Dominic is waiting for me at the door to the building. He’s also wearing sunglasses, square black Ray-Bans, and is reading a message on his phone, when he looks up and sees me. Instantly his face brightens with a huge smile and he tucks the phone into his jeans pocket. ‘You’re here. Wonderful. Let’s get going.’
We talk easily as we stroll through the hot Mayfair streets. Dominic knows where we’re going and I put myself entirely in his hands as we walk along quiet back routes, through cool alleys and into small hidden squares. People are sitting on the pavements in front of cafes and bars, windows and doors open to the slight breeze. Bright flowering baskets hang from brackets, bringing flourishes of scarlet and magenta to the facades. I love the feeling of walking beside him, as though we belong together, some of his glamour transferring itself to me – at least, that’s what I like to think.
‘Here we are,’ Dominic says as we approach a pub. It’s a traditional building and its exterior is a riot of climbing greenery and colourful blooms. He leads the way inside where it’s clean and modern in a pared-down way, through the shady bar and out into a courtyard that’s been transformed into a beautiful garden, with potted trees, tubs of flowers and wooden tables shaded by green umbrellas. A waitress comes out and Dominic orders a jug of Pimms. It arrives almost at once, the colour of cold tea, full of ice and fruit. Sliced strawberry, apple and cucumber, and sprigs of mint float in the frothy surface.
‘It isn’t summer without Pimms,’ Dominic remarks, pouring out a tall glass for me, the ice and fruit plopping in with a satisfying sound. ‘It’s one of the things the English do best.’
‘Sometimes, from the way you talk, it sounds like you’re not English yourself,’ I say shyly. ‘Your accent is English but sometimes I think I can hear a vestige of an accent of some kind.’ I’m dying to know more about him. I take a sip of my Pimms. It’s delicious: sweet and aromatic, fresh and tangy with mint. I’ve tasted it before, but none as nice as this. It’s dangerous stuff, I can tell. There’s hardly a hint of the alcohol I know is there.
‘You’re perceptive,’ Dominic says, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘I am English, as it happens, born right here in London. But my father was in the diplomatic corps and was constantly posted abroad, so right from my youngest days, I’ve moved around. I spent a good deal of my childhood in South-East Asia. We lived in Thailand for some years and then my father was sent to Hong Kong, which was great fun. But just when I was starting to take some interest in the world around me, I got sent back to England.’ He makes a face, something like a grimace. ‘Boarding school.’
‘Didn’t you like it? I’ve always thought that boarding sounds very romantic.’ I remember how, when I was growing up, I longed to go to a boarding school and was thrilled by the idea of midnight feasts and dorms and all the rest of it. Being an ordinary pupil at the local school and walking home every day with my bag loaded with homework always seemed so dull in comparison to what went on in storybooks.
‘It wasn’t that.’ Dominic shrugs. ‘But there’s always the distance, you see. Being put on a plane to go home for the holidays is all right. Being put on a plane to go back to school is about the most bloody thing you can imagine.’
I can see it in my mind: a small boy, trying hard not to cry, attempting to be brave, saying goodbye to his mother at the airport. He’s taken away by a stewardess as his mother, proper in a hat and gloves, waves farewell. When she’s out of sight, he can’t stop a few tears escaping but he doesn’t want the stewardess to see how much he cares. Then he’s put into his seat to begin the long, lonely journey back to England. A stern-faced, big-bosomed matron, her grey hair in a tight bun, meets him at the airport and accompanies him back to school. I picture it as a forbidding place, out on a desolate moorland with nothing and no one for miles, just boys missing their mothers. Boarding school suddenly doesn’t seem as romantic as once it did.
‘Are you all right?’
Dominic is peering at me closely.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’
‘You’ve got the most tragic look on your face, that’s all.’
‘I’m just thinking about you having to go back to school, missing home so much, being so far away . . .’
