ponytail began to swing violently. ‘Olga, get that dog out of here right now. He’s supposed to be napping.’
Olga held her hands up. ‘I try, but he no want to nap. He want to play.’
Suddenly Rupert lunged forwards and swiped a Parmesan shaving from my plate.
Nick laughed.
Victoria tutted and marched towards me, snatching Rupert from my grasp. Then, arms outstretched, she handed him to Olga and waved them both out of the room.
‘As if having a child isn’t hard enough,’ Victoria said, ‘now I’ve got to train that bloody canine.’
Mike leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘You’re not exactly training him though, are you, darling? Olga is.’
Victoria let out an extended sigh. ‘She knows nothing about dogs. I think they eat them in her country.’ She sipped some wine. ‘I suppose I’ll have to get a dog trainer. As if I haven’t got enough to do already.’
Mike laughed again, though louder this time. ‘Yes, whatever next, you might have to cancel a Pilates session or a lunch or, heaven forbid, a hair appointment,’ he said, taking another gulp of wine.
Victoria swished her ponytail from side to side. ‘Excuse me, Michael—’ she’d taken to calling him Michael since they’d joined the Chelsea Harbour Club ‘—I didn’t give up my career to manage household administration every day.’
Mike refilled his glass and leaned further back in his chair. ‘So, tell us, Victoria. What precisely did you give up your career to do?’
Victoria’s ponytail slowed to a stop and she glared at Mike.
Nick shot me a sideways glance.
I shifted in my seat, hoping Rupert would come skidding back into the room and divert the conversation.
Fortunately, Olga returned instead, with the main course.
‘Filet de boeuf,’ she announced plonking the tray down on the table. ‘And yes, Mrs Victoria, I wash my hands.’
We ate the beef in silence. Occasionally, I glanced at Nick but mostly I just chewed and gazed around the room. Whenever I visited Victoria’s house, I felt as though I’d stepped into the centre spread of Home and Garden magazine. It seemed unfair that she could just swish her ponytail like a wand and get everything she’d ever wished for. My vision board was plastered with images of interiors like this, dotted around the doctored photo of Nick and I with a baby; however, so far all the universe had seen fit to deliver to me was up-cycled furniture from Gumtree. I huffed. Nick and I might not be worthy of parenthood, but surely the universe could spare a chesterfield sofa?
Rupert continued to yelp from the kitchen for the duration of two courses. I kept looking at Victoria, hoping she might soften her resolve and bring him in for a cuddle, but she was still glaring at Mike. Mike looked nonplussed.
‘So, what breed is he?’ I asked, in an eventual attempt to break the silence.
‘Sporting Lucas,’ Mike answered, matter-of-fact, between mouthfuls of crème brûlée. ‘Apparently, the ability to hunt ground vermin is an essential skill for a family pet.’
Victoria shrugged her shoulders, still glaring at Mike. ‘Well, you know what they say about living in London.’
We all looked at her expectantly.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re only ever a metre away from a rat.’
Mike tutted, then scooped another mouthful of brûlée into his mouth.
Rupert was still yelping from the kitchen and now he’d added mournful pines into the mix. It took all my willpower not to run out and soothe him.
‘Maybe he’s trying to tell us something,’ I said.
Victoria narrowed her eyes. ‘What, that we have rats in our house? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just being needy and probably wants more Parmesan.’
I turned to her. ‘Or perhaps he’s distressed? Having been dragged away from his mother and then locked in a huge kitchen by himself.’
Victoria flicked her wrist. ‘He’s nine weeks old; in dog years that makes him nearly one and a half. He’ll get over it,’ she said, pushing her untouched dessert to the side.
I glared at her.
She opened her mouth as if to say something and then closed it again, clearly thinking better of it, which was unusual for Victoria.
Mike stepped in instead, pushing his empty bowl to one side and turning to me and Nick. ‘So, bad news about the IVF then, guys.’
Victoria sat upright in her chair and dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin.
‘It’s just not right,’ she said, gesturing out the window. ‘All those offensive-looking people breeding like there’s no tomorrow, producing the most peculiar offspring.’ She turned to me. ‘And then there’s you and Nick. You’re an attractive, reasonably intelligent couple. Of course you’re by no means thoroughbreds—’ she took a sip of wine ‘—but certainly no reason to defy Darwin’s theory, wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded, assuming I had been complimented in some obscure way.
Mike took another sip of wine. ‘I read something in the New Scientist,’ he said, ‘about a man’s virility dropping in highly populated areas. Like some sort of natural feedback mechanism.’
Victoria shook her head at Mike. ‘Well, that’s clearly not the case, my darling,’ she said. ‘Have you walked past Asda recently?’
Mike shook his head and continued, turning to me. ‘So,’ he said, ‘reckon you’ll go again?’
I glanced at Nick, who was now topping up his wine.
He took a big gulp. ‘We can’t afford it,’ he said.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘our consultant said it’s best I give my body a break from the hormones.’
Mike smirked. ‘Yeah, and Nick a break too, I imagine.’
Victoria glared at Mike. Had she not been on the far side of a twenty-seater dining table, I imagine Mike would have received a stiletto heel to the testicles.
I glanced back at Nick, who was wriggling in his seat. I was tempted to ask him if he needed the toilet.
Victoria stared at him quizzically. ‘Everything all right, Nick?’
He placed his now empty wine glass down on the table. ‘I had some news today,’ he said.
I scraped my empty crème brûlée ramekin, wondering where it had all gone.
‘I’ve been offered a job,’ he continued.
I sucked a tiny bit of brûlée off my spoon and awaited Nick’s usual post–credit crunch story about a relentless head-hunter pitching a role with worthless share
