Look, I don’t really have an option. He’s already getting up, chivalrously coming around to my side of the table to pull my chair out for me. And actually, I’d give anything to see a real-life Picasso—not in a museum, I mean, or an art gallery, but hanging on the wall of someone’s home, like an ordinary person might have a black-and-white Robert Doisneau print or a montage of family photographs.
“Great. My car is parked right outside,” he says, placing one hand on the small of my back as we head out of the restaurant.
Indeed his car is parked right outside—not a flashy, splashy, bright red Ferrari, as I’d imagined, but a beautiful dark green Aston Martin. Saad opens the door for me himself, and I sink into the leather seats before he goes round to his side and climbs in.
It certainly beats jostling on the tube, or even standing in the cold and rain looking for a taxi.
He’s a fast driver, but a good one, moving smoothly through the traffic, which—maybe this is just the Aston Martin effect—seems to part for him. And there isn’t even much chance for us to talk as we drive, because a work call comes though on his phone a moment or two after we get in the car (not from Charlie, thank Christ) and this occupies him for most of the four or five minutes it takes to reach our destination, a tall, redbrick town house a short distance from Berkeley Square.
Saad gets out and comes around to open my door for me, while I try to look like climbing out of posh sports cars is the kind of thing I do all the time. I don’t think I’m doing a terrible job of it, but even I can’t stop my mouth from falling open when the front door to the town house opens (is opened, in fact, from the inside, by a very tall, very upright ex-military-looking man who I assume is some kind of … what’s the technical term? Valet? Aide-de-camp?) and Saad directs me through it.
Jesus Christ.
So this is his “place.”
I don’t know why—because I’m an idiot, I suppose—but I’d somehow imagined that, because of the swankiness of the location, plus the fact that he’s a single guy in his thirties, his “place” would be some kind of apartment within this building. A bachelor pad, albeit a large and expensive one. But now I can see that I’ve got this utterly wrong.
I’m standing in the entrance hall of what is very obviously a whole house. A very large and exceptionally beautiful whole house. Either Saad himself or an extremely discerning interior designer has gone for the stunning effect you get when you mix old and new. The airy lobby has a classic checkered marble floor and antique console tables, contrasted with graphic contemporary light fittings and several huge and very modern-looking oil paintings on the walls (though no Picasso here, at least). There’s an oak staircase, polished to an almost ridiculous sheen, leading both downward—to what I suspect, from the delicious food aromas floating from the general direction, is a basement kitchen—and upward, to what must be a large number of bedrooms. Four doors lead off the hallway, through which I catch glimpses of other equally astonishing-looking reception rooms (oak paneling, Eames chairs, pale gray leather chesterfields) before Saad lightly touches my shoulder and I realize I should stop gawking like a schoolgirl.
“Would you mind, Grace, if I just go and put in a call to the office? My housekeeper can bring you something to drink while you wait, if you like. Some water? Another coffee?”
“Oh, yes, some water would be lovely, thank you.”
“Sure.” He starts through one of the doors, saying to the upright ex-military man as he passes him, “Thomas, would you show Mrs. Costello through to the drawing room and then get her some chilled water?”
Wait—he’s the housekeeper? Maybe I’ve read too many Agatha Christies, but I thought housekeepers had to be sturdy, robust women in their midsixties, wearing flowery aprons, armed with feather dusters, and prone to saying things like Lawks a’mercy and I’m a good, God-fearing Christian woman, sir. But Thomas, quite apart from very much not being a sturdy, robust woman, and probably in his midfifties rather than sixties, is wearing a dark three-piece suit and carrying an iPad, of all things. And he doesn’t say Lawks a’mercy or anything about being God-fearing; he just holds open the door to the room with the pale gray chesterfield and says, in a clipped, discreet tone, “Do go on through, madam. I’ll bring you that water in just a moment.”
And he’s as good as his word. I’ve barely had time to perch on the edge of the sofa when Thomas reappears, bearing a wide tray with a tall, frosted glass, a bottle of mineral water, a dish of ice cubes, and another of fresh lime slices.