‘It wasn’t that bad once I got there. In many ways, I had a marvellous time. I shared a room with two other boys and we had our duvets from home and posters on the walls, our favourite books on the shelves. And I loved games and there was plenty of that. Most weekends I was playing rugby, football or cricket for the school.’ He smiles with the memory. ‘One thing you can say about English boarding schools is that they tend to be well equipped with swimming pools, tennis courts and art departments and whatever, and I made the most of it.’
The Dickensian gothic castle of misery in my imagination disappears to be replaced by a kind of cheerful holiday camp. Boarding school sounds brilliant again.
He goes on. ‘But much as I loved my school, when it came to university, I decided I wanted to spread my wings. So I went abroad.’
‘Back to Hong Kong?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I decided to go to the States. I went to Princeton.’
I’ve heard of that. It’s one of the best American universities, like our Oxford and Cambridge. The Ivy League, that’s it. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
He smiles. ‘I had an amazing time.’
As he speaks, I can hear the faintest American twang in his voice, as though the memory of Princeton has brought back some of the accent he picked up there but was rubbed away by the London years.
‘What did you study?’ I sip my Pimms again. A piece of strawberry bobs against my lips and I open my mouth and let it sit on my tongue. It’s deliciously flavoured by the drink. I eat it slowly while I imagine a younger Dominic, sexy in an American-preppy outfit, sitting in a lecture theatre taking notes as a professor talks animatedly about . . .
‘Business,’ Dominic says.
. . . business. The professor is enthusiastic about his subject and Dominic is now wearing a pair of dark-framed glasses that make him look like a particularly gorgeous version of Clark Kent. He’s concentrating hard, frowning slightly so that his glasses sit in the furrow on the bridge of his nose. While he carefully notes down his professor’s words of wisdom on the nature of large corporations and the function of regulation, a nearby girl is staring with unashamed longing, unable to concentrate because his nearness is sending her nerve ends into a shivering orbit . . .
I move unconsciously, my mouth opening slightly as I imagine what she must be feeling. Something a little like I’m feeling now maybe. One of my legs moves against the other, the warm skin tingling under its own touch.
‘Beth? What are you thinking?’
‘Uh . . .’ I spring back to the moment. He’s leaning forward, his black eyes glittering with amusement. ‘Nothing. I was just . . . thinking.’
‘I’d love to know what about.’
Heat creeps up my face. ‘Oh, nothing really.’ I curse my vivid imagination, it’s always doing that, pulling me into another universe that seems so real I can almost touch it.
He laughs gently.
‘So what did you do after Princeton?’ I ask hastily, hoping he’s not psychic. That would be really embarrassing.
‘I did a year’s postgraduate study at Oxford, and I made some connections there that brought me into the job I’m currently doing. I spent a couple of years in a hedge fund first, getting some practical experience of finance.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-one.’ He looks wary. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two. I’m twenty-three in September.’
He looks faintly relieved. I guess that he suddenly worried that I might be one of those girls who look old for their age.
I take another sip of my Pimms, and Dominic does the same. We are so easy in one another’s company, despite the fact that everything we say reveals what strangers we actually are.
‘So what is your job?’ I ask. I guess
ed it must be something in money, something that could make a man so comparatively young able to live in Mayfair. Unless he inherited something, of course.
‘Finance. Investments,’ he says vaguely. ‘I work for a Russian businessman. He has a great deal of money and I help him to manage it. It takes me all over the world, but it’s mostly based here in London, and it’s very flexible. If I need to take an afternoon off – like today’ – he smiles at me – ‘then I can.’
‘It sounds interesting,’ I say, though I’m still really none the wiser about what he does. The fact is, anything Dominic did would be fascinating to me.
‘That’s enough about me. I’m very dull. I want to know a bit more about you. For instance – does your boyfriend mind you being here in London on your own?’
I have the feeling he’s being mischievous with me, enjoying my discomfort as my treacherous cheeks burn scarlet again. ‘I’m single, actually,’ I say awkwardly.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? I’m surprised.’
