‘This much I know. No other huge terrible secret weighing on you that you’d like to declare?’
‘Only that I know nothing about wine.’
‘Allow me,’ Simon says, back in his element. ‘What main course are you having? Meat or fish? You’re not a troublemaker, are you?’
‘Troublemaker?’
‘Vegetarian, pescatarian, humanitarian. Any other euphemisms for pleasure-intolerant.’
‘I won’t eat anything with a face,’ I say, pretend-pious.
‘Oh, don’t worry. Everything I’m going to order has had its face sliced off.’
I’d worried that the adversarial nature of conversation with Simon could be difficult once I was his date. I needn’t have. He keeps things bouncing along with a stream of polite questions. He tells me about colourful clients, I tell him about colourful court cases. We trade tales about barristers and judges we’re mutually acquainted with. He moans about intrusive, slapdash reporters, I complain about standoffish, unnecessarily secretive solicitors to even things up.
He seems genuinely interested and amused, and after a while I notice how much I’m enjoying being listened to. His attentiveness is slightly intoxicating, though not as intoxicating as the heavy red he chose.
Rhys would sit here grunting, eyes flicking towards the exits, foot tapping a rhythm on the floor, impatience greeting my every utterance. Band practice aside, he liked to move in an established pattern between three points on a triangle – home, work, pub – and any deviation left him agitated, almost resentful.
While I appreciate the contrast, it gradually dawns on me that while Rhys was rough going, Simon is all planed, slippery surfaces. There’s nothing to throw a grappling hook into and actually make some headway in getting to know him. There’s one moment his composure unexpectedly wobbles, when I mention a colleague of his who gets all the females in crown court swooning.
Simon snaps ‘Really?’ as if this is incomprehensible and promptly changes the subject. I vaguely wonder if he’s the jealous type.
The discussion turns towards a couple in the same department at Simon’s firm, and how the employees get drawn into their domestics.
‘I’ve always thought it’s a bad idea to be in the same line of work. Too much shop talk, and rivalry.’
‘Ben and Olivia seem to do all right,’ I say.
‘They have their moments.’
‘Do they?’ I’m not entirely sure what he means and try to conceal my curiosity.
Simon pours out the last inches of the wine. ‘Liv wears the trousers, no question. I think moving up here’s the first time Ben’s asserted himself and she’s still getting used to it. I told him, never marry a woman with that much more money than you. She’s going to think she’s the manager in the marriage. And lo and behold …’
‘Does Olivia earn that much more?’
‘It’s not what she earns, it’s the money she’s from. Her dad sold his haulage firm and retired when he was forty or so. Olivia doesn’t have to work.’
Goodness, all those gifts and rich too.
‘Perhaps she likes her independence,’ I say.
‘Oh yes. Don’t get me wrong. Totty breaking the glass ceiling is a fine thing.’
‘Most of what you say is ironic, right?’
‘I’m only sexist insofar as blaming womankind alone for James Blunt’s success. Nightcap?’ Simon asks, beckoning the waitress for the bill.
‘I’d like to get this,’ I say, decisively, also gesturing for the bill.
‘That’s good to know.’
The waitress assesses the balance of power and the bill is handed to Simon on a saucer. He slips his card on top and hands it straight back.
42
When Simon said he ‘knew a place’, I pictured a plush gentlemen’s club with wingback chairs and burgundy Regency stripe wallpaper and crackling fires. Simon would flash membership ID, or give the liveried doorman a Masonic handshake, and the gates would swing open.
Instead we duck down a barely-lit backstreet to a scuzzy den for the kind of career drinkers who can sniff out a late licence with nose aloft, like a Bisto kid.
‘Mind. The yack,’ Simon says, in a tube station announcer voice, his hand gripping my elbow to guide me round a dustbin lid-sized puddle of puke near the door. The venue is marked only by a illuminated white sign advertising a brand of beer. Nearby there’s a gaggle of unsavoury characters who instinctively turn their backs on us in case we gather too much detail for the photo-fit.
‘Know how to show a girl a good time, don’t you? Do you meet clients here?’
‘Ah, come on now. The Rachel I’m getting to know doesn’t need lacy doilies under her drinks.’
He holds the door open for me. I get an unexpected stirring of attraction towards him, simultaneously noticing how tall he is and how well on the way to drunk I am, and that I like it that he has surprises.
The grimy exterior gives way to a grimier interior, a basement with bar stools and a big Wurlitzer-style jukebox, like a super-sized garish toy or leftover Doctor Who prop. The lighting is set to ‘gloaming’, the air perfumed with an unmistakable acidic base note of unclean latrine.
‘Vodka tonic’s your drink, isn’t it?’
‘Thanks,’ I nod, though it isn’t, it’s Caroline’s drink, and I don’t know if this is significant. I find a booth. He puts the drinks down and slides into the seat opposite, trousers squeaking on its vinyl cover.
‘This surely isn’t a Simon-ish place,’ I say. ‘You’re throwing me a curve ball to see if I can catch it.’
‘After one date, or …’ he pulls back a cuff to check what appears to be a Breitling watch, which rather underlines my point – he’ll probably get his arm snapped like a pool cue for it – ‘… two-thirds of one date, how would you know what a Simon-ish place is like?’
‘Come on, of course it isn’t.’ I pause. ‘What was all that stuff about the hypocrisy of marriage at Ben and Olivia’s dinner party, then?’
Simon smirks. ‘I wondered when this would come up.’
‘I’m not asking because I’m bothered,’ I say, curtly, with a smile.
‘Why, then?’
‘Most guests just try to avoid giving offence like that.’
‘Is