“Ice and lime in your sparkling water, madam?”
“Oh, yes, thank you! But I can sort it out myself, honestly …”
He ignores me but somehow does so with grave politeness. “Allow me, Mrs. Costello.”
Is it just me, or is there something a bit snidey about the way he’s just said Mrs. Costello? An oh-so-subtle emphasis on the Mrs. that implies some kind of disapproval?
It must be this that makes me blurt out what I say next. “I’m only here to look at the Picasso!”
“Of course, Mrs. Costello. I’m sure you’re quite the art lover.”
OK. There was nothing ambiguous about the snideyness that time. I can feel myself bristling and getting flustered in equal measure. “I am, actually! I’ve written a dissertation about Picasso, as it happens. Well, about Picasso and his mistresses.”
“How interesting. He had a lot of those, I gather.”
“A lot of what?”
Thomas glances up and meets my eye. “Mistresses,” he says.
There’s a meaningful silence.
Then Thomas starts for the door. “So, I’ll leave you until Mr. Amar is finished,” he says. “Unless there’s anything else I can get for you?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Very good, Mrs. Costello.”
“Thomas,” I find myself saying before I can stop myself, “I really am here to look at the Picasso, you know.”
His left eyebrow barely flickers. “As I said, of course, Mrs. Costello. But—and this is just so you’re not under any illusions—you should know that the Picasso is extremely popular with the ladies of Mr. Amar’s acquaintance. A lot of them come here to look at it. Some of them come to look at it two or three times a week.”
He pulls the door silently shut behind him.
Shit.
I mean, seriously, seriously, shit.
I’ve really, royally fucked this one up, haven’t I?
What was I thinking, coming back to Saad’s place like this? All right, I may not be up to the supermodel standards he’s accustomed to, but I’m still a woman, aren’t I? And as Thomas’s warning (I think kindly meant, though obviously it would be easier to tell if he removed the poker from up his bum) has just made crystal clear, men like Saad Amar are used to getting any woman they want.
Jesus, there probably isn’t even a Picasso here at all! And Saad probably isn’t on the phone to the office, he’s probably on the phone to his drug dealer, ordering up a nifty little batch of his usual gold-laced cocaine so he can get his kicks snorting it from a pair of distinctly ordinary breasts for a change rather than a pair belonging to a Victoria’s Secret model.
OK. Staggeringly sexy though he is, this isn’t something I’m going to get mixed up in. I’ll say I’ve just had an urgent phone call from Hector’s nursery … God, no, I can’t use my son to get me out of a sordid situation like this. I’ll say I’ve had an urgent phone call from a friend, and I really can’t stick around ….
“Sorry about that, Grace,” Saad is saying now as he comes into the drawing room. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long … oh, are you going somewhere?”
“I have just had an urgent call from a friend,” I say robotically. “I really can’t stick around …”
“Oh, now, come on! Just another five minutes!” He heads across the room toward me, that sexy walk that’s a cross between a confident stride and a pantherlike prowl, and that makes both my legs and my resolve weaken. “After all, Grace,” he a
dds, in a low voice, his eyes boring into mine with that by now familiar, naughty glint, “I think that’s the very least you owe me.”
“I think there’s been a big misunderstanding,” I croak. “I can’t … I mean, I’d love to, God knows I’d love to … but I’m married, Saad. And Charlie works for you. Not that it’d make it any less wrong if he didn’t! Work for you, I mean … but … look, obviously I’m very flattered and all that … it’s just …”
“There most certainly has been a big misunderstanding.” He presses his lips together in a thin, flat line. “Didn’t Thomas explain to you that I was planning to try you out to be one of my wives?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Well!” he tuts. “This is disappointing! I mean, I’m sure you understand that in my culture, a man is entitled to take up to four wives—a kind of harem, if you will—and I’m currently auditioning a select group for the role of number three. I had very high hopes for you, Grace, very high hopes indeed. And frankly, I think you’re being rather shortsighted. I can pay Charlie off with a big check, no problem, and your children will be very comfortable at the Swiss boarding school we’ll pack them off to …”
It’s at this point that I realize.