It’s hard to tell if he’s teasing me or not – those dark eyes can be rather opaque. I hope I don’t sound like I’m offering my single status as an invitation. I’d be mortified if he thought that. Besides, he’s taken. As soon as I think that, I wonder if this is my chance to find out more on that particular topic.
‘So,’ I say, hoping my face is cooling down a little, ‘how long have you and Vanessa been together?’
Immediately I worry that I’ve gone too far somehow. His expression closes, as though all emotion has been shut off. The friendly openness vanishes, replaced by something cold and blank.
‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer, ‘I’ve been rude. I didn’t think . . .’
Then, it’s as though a switch is turned back on. The coldness disappears and it’s the Dominic I’ve come to know sitting across from me, though his smile seems just a little forced. ‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘Of course you haven’t been rude.’
I’m swamped with relief.
‘I just wondered what made you think she and I are together.’
‘Well, you know . . . she had that air about her, like you and she are very close, very familiar, like a girlfriend and boyfriend would be . . .’ Oh God, I’m so clumsy at expressing myself when it’s important.
After a moment’s pause, he says, ‘Vanessa and I aren’t together. We’re just very good friends.’
I get a flashback of the private members’ club. I know they went there together. They must be very good friends indeed to go to a place like that. I still can’t quite reconcile what I saw there with Dominic’s outwardly normal demeanour. It’s a mystery I file away for later.
He looks at the table and runs his finger along its smooth wooden surface. He says slowly, almost thoughtfully, ‘I won’t lie to you, Beth. Vanessa and I were together once. But it was a while ago. We’re just friends now.’
I remember the way she walked in last night. She didn’t even knock. She has her own key. Are they really just friends?’ Okay.’ My voice is small and shy. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, Dominic.’
‘I know. It’s fine. Listen.’ He evidently wants to change the subject. ‘Let’s have another drink here and then I’m going to take you out for dinner. Okay?’
‘Well . . . ’I wonder what the correct form is. I can’t let a man I hardly know take me out, can I?’ That would be very nice but I’ll pay for myself, of course.’
‘We’ll talk about that later,’ he says in such a way that I guess he isn’t going to let me. But I don’t care. All that matters is that I’ve got the whole evening with Dominic to myself, and unless something very strange happens, there’s absolutely no worry that Vanessa will march in and take over.
I sigh happily and say, ‘At least let me get the next round.’
‘You’re on,’ Dominic replies with a smile, and I get up to order the drinks.
It’s the most blissful evening. I love being close to Dominic, feasting my eyes on his dark good looks. Not only does he make me happy just looking at him but he also seems genuinely interested in me. It makes me think that perhaps I wasn’t as happy with Adam as I’ve led myself to believe. Before we split, Adam hadn’t made any effort with me at all. When I got back from uni, it was obvious that he expected me to fit into the life he had made for himself and his circle of friends, a life of the pub, television, beer and takeaways.
As we sit together in that pretty pub garden, the late afternoon sun sinking into a golden evening, Dominic says, ‘So, Beth – what are your dreams for the future?’
‘I’d love to travel,’ I say. ‘I’ve hardly gone anywhere. I want to expand my horizons.’
‘Really?’ His expression is unreadable but there’s the hint of something dangerous in the way his black eyes glitter. ‘We’ll have to see what we can do about that.’
My stomach swoops. What does he mean? I swallow quickly and try to think of something amusing to say, but as I chatter on about countries I’d like to visit, the excitement burning inside doesn’t die down.
As the alcohol floats through my bloodstream, I begin to relax properly and the last vestige of my shyness melts away. I make jokes, telling Dominic about life at home and some of the more ridiculous stories about my time as a waitress. He laughs uproariously as I describe some of the local eccentrics who frequent the cafe and their general craziness.
