the stone bass—unless you think that’s a mistake? It comes with rock oyster sauce and pickled mushrooms.’
‘If you don’t like it we’ll swap,’ he said. ‘I’m going for the duck, with mandarin butternut puree. Does that sound OK?’
‘That sounds wonderful—in fact maybe I should have that—but...’
It was impossible not to smile at her frown of indecision. ‘We can go halves.’
‘Thank you. This certainly makes a difference from pizza!’
She gave a sudden smile when she looked at his expression and he blinked.
‘I’m guessing it’s been a while since you had pizza?’
‘Yes.’ Her smile seemed to have rendered him tongue-tied. All suave sophistication had exited the restaurant and the appearance of the waiter was a relief.
‘Champagne and a selection of canapés,’ Mario announced. ‘And then if you are ready to order?’
Once he’d taken their choices and left, Ben lifted his glass. ‘To the real world,’ he said.
‘Yours or mine?’ she asked.
‘Both. Because they are both real.’
‘Even if never the twain shall meet?’
‘They are meeting now. You’re here.’
‘Sure. But...’ She pressed her lips together, studied the canapés, chose a tiny blini topped with smoked salmon.
Ben shook his head, realising that whatever she had been about to say she’d deemed it inadvisable. ‘If this is going to work we need to agree something upfront. I want your honest opinion. No faking. Agreed?’
A hesitation. Another canapé—this time a thin wafer disc, topped with a delicately flavoured cheese concoction. Then, ‘You’re sure? You want my unvarnished opinion on everything? No faking at all?’
‘Precisely. I promise you there will be no adverse effects on your job interview. I will tell you here and now that I’ll arrange an interview with the manager at my Mayfair store. No matter what.’
Yet her eyes were still flecked with doubt, so in response he pulled his phone out and wrote an email, then turned the screen so she could see the words—a request for an interview to be set up. As she watched he hit ‘send’.
‘Done. So now we are agreed? No faking.’
Her smile illuminated her whole face. ‘Agreed.’
‘OK. So what were you about to say?’
‘That, yes, we are both here, but this is just a blip. I’m not meant to be here. You can afford to come back next week, or tomorrow, or whenever you like and you’ll most likely bring a celebrity or actor with you. Someone from your world.’
‘I...’ He opened his mouth and then closed it again. There had been no censure in her voice, her tone had been observational, and yet he sensed defensiveness creeping into his stance and he shook his head to repudiate it.
Yes, he liked to eat in the best restaurants, and enjoyed the knowledge that he could afford it. Tangible proof that he’d made it. A way to show the world and his family that he was worth something. And, yes, he loved being successful, revelled in the power that wealth and status gave him. The power to lavish money on his mother, to show her that her choice to keep him had been the right one, to make up for all those years she’d struggled.
Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?
‘Ben?’
Sarah’s concerned voice penetrated his sudden lapse into a trip down the tarnished road of memory lane.
‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism. You’re entitled to your world—I only meant it’s very different to most people’s. Most people have to worry about bills and rising food prices and whether they can afford ballet lessons for their kids. Ninety-nine per cent of the population can’t afford to eat here because the cost of a meal is probably more than their monthly food budget.’
She was right.
‘Which is why I want to hear your take on things,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping that our new range of clothes isn’t out of touch with what the customer on the high street wants. The idea is for these clothes to be everyday, normal clothes that you feel good in all the time.’
‘The type of clothes I’d wear to have a pizza?’
‘Yes.’
As she considered her response Mario returned with their starters and Sarah beamed up at him. ‘This looks amazing. They both do,’ she added as she looked across at his plate.
Once the waiter had disappeared as unobtrusively as he’d appeared, she gestured to his. ‘But what is it?’
‘Cauliflower,’ he explained. ‘Infused with lemon curry oil and topped with parmesan. You want to try some?’
‘Sure. And you can have a bit of mine. Scallops with artichoke puree and some sort of sauce—a truffle jus, I think.’
As she tasted a sample of his she closed her eyes, and he was tempted to do the same, to block the effect she was having on him. Instead he asked, ‘Well?’
‘It’s delicious. I had no idea cauliflower could taste like this—it’s like magic.’
He grinned. ‘I’m not sure the chef has an actual wand, but perhaps that’s his secret.’
‘Anyway—sorry. I’m here to give you my opinion on clothes, not vegetables. Right... Well, I’d have to see the clothes in more detail, but going for a pizza could be different, depending on the occasion. A family dinner might get messy—globs of tomato sauce, drips of ice cream. So you’d want clothes that are easy to wash and that also won’t show up grubby stains too much. Or you may go out and eat pizza on a date—and you may travel there by bus. In that case you’d want a more layered look—something pretty under something practical. Or you may be going after work—in which case you’d need something light and sparkly that you can put in your bag and use to transform your work clothes. Anyway, you get the picture.’
He did, and what he liked—alongside her spot-on observations—was the animation that lit her face, the way she waved her hands around to emphasise a point.
‘So that’s what you’d want to wear and what you would want to sell?’
‘That goes back to the point I made earlier. I don’t necessarily have to buy in to the whole range of clothes to be able to sell it. What’s right for me isn’t what’s right for everyone. I don’t have to love it to promote it.’
‘So I should be looking for a good sales technique over genuine love for the product?’
‘In an ideal world you’d need both. But sometimes loving a product isn’t enough; there’s a whole lot more to it than that.’
‘I