He’s teasing me.
“Ha,” I manage to say, “ha.”
Saad explodes with laughter. “Grace, you kill me! What were you thinking—that you were trapped in some Middle Eastern vice den? Were you expecting to be taken off to have your feet washed and drink mint tea before I summon you to my chamber?”
More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, I want the polished oak floor to open up and swallow me whole.
And almost more than this, I want Saad Amar to say the words “summon you to my chamber” again. Only this time, for him not to be joking.
“No, I didn’t think that, actually,” I say with as much icy hauteur as I can summon under the circumstances (i.e., not much).
“All I meant, Grace, when I said that you owed me, was that you owed me five minutes. Because of the five minutes you kept me waiting at Locatelli.” He lets out a couple of shouts of laughter again before noticing my discomfort and calming himself down. “I’m sorry, Grace. That was very wicked of me. How about a second peace offering for the day?” He puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me to face away from him, and points toward the far wall. “As promised.”
It’s the Picasso. And it’s very wonderful and amazing, and all that—muddy terra-cotta colors and bold, graphic shapes, which I think, though it’s tricky to tell, depict a female nude. But I’m still far too embarrassed to really take it in. So I just make the appropriate noises, and agree with him that yes, it’s a terrific example of early Cubism, and that yes, this is far more my kind of thing than Van Gogh’s weed-killing peasants, or whatever they were. And I’m weak with relief when, a few minutes later, he finally says, “So, Grace, will you let Thomas take you home? I’m not heading back to the office, so he’s at your disposal.”
“God, no. I mean, thank you, but there’s no need. I can just jump on a bus.”
He frowns, as if the very concept of public transport is alien to him. “There’s no need for anything like that. Besides, it’s miserable out there. Won’t you at least allow me to put you in a taxi?”
I agree to this, because at least it avoids the Thomas issue. Nevertheless, I still have to run the Thomas gauntlet as Saad ushers me out into the hallway and toward the front door. He’s looking rather taken aback at this early end to my visit; probably he was expecting me to stay for longer, doing whatever it is Saad’s merry parade of women do behind closed doors. He looks so astonished, in fact, that I almost want to apologize for letting him down.
Between the pair of them, they rustle up a passing taxi, and, with Thomas holding an umbrella over both of us, we all three make a dash for it.
Saad places two polite, chaste kisses on either cheek, just the way I was desperate for him to earlier, but now it feels flat and pointless. Then he opens my door, shuts me inside, and gives a cheery wave as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
It’s the cheery wave that puts the tin lid on it. It’s sexless and, though I know it shouldn’t be, deeply humiliating.
What was it that Thomas said? That a lot of Mr. Amar’s lady friends come to “look at the Picasso”? That some of them come to look at it two or three times a week? But not in my case.
In my case, he really did just want to show me his grand master.
And somehow I don’t get the impression that Saad was holding off because I’m married, to one of his employees or otherwise. Saad Amar does not strike me as the kind of man who’d hesitate to take a thing he wanted, married or single.
So it’s clear, then: I’m not good enough. No surprises there. That night of the MMA party, I must have mistaken simple friendliness for what I, in my utterly lonely, attention-deprived state, took to be flirtation.
I mean, it’s a huge relief, really. Not to have to fight off his inappropriate advances, I mean.
But still. I’m almost all the way back home before I stop physically cringing in my ridiculous new Elle Macpherson knickers.
Bella
Thursday, November 26
According to Catherine Zeta-Jones, in a magazine interview I read once at the dentist’s, the secret to a happy relationship is twofold: separate bathrooms and a once-a-week date night.
Of course, in Catherine Zeta-Jones’s case, choosing to have a relationship with a multimillionaire member of Hollywood royalty probably doesn’t do all that much harm either.
But I suppose we could all stand to take a leaf or two out of the divine Catherine’s book. And seeing as I don’t own a property big enough to boast two bathrooms (though I would, after eighteen months of living with Jamie, kill for a separate loo), the least I think we can do is go for regular date nights.
