand with Rory this week, OK?
OK. Thanks.
And you, Ricki turned to Sam, take care of yourself. Dont get too obsessed about work. Take it easy.
Ill take it easy when Ive retired early to my holiday home in Tuscany.
Yeah, well, ciao, baby!
Sam picked up the catalogue again.
Rose replaced the ketchup dispensers.
The breakfast rush was over.
Straightening a few chairs, Rose propped open the door. Fresh air rushed in. She closed her eyes; it felt cool and refreshing on her face.
Her luck was turning; she could feel it. Not only had the man shed had a crush on for two weeks finally noticed her but she also had a job interview; the first real interview of her life. And wasnt just any job; it was prestigiousfor the position of junior assistant to the acting assistant household manager of a grand house in Belgravia.
Number 45 Chester Square.
Belgravia.
Even the name had poetry!
Last Saturday afternoon, shed taken Rory there on the bus, just to make certain she knew where she was going. Theyd stopped in front of number 45, with its tiers of neat window boxes and round bay trees bordering the front door. The brass knocker in the shape of a lions head gleamed against the lustrous black paint. The windows sparkled in the sun. Everything was even, balanced; pleasing to the eye.
Nothing bad could ever happen in a house as beautiful as this. A longing filled Roses chest. She wanted to have her own front-door key. Shed step inside and find a world marked by ease and elegance, a world completely removed from the one she inhabited now.
Perched behind the till, Rose took out a copy of Hello! magazine, losing herself in the glossy pages of celebrity photos.
The café was peaceful; quiet.
Then Sams phone rang.
Yes? Yes, thats right. A drip? What kind of drip? Oh. A gush, eh? Yeah, well, he checked his watch, I could come by now but I may not be able to fix the whole thing today. He collected his things. Whats the address?
A pack of off-duty dustmen piled through the door. Sam pushed past them, waving to Rose as he went.
Rose nodded back.
In a few short days, life was bound to become very interesting indeed. But until then, there were tables to serve.
45 Chester Square
Olivia Elizabeth Annabelle Bourgalt du Coudray sat in the gold-and-blue breakfast room of number 45 Chester Square, twisting the enormous diamond eternity ring round on her finger, waiting for her husbands wrath to begin.
Shed made the mistake of getting up in the night, waking her husband. So hed spent the entire night tossing round as violently as he could, whipping the sheets on and then kicking them off again, pulling at the pillow and sighing in frustration. And now, sick with nerves, Olivia sat holding her cup of coffee, knowing that as soon as he came down hed lecture her and accuse her of keeping him up.
Her husband, Arnaud, liked to get angry. Along with Cuban cigars, and being recognized in public, it was one of his favourite things. There was nothing like a good rant to start the day off; his eyes lit up and his skin glowed. It didnt matter that he owned half of the worlds tennis-ball factories or that his family wealth was such that he was regarded as a political figure in France (his views were petitioned on everything from the future of the European Union to cheese production). Even billionaires could have their peace destroyed by an insomniac wife.
As one of six daughters of the famous Boston Van der Lydens, Olivia had spent her youth gliding between New York, the Hamptons and the French Riviera, lingering in Boston only so long as it took to scrape together a degree in Art History. Shed been privileged, emulated; photographed regularly for Vogue and Harpers Bazaar. When Arnaud began his rigorous courtship of her, the American press greeted it as a union between two shining stars in the international social firmament. But here in England she was virtually invisible. And in Paris with Arnauds family, she felt positively gauche. It didnt help that Arnauds mother, the fearsome Comtesse Honorée Bourgalt du Coudray, followed her around her own wedding reception at the Paris Opéra correcting her French and apologizing for the state of her new daughter-in-laws hair.
Olivia glanced up, catching sight of her reflection in the oval mirror that hung across the room. She possessed the wholesome American glamour that inspires Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; athletic good cheer coupled with classical features. Her blonde hair was thick and even, her blue eyes large, her cheekbones high, but, as shed heard her mother-in-law declare loudly one evening to Arnaud, Shes unremarkable, bland, no cachet. Then shed uttered the damning verdict that had obsessed Olivia ever since. Why choose fromage frais when you could easily afford camembert?
Even now, the spectre of her mother-in-law haunted her; a constant front-row critic in her head.
Bland. Unremarkable. The Comtesse had only articulated what she had suspected all along: she was a fraud; a pale imitation of a person with no real talents or original thoughts, no tangible purpose in life. Her beauty and breeding had been sufficient for so many years. And now that she was forty, even those were fading.
Olivia was Arnauds second wife. By the time she married him, he already had two grown-up children, a huge social network spanning several continents, a daunting diary of engagements, houses all over the world, a variety of businesses, and armies of staff. He also had a reputation as an incurable playboy. At the time, shed been foolish enough to think she could influence him. But after ten years of marriage, the opposite had happened.
And shed failed in the one role nature might have provided.
No wonder Arnaud had grown so indifferent.
She sipped her coffee.
It was cold.
He had always been difficult, dictatorial. But before, shed occupied a privileged position in his psyche; she was the prized object, perfect, unassailable.