When we leave the pub and walk to the restaurant, I’m so enraptured by the way I’m amusing him that I don’t have a clue where we’re going. It’s not until we’re sitting at another outdoor table, this one under a canopy of vines, and the smell of barbecued meat makes me realise how hungry I am, that I become aware we’re at a Persian restaurant, with a bottle of chilled white wine on the table and a salad of deliciously fresh vegetables and herbs, a plate of hummus, and some flat bread hot from the oven, in front of us. It’s all wonderful, and we both start eating hungrily. I’m already stuffed by the time the next course arrives: aromatic grilled lamb, more of the incredibly fresh salad and rice that looks plain but tastes fantastic, sweet and salty at the same time.
As we talk over dinner, our conversation becomes a little more personal. I tell Dominic about my brothers and my parents, and what it was like growing up in my small hometown, and why I was drawn to the history of art. He tells me that he is an only child, and describes something of what it was like to be brought up in a culture of servants and nannies.
In the atmosphere of confession, it feels natural to tell him a little about Adam. Not much – I don’t mention that terrible night and the ghastly sight of Adam and Hannah together – but enough so that he understands that my first big relationship has recently come to an end.
‘It’s a tender time,’ he says gently. ‘It’s one of the sad things we all have to go through. It feels like the end of the world at the time, but things do get better, I promise,’
I gaze at him. The wine and the intoxicatingly beautiful evening have made me brave. ‘Was it like that when you finished with Vanessa?’
He’s startled and then laughs, but not easily. ‘Well . . . it was different. Vanessa and I were not one another’s first love, or childhood sweetheart, or whatever you want to call it.’
I press on, leaning towards him. ‘But you ended it?’
There is a glimpse of that shutter that I’m learning can fall so easily over Dominic’s face, but it doesn’t quite drop. ‘We agreed to end it. That we were better off as friends.’
‘So . . . you fell out of love with each other?’
‘We discovered that we weren’t as . . . compatible . . . as we’d thought we were, that’s all.’
I frown. What does that mean?
‘We had different needs.’ Dominic looks over his shoulder for the waiter and gestures for the bill. ‘Really there’s no big story. We’re friends now, that’s all.’
I realise he’s getting just a tiny bit tetchy and the last thing I want is for this intimate, almost romantic evening to be spoiled.
‘Okay.’ I think
of how I can change the subject. ‘Oh, I got myself a job today.’
‘You did?’ He looks interested.
‘Uh huh.’ I tell him about the Riding House Gallery and he’s clearly thrilled for me.
‘That’s great, Beth! Those jobs are really hard to get, the competition is intense. So you’ll be busy from now on, will you?’
‘No more lying in the garden for me,’ I say with mock despair, ‘not during working hours anyway.’
‘I’m sure there’ll still be time for fun,’ he says, and his eyes twinkle while a dark eyebrow raises. Before I can ask him what he means, the waiter has appeared with the bill, and Dominic is paying it, waving away the offer of my debit card.
It’s almost dark as we walk back through the streets towards Randolph Gardens. The air is rich with the smell of a summer city night: the fragrance of flowers, the scent of cooling asphalt, the dry dust of the day blowing in the evening breeze. I feel so happy. My gaze slides to Dominic.
I wonder if he feels as blissed out as I do? I suppose there’s no reason why he should. It’s just dinner with a girl who’s around for the summer, providing a bit of novelty distraction from the hedge fund business, or whatever it is he does.
In my heart, I wish that it’s not just that, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.
As we get closer to home, the atmosphere between us becomes more charged. After all, this is such a romantic thing to do, returning home together after a delicious meal and wine. Surely it should end with something like . . .
I can hardly dare to think of it.
A kiss.
After all, he’s single, he’s told me himself. And he’s straight because he went out with Vanessa. And . . . surely I can’t be alone in feeling the chemistry between us?
We’re in Randolph Gardens now. Dominic stops at the bottom of the steps and I stand next to him. Once we’re through the door, nothing can happen. The porter will be there, watching, putting an effective stop on any unexpected goodnight embraces.
Fire After Dark Page 9