Dates have fallen by the wayside in the past few months, though. A combination of me working three or four evenings a week and Jamie being too broke to pay for anything.
Which is why I almost fell off my chair when, at breakfast this morning, he announced that he was taking me out for dinner tonight. (Not strictly accurate, I suspect, as I’ll no doubt end up actually paying the bill, or, because Jamie can be a bit old-fashioned about wanting to appear to pay, slipping him a handful of cash beforehand.) But it was his suggestion, which counts for something. I think it’s meant as a combined apology, both for the whole Naked Gorilla Man episode on Saturday, and for the fact that, five days on, the Naked Gorilla Man is still staying in my spare bedroom.
I’ll be honest, it’s the principle I object to rather than the reality. Now that he’s not naked anymore and blowing my chances of impressing social workers, Gorilla Man—sorry, Liam—isn’t actually a bad houseguest. He’s neat and tidy, which counts for a lot. And anyway, he’s practically invisible most of the time. He’s pretty much always out, either with Jamie and The Boys or, I gather, going for job interviews. (I’ve no idea what kind of job interviews, any more than I’ve any idea why he’s planning on moving to London, or how long it’s going to be before he finds a place of his own. Jamie’s not hot on having those kinds of conversations, and I don’t want to make him feel as though his friends aren’t welcome.) But still, it’s not ideal to be playing host so indefinitely.
Which is something that, to my astonishment, Jamie seems to have realized. And which I think is the reason behind his invitation to dinner, tonight, at my favorite Italian restaurant. And I’m meeting him there a couple of hours from now, so it’s really time to get myself tarted up.
It’s been a busy day, catering a lunch for sixteen in Ravenscourt Park, so I urgently need to have a shower and wash the smell of cooking oil out of my hair. Plus there’s the fact that I should have Jolen’d my upper lip three days ago, and I don’t want Jamie to turn up for his date only to find a Salvador Dalí look-alike waiting for him. Anyway, while Gorilla Man is staying, I suppose I should make a little bit more effort with the basics of my a
ppearance. Even though he might be pretty lax in the hair-removal department himself.
I’ve just smeared the thick bleach over my top lip and sat down on the edge of the bath to have a little flick through this month’s Waitrose Food Monthly while I wait, when my phone rings in my trouser pocket.
I’m genuinely taken aback to see that it’s Dev calling.
I’ve tried him—three or four times, in fact—over the last week or so, though I haven’t taken offense that he hasn’t returned my calls. Dev’s an erratic caller at the best of times, which I suppose is pretty normal for a hospital doctor. And I can hardly blame him for taking his time to call me back under these particular circumstances. I know what it’s like to be the one who’s been dumped, when you feel like you’d rather do anything—hide under the duvet; crawl into a hole in the ground; stick a red-hot knitting needle in your eye—than have to talk to anybody who might want to talk about your pain and humiliation, and remind you of it all over again.
Not that I want to remind him of it. Or talk about it at all, unless he wants to. I just want to know that he’s OK. That my little sister hasn’t broken him, irreparably, by calling off their wedding.
“Dev! Hi!”
“Bella.” He sounds tired. Actually, he sounds terrible. “I’m sorry I haven’t got back to you. It’s been hectic.”
“Don’t apologize. I understand completely. How are you? Are you doing OK?” My plan not to remind him of his pain and humiliation seems to have gone out of the window the moment I’ve heard how bad he sounds.
“I’m OK. I’ve been better.”
“Of course. God, Dev, I’m so sorry. I know what it’s like to have someone tell you they don’t love you anymore, and …”
“Wait—who doesn’t love who anymore?” A note of panic enters his voice. “Has Polly told you that? That she doesn’t love me anymore?”
Oh, shit. “I … no, no, nothing like that. I’m just …” What’s that word, the one psychologists use to mean that you’re assuming somebody else thinks something just because you think it? “… projecting! I’m projecting.”
There Goes the Bride Page 11