A Most Desirable Marriage by Hilary Boyd

considered this. ‘Hmm . . . not such a bad idea.’ Then she threw her hands in the air. ‘But that’s the point. I don’t understand it either!’
    ‘Well, research it. Find out. You must admit it’s a great idea.’ Donna looked pleased with herself.
    ‘Yeah . . . OK. I might look into it. I’ve got to do something to earn money, now that . . .’ she tailed off, suddenly bored by her one-track mind always coming back to bloody Lawrence Meadows.
    *
    ‘You didn’t tell me he was a
child
,’ Jo hissed, when Swedish Brian left the table for the men’s room.
    They were in a Vietnamese restaurant off Holland Park, white table cloths, bamboo screens, flickering tea lights. Donna scrubbed up well, a far cry from her clay-splattered, apron-wrapped pottery persona. She had on a crimson embroidered silk jacket and black trousers, her short dark hair sculpted and shiny – unlike its usual spiky mess. Jo felt positively dowdy in her plain white T-shirt and jeans.
    ‘He’s not. He can’t be a day under forty-eight.’ Donna cocked her eyebrow. ‘About Arkadius’s age I’d say.’
    ‘Yeah, OK. But that
is
a child, Donna. You can’t seriously have thought that he’d fancy me, especially dressed like
this
.’
    The Swede was charming, good company, gently flirtatious . . . and young. Jo did think he was attractive, in an objective sort of way, but she was almost embarrassed that she did. It seemed sad and undignified.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Anyway, you look chic, not like me, the proverbial mutton dressed as lamb. But hey, I’m not quite ready to resort to a paper bag over my head.’
    Jo smacked her friend’s hand across the table and they both began to laugh.
    ‘Have I missed something?’ Brian spoke impeccable English with a slight awkwardness of inflection which made him sound more ponderous than he was.
    Both women tried to control themselves, Donna unsuccessfully.
    ‘Sorry . . . sorry, Brian,’ she spluttered. ‘Jo was just complaining that you were a bit on the young side for her.’
    ‘Donna!’ Jo blushed, unable to meet his eye. ‘I didn’t mean—’
    ‘There is no such thing as too young or too old, I think, Joanna.’ He was smiling as he reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips to kiss, which sent Donna into further paroxysms of mirth.
    By the time they wheeled out on to the street, they were all drunk.
    ‘Come back to mine,’ Donna insisted, hailing a passing taxi with authority and bundling Brian into the back before he had a chance to resist.
    *
    Donna’s sitting room was Bohemian in style, with rust-coloured velvet sofas, button-backed armchairs, Turkish rugs, battered leather poufs from Morocco, and glass-globe standard lamps throwing a soft yellow light. But the art was modern and expensive. It was a comfortable, elegant room.
    ‘Sit, sit! What’ll it be? I’ve got almost everything. Whisky, gin, Armagnac, Cointreau, Grey Goose in the freezer, wine, both sorts . . . champagne even, although that’ll be warm.’ Donna hovered by the door that led to the kitchen. She had what Lawrence described as a ‘refugee’ attitude to alcohol. Her father, a doctor and a committed Quaker, never drank, so nobody else in the family was expected to either. ‘I admit I stockpile the stuff,’ she told anyone who saw the extensive drinks cupboard. The Meadows, by comparison, had a cupboard that contained the occasional bottle of wine and, pushed to the back of the shelf, an array of dusty bottles containing liqueurs in lurid, sickly colours, mistakenly collected on foreign holidays by an enthusiastic Lawrence, then never touched.
    The Grey Goose, ice delicately clinking in the cut-glass tumbler, was delicious. Jo was drunk already, but she didn’t care. She was cosy and safe, sunk into the cushions on her friend’s soft velvet sofa, shoes off. Brian was next to her, the talk between the three of them fast and funny and totally inconsequential. Life could be good. Fuck