‘It is Tiffany, isn’t it?’ said this tall, handsome chap with grey hair and blue eyes whom I vaguely recognised.
‘I’ve been trying to catch your eye all evening,’ he said. ‘Jonathan de Beauvoir. Do you remember?’ Of course. Jonathan de Beauvoir. We’d met at that drinks party in Drayton Gardens four years ago. He was terribly nice. He had a very pretty girlfriend then – what on earth was he doing here?
‘I remember you very well,’ I said. ‘We met at that party in Kensington. You were with … er … Sarah then, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. And you were going out with that architect who was dead keen on golf.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I assume that’s over or you wouldn’t be here. I must say I didn’t think you looked terribly happy.’
‘I wasn’t. In fact,’ I said with sudden candour, encouraged by his kind expression, ‘I was miserable. He was unfaithful. And controlling. And chronically selfish, too. Luckily he dumped me – ha ha ha ha! What about you?’
‘Well,’ he sighed. ‘It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it. But I’d just love to know how you are. Will you take a turn about the gardens with me?’
‘Yes,’ I said, jumping up and hoping that Piers would see me leaving the dining-room with this tall, drop-dead gorgeous bloke. ‘Yes, let’s go for a little wander. That would be nice. It’s terribly hot in here.’
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