late …’
‘That’s okay. Happy birthday, darling.’ Her lips landed on his, and his arms slid around her waist as he pulled her in tight. Sean O’Carroll’s kisses felt so good. She stood back and smiled, still a little dizzy from the feel of his mouth on hers.
‘Thanks, Rox. You look gorgeous. That’s a very cute dress …’ He glanced down. ‘But aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Oh yes.’ She looked down at her bare feet and laughed, wondering if the attractiveness of his soft Dublin accent would ever wear off for her. His cropped dark hair was speckled silvery at the sides, and his wide, unguarded smile seemed to brighten the gloomy landing. He was wearing smart jeans, a pristine white T-shirt and a dark grey jacket.
Leaving him loitering in her living room, she hurried to her bedroom, deciding that her planned footwear – preppy lace-ups – looked too dumpy for the simple elegance of the dress. Dropping to her knees, Roxanne began to burrow amongst the muddle of shoes stashed in the bottom of her wardrobe, excavating deeper and deeper until a vintage suede sandal revealed itself like a prized fossil. She burrowed further amongst ballet flats, ankle boots, knee-high boots, loafers, stilettos, slingbacks, pumps, kitten heels, espadrilles, clogs – yes, actual wooden clogs; she had worn them just once and they had nearly hospitalised her – and every conceivable style of mule until the other suede sandal was found. Roxanne was not one of those highly organised women who stored her shoes in their original boxes with a photograph of them stuck to the lid.
‘Aren’t we going to be late?’ Sean called out.
‘No,’ she lied, flicking through the tangle of shoulder bags which hung from the foot of her bed, and locating the correct one – a beauty in soft caramel leather – before pulling on her black jacket and smiling apologetically as they stepped out of her flat.
‘So, where are we going?’ he asked as they made their way downstairs.
‘I told you, it’s a surprise.’
‘Oh, c’mon, honey. Are we getting a cab?’
She smirked. ‘Don’t need to.’
Sean shot her a quizzical look. In fact, there were so many restaurants within walking distance of her flat, they often spent half the evening debating where to go. ‘Is it that Lebanese place?’ he asked.
‘No …’
‘Manny’s? Nonna’s? Lol’s Kitchen?’
She shook her head.
‘Not that burger place?’
By this, he meant the crazily popular new restaurant at Angel tube station, where you couldn’t book, and therefore had to stand outside for roughly fifty minutes and then, to add insult to injury, when you were finally allowed in, you couldn’t sit down either; you had to munch your dripping beef pattie whilst standing at the bar. Roxanne felt far too old to stand anywhere. ‘Just wait,’ she teased him.
‘Or that Nordic place where everything comes on a slab of rock?’ His clear green eyes glinted with amusement.
‘Nope, we won’t be repeating that …’
‘And not even your own, personal rock,’ he went on, enjoying himself now, ‘but a sharing one. Basically a communal paving slab for everyone to eat off. I blame Jamie Oliver.’
She laughed as his warm hand curled around hers. ‘You can’t blame Jamie Oliver for everything.’
‘Yes, I can. Last book of his I bought, everything was presented on planks. He’s single-handedly destroyed the crockery industry. Been in the china section of John Lewis lately?’ She shook her head. It was not a department she frequented. ‘It’s like the Marie Celeste,’ he added with a smile.
‘Surely that trend must be coming to an end?’ she suggested. ‘Slate, wood—’
‘I should hope so, but then, what’s next? Bricks? Roof tiles?’
Roxanne chuckled. ‘You needn’t worry about that because we’re going to an old-fashioned place where they wouldn’t dream of serving your dinner on anything but a proper plate.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’ His trace of cynicism evaporated immediately. Despite his high standing in the fashion world, Sean had no time for poncery where food was concerned. It was one of the countless things Roxanne loved about him.
‘It’s an Italian,’ she explained as, still holding hands, they darted across the main road. ‘You don’t know it – neither did I. It’s tucked down a little lane by the canal, just along here …’ They turned off the main street towards the towpath.
‘Really? I thought you knew everywhere around here.’
‘I thought so too, but Isabelle came across it on one of her walks …’
‘Isabelle?’ He groaned. ‘Christ, Rox, so she’s managing our nights out now …’ Roxanne smiled, well aware of how Sean viewed her elderly neighbour.
‘No – listen. She finds places. That’s what she does, she goes on these rambling explorations …’
‘When she’s not topping the bill at Ronnie’s Scott’s,’ he cut in with a smirk.
‘She’s never claimed to have sung at Ronnie’s Scott’s.’
‘Well, other jazz clubs, then. Any that’ll have her …’
Roxanne smiled as he squeezed her hand. The late May evening was bathed in golden sunshine, and jovial groups had already congregated outside the well-kept Islington pubs, where hanging baskets were ablaze with freesias and petunias. Relaxed and companionable, just tipping into summer: this was the London she loved, and there was no one she would rather enjoy it with but Sean.
Roxanne had found him immediately attractive and charming when he had shown up in London five years ago after a lengthy stint of working in New York. She had booked him for a relatively low-budget shoot, and the elegant shots he produced had sparked the beginning of a fruitful working relationship. It had tipped from professional and friendly to much more when, after several margaritas, they had kissed like teenagers in the velvet-lined booth of a Hoxton bar and he had asked her back to his flat. While there were no signs just yet of the relationship progressing beyond what it was now – he clearly valued his space, and they only saw each other around three nights a week – Roxanne had managed to convince herself that she should just enjoy things the way they were. They were having fun, and his busy diary was simply testament to his popularity; everyone loved him, from the interns in her office to the elderly fashion PRs who had been around since the 70s and were personal friends of Vivienne Westwood. Sometimes, she couldn’t quite believe they were together.
‘Don’t tell me she’s joining us,’ he teased.
‘Of course not,’ Roxanne laughed. ‘It’s just us, sweetheart.’
‘Well, that’s a relief …’ In fact, he was right to regard Isabelle as a whacky eccentric. A Londoner born and bred, she was suspiciously hazy about the venues she claimed to have performed at – and still sang at now, occasionally, or so she said – and a Google search of Isabelle Hudson had thrown up nothing of note. But who cared
