and forced me to get back to work when I just wanted to crawl into bed and never come out again, my heart shriveling with misery against my ribs.
And then, of course, I found Nicholas.
I hover on the restaurant threshold, shifting my bag to the other shoulder as I look for him, anticipating that familiar lurch when I spot his clean, chiseled features—even now, after twelve years—that same strange jolt of knowing I experiencedthe first moment I saw him, in Covent Garden: that absolutely electric certainty, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was The One. Dear Nicholas, so tall and fine and honorable; so sexy and carnal and unaware.
It’s such a relief to be inside, out of the cold. Where
is
Nicholas? The train from Salisbury was freezing, and the cab from Paddington Station wasn’t much better. I can’t imagine why Louise ever left California—
A waitress thrusts a glass of white wine at me, mumbling something about my shoes. Where
can
Nicholas have got to? The train was a bit delayed, thankfully, or I’d never have caught it; but it wasn’t
that
late, he can’t have left yet. He must be here somewhere. Unless I’ve got the name of the restaurant wrong, of course. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I scrabble in my bag for the envelope I wrote the restaurant down on, scattering half the contents across the floor. The waitress is still pressing her glass of wine at me so I have no choice but to take it; still fumbling through my bag, I end up spilling most of the wine on myself. Thank God nothing shows on this dress and after three babies it’s seen far worse. For heaven’s sake, where is Nicholas? Oh, Lord, that wasn’t a clean tissue—
“Your
shoes,”
the girl hisses again.
I finally look down and discover that Kit has, quite deliberately, let me walk out of the house in my pink slippers. He is an absolute swine. I will hang him by the neck until he is dead and then cut him down and eviscerate him while he is still conscious before burning his intestines in front of him … or no, I will allow him to babysit Metheny
at his house
.
I can’t
bear
to let this stunning girl—clearly
not
a waitress after all; her shoes are far too expensive and far too high—see how mortified I am. She is so pretty and smart and
clean
,and I’m already well aware that she’s written me off as barely a fingertip away from senile dementia.
I summon an insouciant smile. “Oh, yes. Well, at least the rain hasn’t ruined them.”
I shove the slippers nonchalantly into my bag as if I do this all the time. Which, of course, I do: not wear pink slippers to retirement parties in London—this is a landmark snafu even for me—but get caught in the crush as my two worlds, nurturing earth mother and career wife, collide.
Although there is less of the career thing now, of course, which is absolutely natural when you have three children, absolutely to be expected; somehow the book deadlines seem to slither through my fingers like egg yolks. I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be just to keep up.
Nicholas abruptly materializes, white-faced and agitated. “Malinche, where in heaven’s name have you
been?
It’s eight-thirty; Will’s been asking for you for the last hour! What kept you?”
“Traffic,” I say, surprised by his twitchiness. I’m not
that
late.
“I told you to allow—oh, never mind. Now that you’re here, you’d better come and be sociable.”
“I
was
, darling, I was talking to this gorgeous girl here—such a lovely suit, I hate chartreuse itself, of course, the drink I mean, but that’s simply a
delicious
color, especially with that corn gold hair, how clever of you—what did you say your name was?”
“Sara Kaplan,” she supplies.
She really
is
a very striking girl: not conventionally pretty, the nose sees to that, but she has something about her, a sensuality, an earthiness. She must be absolutely freezing in that flimsy outfit, the silly girl, but then she’s still too young,
And then, of course, I found Nicholas.
I hover on the restaurant threshold, shifting my bag to the other shoulder as I look for him, anticipating that familiar lurch when I spot his clean, chiseled features—even now, after twelve years—that same strange jolt of knowing I experiencedthe first moment I saw him, in Covent Garden: that absolutely electric certainty, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was The One. Dear Nicholas, so tall and fine and honorable; so sexy and carnal and unaware.
It’s such a relief to be inside, out of the cold. Where
is
Nicholas? The train from Salisbury was freezing, and the cab from Paddington Station wasn’t much better. I can’t imagine why Louise ever left California—
A waitress thrusts a glass of white wine at me, mumbling something about my shoes. Where
can
Nicholas have got to? The train was a bit delayed, thankfully, or I’d never have caught it; but it wasn’t
that
late, he can’t have left yet. He must be here somewhere. Unless I’ve got the name of the restaurant wrong, of course. It wouldn’t be the first time.
I scrabble in my bag for the envelope I wrote the restaurant down on, scattering half the contents across the floor. The waitress is still pressing her glass of wine at me so I have no choice but to take it; still fumbling through my bag, I end up spilling most of the wine on myself. Thank God nothing shows on this dress and after three babies it’s seen far worse. For heaven’s sake, where is Nicholas? Oh, Lord, that wasn’t a clean tissue—
“Your
shoes,”
the girl hisses again.
I finally look down and discover that Kit has, quite deliberately, let me walk out of the house in my pink slippers. He is an absolute swine. I will hang him by the neck until he is dead and then cut him down and eviscerate him while he is still conscious before burning his intestines in front of him … or no, I will allow him to babysit Metheny
at his house
.
I can’t
bear
to let this stunning girl—clearly
not
a waitress after all; her shoes are far too expensive and far too high—see how mortified I am. She is so pretty and smart and
clean
,and I’m already well aware that she’s written me off as barely a fingertip away from senile dementia.
I summon an insouciant smile. “Oh, yes. Well, at least the rain hasn’t ruined them.”
I shove the slippers nonchalantly into my bag as if I do this all the time. Which, of course, I do: not wear pink slippers to retirement parties in London—this is a landmark snafu even for me—but get caught in the crush as my two worlds, nurturing earth mother and career wife, collide.
Although there is less of the career thing now, of course, which is absolutely natural when you have three children, absolutely to be expected; somehow the book deadlines seem to slither through my fingers like egg yolks. I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be just to keep up.
Nicholas abruptly materializes, white-faced and agitated. “Malinche, where in heaven’s name have you
been?
It’s eight-thirty; Will’s been asking for you for the last hour! What kept you?”
“Traffic,” I say, surprised by his twitchiness. I’m not
that
late.
“I told you to allow—oh, never mind. Now that you’re here, you’d better come and be sociable.”
“I
was
, darling, I was talking to this gorgeous girl here—such a lovely suit, I hate chartreuse itself, of course, the drink I mean, but that’s simply a
delicious
color, especially with that corn gold hair, how clever of you—what did you say your name was?”
“Sara Kaplan,” she supplies.
She really
is
a very striking girl: not conventionally pretty, the nose sees to that, but she has something about her, a sensuality, an earthiness. She must be absolutely freezing in that flimsy outfit, the silly girl, but then she’s still too young,
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