Last year changed all that.
Shed wanted children so badly, for so long. Then she finally discovered she was pregnant. No longer clinging, limpet-like to Arnauds life, she developed poise and sureness. Best of all it endowed her husband with the one thing money couldnt buy. He was young again, about to be a father; bursting with unassailable masculinity. Hand over her growing bump, he ferried her around London with pride. Never before had they been so close. Together theyd chosen nursery furniture, selected schools, debated names.
Then at eighteen weeks, she woke in the middle of the night. There was blood, sticky and warm, between her legs and pain, like a tightening fist, gripping her torso.
Arnaud was out of the country. Shed gone alone to the hospital. The delivery was long, painful.
She never saw her child; never held it.
Arnaud refused to mention the miscarriage. Instead, he bought her the eternity ring: flawless; gleaming; hideously expensive.
Night-time haunted her ever since.
So Olivia sat, holding the cold coffee in the beautifully decorated Regency-inspired gold-and-blue breakfast room of Chester Square. Behind her, on the mantelpiece, the ghastly ormolu clock the Comtesse had given them as a wedding present ticked loudly.
Fifteen minutes later Arnaud descended. At sixty-two, he was still tanned and trim; he was an avid tennis player and kept up to three yachts moored in Monte Carlo, depending on his mood. His black hair was thinning. He had it trimmed each morning by his valet so that it fell over any balding patches. He shook his head now, it tumbled into place.
Olivia ran her fingers over her hair; there was the familiar fear of being less than satisfactorily groomed in his presence.
Gaunt, the butler, stalked in, delivering fresh coffee and toast with grim formality.
Good morning, sir.
Arnaud grunted.
Gaunt slunk away.
For a while Arnaud said nothing; tossed his toast aside, folded open the paper loudly
Then, of course, she had to ask. How did you sleep?
His black eyes narrowed. He put the paper down. How did I sleep? Let me ask you, how do you think I slept?
I dont know.
Badly! Thats the answer: badly!
Im sorry, she faltered.
Up and down! Up and down! What do you do all night?
I dont know. Im sorry, Arnaud.
You need a pill! You need to go to the doctor and get a pill.
Yes. She stared hard at her plate, at the black interlocking chain design that bordered its silvery white edges.
Ill have my things moved into another room if this goes on. He pushed away from the table. I have important things to attend to. Gaunt! Gaunt!
Yes, sir? Gaunt appeared out of thin air.
Get Mortimer on the phone for me! I promised Pollard supper at the Garrick tonight. We have to discuss marketing strategies. He tossed his napkin down.
Yes, sir.
I want the car out front in forty minutes.
Very good, sir.
Will you Olivia hesitated.
He stared at her. Yes? Will I what?
She hated asking the question; her voice sounded small, plaintive. Will you be home tonight?
Sweetheart, what have I just said? Im meeting Pollard at the Garrick tonight. Perhaps if you slept at night instead of wandering around like a cat I wouldnt have to repeat myself.
He stalked away, taking the paper and his coffee with him. Halfway up the stairs, she could hear him ranting at Kipps, the valet, whod placed his slippers on the wrong side of the bed. Eventually a door slammed.
In the silence that followed, Olivia was aware of countless pairs of unseen eyes upon her; witnesses to their growing domestic disharmony. The months that Arnaud had spent wooing her belonged to another lifetime.
His personality was so strong, so forceful; he always knew exactly what he wanted and what to do. Then he turned the full glare of his powerful attention on her. Her initial indifference spurred him into unprecedented romantic gestures. Fresh boxes of flowers were delivered to her each morning; gifts of diamond earrings, a sapphire ring, even a rare black pearl necklace, were sent from the finest jewellers. Once he bought her a Degas sketch shed casually admired in a Bonhams catalogue. Theyd travelled in his private jet to exotic locations all over the world where her every need was quickly catered for. She receded into the shadow of his larger-than-life persona. It was a relief to slot into a readymade life; where every decision was made for you.
But all that was gone now.
Slowly, she pushed her chair back.
Suddenly Gaunt was there again, picking up the napkin from the floor, folding it, holding the door open.
May I get you anything, maam?
His attentiveness almost felt like kindness. The prick of tears threatened. No, she forced a smile. Breakfast was lovely. Just perfect. Thank you.
She wandered out into the hallway. Hours stretched out before her, empty and unbearable.
Begging your pardon Gaunt hovered like a dark shadow in the doorway.
Yes?
The gardener would like a word about the new water feature.
Oh. Of course.
Olivia followed him outside.
It was a London garden: a small courtyard leading to a narrow patch of grass, augmented by neat rows of flower beds. A tiny fountain trickled away in one corner and there were three long, slender eucalyptus trees near the back wall for privacy.
A dark-haired young man was waiting with his back to her.
He turned as Olivia stepped forward into the sunlight; for a moment its rays blinded her. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized that he was in fact a she; a tall, tanned young woman with dark, cropped hair. She was wearing a white T-shirt, her thumbs hooked into her pockets. Her dark eyes met Olivias, lips parting into a slow smile.