how are you fixed for dinner? I know itâs a bit
aprez
theatre at this hour, but Iâm meeting someone who is, actually, at the theatre. Well, the opera. Verdiâs
Macbeth
at the E.N.O â¦â
Robin looked around Heritage Marinerâs big boardroom. She was alone in the Victorian splendour, with a mixture of paintings, prints and flat-screen televisions on the walls â except for the one on her right, where a discreet hatchway communicated with the boardroom kitchens. Beyond the little mahogany hatch was a fully-equipped kitchen where, twelve hours ago, a top-flight chef had been preparing light luncheon for the London directors. She hadnât eaten since and was ravenous now. She suddenly felt listless, lonely; as though the wind had been taken out of her sails. Many of the vessels whose models filled the display cases round the room were insured by Tristan Folgate-Lothburyâs syndicate. He was a bore, but better than nothing. Better than no one.
âIâm not fixed at all, Tristan,â she said. âAnd Iâm famished.â
âWell, you couldnât pop across to the Intercontinental, could you? This dinnerâs set up at Theoâs. You can join in.â
The eyebrows beneath the carefully coiffed gold curls rose into arches of surprise. Theo Randall at The Intercontinental was one of the most exclusive restaurants in Mayfair. Tristan was out to impress someone. Clearly not Robin herself â invited as something between an afterthought and an understudy. But someone Tristan wanted to impress would be someone Robin wanted to meet. And Theo Randall by all accounts cooked like an Italian angel.
Characteristically, she refocused her eyes so that instead of looking at the model of
Sayonara
she was looking at her reflection in the glass of the case that contained it. Thank heavens she had chosen to dress up for the board meeting, she thought. At least she wouldnât have to go up to the penthouse to change into an outfit worthy of the venue, though it was daywear, rather than eveningwear. But it was Alexander McQueen and it would do.
âIâll be there in half an hour, Tristan,â she said. It was during that half hour that Richard finally came through, catching her in a taxi halfway along Pall Mall, so she was unusually short with him â something she would come to regret.
Tristan Folgate-Lothbury was seated and waiting as Robin arrived. He was tucked away at an exclusive little table meant for two but set for three in a cosy alcove in the more muted, brown-on-brown section of the restaurant. He did not appear to realize that Robin was approaching his table in the wake of the maître dâ until the very last moment, for he was clearly keeping an eye out for someone else entirely. But when he finally registered her existence, he leaped to his feet and gave her his most winning and welcoming smile. The crowded table heaved. The silverware chimed. A wine bottle reeled. He would have offered to shake her hand but he was too busy keeping the bottle upright. In the moment it took him to fuss the maître dâ into seating her with her back to the room, she observed him. And was unimpressed by what she saw.
He had put on weight since their last meeting and would have been unhealthily corpulent even had he been a man of twice his years. For an ex-rugger blue approaching his mid-forties, he was positively portly. His blond hair was greying already and thin on top. His eyes were bagged and watery. His cheeks were flushed. Although the restaurant was perfectly air-conditioned, he was sweating â perhaps because he had been caught out by the warmth of the evening outside, for he was dressed for the day, like she was. He wore a pinstriped three-piece suit that looked to be on the tweedy side of gabardine. The buttons of the waistcoat strained alarmingly, and the gold watch-chain he affected seemed to be all that was holding the two sides of it together.
aprez
theatre at this hour, but Iâm meeting someone who is, actually, at the theatre. Well, the opera. Verdiâs
Macbeth
at the E.N.O â¦â
Robin looked around Heritage Marinerâs big boardroom. She was alone in the Victorian splendour, with a mixture of paintings, prints and flat-screen televisions on the walls â except for the one on her right, where a discreet hatchway communicated with the boardroom kitchens. Beyond the little mahogany hatch was a fully-equipped kitchen where, twelve hours ago, a top-flight chef had been preparing light luncheon for the London directors. She hadnât eaten since and was ravenous now. She suddenly felt listless, lonely; as though the wind had been taken out of her sails. Many of the vessels whose models filled the display cases round the room were insured by Tristan Folgate-Lothburyâs syndicate. He was a bore, but better than nothing. Better than no one.
âIâm not fixed at all, Tristan,â she said. âAnd Iâm famished.â
âWell, you couldnât pop across to the Intercontinental, could you? This dinnerâs set up at Theoâs. You can join in.â
The eyebrows beneath the carefully coiffed gold curls rose into arches of surprise. Theo Randall at The Intercontinental was one of the most exclusive restaurants in Mayfair. Tristan was out to impress someone. Clearly not Robin herself â invited as something between an afterthought and an understudy. But someone Tristan wanted to impress would be someone Robin wanted to meet. And Theo Randall by all accounts cooked like an Italian angel.
Characteristically, she refocused her eyes so that instead of looking at the model of
Sayonara
she was looking at her reflection in the glass of the case that contained it. Thank heavens she had chosen to dress up for the board meeting, she thought. At least she wouldnât have to go up to the penthouse to change into an outfit worthy of the venue, though it was daywear, rather than eveningwear. But it was Alexander McQueen and it would do.
âIâll be there in half an hour, Tristan,â she said. It was during that half hour that Richard finally came through, catching her in a taxi halfway along Pall Mall, so she was unusually short with him â something she would come to regret.
Tristan Folgate-Lothbury was seated and waiting as Robin arrived. He was tucked away at an exclusive little table meant for two but set for three in a cosy alcove in the more muted, brown-on-brown section of the restaurant. He did not appear to realize that Robin was approaching his table in the wake of the maître dâ until the very last moment, for he was clearly keeping an eye out for someone else entirely. But when he finally registered her existence, he leaped to his feet and gave her his most winning and welcoming smile. The crowded table heaved. The silverware chimed. A wine bottle reeled. He would have offered to shake her hand but he was too busy keeping the bottle upright. In the moment it took him to fuss the maître dâ into seating her with her back to the room, she observed him. And was unimpressed by what she saw.
He had put on weight since their last meeting and would have been unhealthily corpulent even had he been a man of twice his years. For an ex-rugger blue approaching his mid-forties, he was positively portly. His blond hair was greying already and thin on top. His eyes were bagged and watery. His cheeks were flushed. Although the restaurant was perfectly air-conditioned, he was sweating â perhaps because he had been caught out by the warmth of the evening outside, for he was dressed for the day, like she was. He wore a pinstriped three-piece suit that looked to be on the tweedy side of gabardine. The buttons of the waistcoat strained alarmingly, and the gold watch-chain he affected seemed to be all that was holding the two sides of it together.
Similar Books
