Luckily, at that moment, a waiter arrives with our garlic bread, and we can get off the subject of Wagner. And Tarquin orders some more champagne. Somehow, I think we’re going to need it.



Which means that by the time I’m halfway through my Fiorentina, I’ve drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and I’m. . Well, frankly, I’m completely pissed. My face is tingling and my eyes are sparkling, and my arm gestures are a lot more erratic than usual. But this doesn’t matter. In fact, being pissed is a good thing — because it means I’m also delightfully witty and lively and am more-or-less carrying the conversation single-handedly. Tarquin is also pissed, but not as much as me. He’s got quieter and quieter, and kind of thoughtful. And he keeps gazing at me.

As I finish my last scraps of pizza and lean back pleasurably, he stares at me silently for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and produces a little box.

“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”

I have to admit, for one heart-stopping moment I think, This is it! He’s proposing!

But of course, he’s not proposing, is he? He’s just giving me a little present.

I knew that.

So I open it, and find a leather box, and inside is a little gold brooch in the shape of a horse. Lots of fine detail; beautifully crafted. A little green stone (emerald?) for the eye.

Really not my kind of thing.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe in awe. “Absolutely. . stunning.”

“It’s rather jolly, isn’t it?” says Tarquin. “Thought you’d like it.”

“I adore it.” I turn it over in my fingers then look up at him and blink a couple of times with misty eyes. God, I’m drunk. I think I’m actually seeing through champagne. “This is so thoughtful of you,” I murmur.

Plus, I don’t really wear brooches. I mean, where are you supposed to put them? Slap bang in the middle of a really nice top? I mean, come on. And they always leave great brooch-holes everywhere.

“It’ll look lovely on you,” says Tarquin after a pause — and suddenly I realize he’s expecting me to put it on.

Aaargh! It’ll ruin my lovely Whistles dress! And who wants a horse galloping across their tits, anyway!

“I must put it on,” I say, and open the clasp. Gingerly, I thread it through the fabric of my dress and clasp it shut, already feeling it pull the dress out of shape.

“It looks wonderful,” says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. “But then. . you always look wonderful.”

I feel a dart of apprehension as I see him leaning forward. He’s going to try and hold my hand again, isn’t he? And probably kiss me. I glance at Tarquin’s lips — parted and slightly moist — and give an involuntary shudder. Oh God. I’m not quite ready for this. I mean, obviously I do want to kiss Tarquin, of course I do. In fact, I find him incredibly attractive. It’s just. . I think I need some more champagne first.

“That scarf you were wearing the other night,” says Tarquin. “It was simply stunning. I looked at you in that, and I thought. .”

Now I can see his hand edging toward mine.

“My Denny and George scarf!” I cut in brightly, before he can say anything else. “Yes, that’s lovely, isn’t it? It was my aunt’s, but she died. It was really sad, actually.”

Just keep talking, I think. Keep talking brightly and gesture a lot.

“But anyway, she left me her scarf,” I continue hurriedly. “So I’ll always remember her through that. Poor Aunt Ermintrude.”

“I’m really sorry,” says Tarquin, looking taken aback. “I had no idea.”

“No. Well. . her memory lives on through her good works,” I say, and give him a little smile. “She was a very charitable woman. Very. . giving.”

“Is there some sort of foundation in her name?” says Tarquin. “When my uncle died—”

“Yes!” I say gratefully. “Exactly that. The. . the Ermintrude Bloomwood Foundation for. . violinists,” I improvise, catching sight of a poster for a musical evening. “Violinists in Mozambique. That was her cause.”

“Violinists in Mozambique?” echoes Tarquin.

“Oh, absolutely!” I hear myself babbling. “There’s a desperate shortage of classical musicians out there. And culture is so enriching, whatever one’s material circumstances.”

I can’t believe I’m coming out with all this rubbish. I glance apprehensively up at Tarquin — and to my complete disbelief, he looks really interested.

“So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?” he asks.

What am I getting myself into here?

“To. . to fund six violin teachers a year,” I say after a pause. “Of course, they need specialist training, and special violins to take out there. But the results will be very worthwhile. They’re going to teach people how to make violins, too, so they’ll be self-sufficient and not dependent on the West.”

“Really?” Tarquin’s brow is furrowed. Have I said something that doesn’t make sense?

“Anyway,” I give a little laugh. “That’s enough about me and my family. Have you seen any good films recently?”

This is good. We can talk about films, and then the bill will come, and then. .

“Wait a moment,” says Tarquin. “Tell me — how’s the project going so far?”

“Oh,” I say. “Ahm. . quite well. Considering. I haven’t really kept up with its progress recently. You know, these things are always—”

“I’d really like to contribute something,” he says, interrupting me.

What?

He’d like to what?

“Do you know who I should make the check payable to?” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?”

And as I watch, paralyzed in astonishment, he brings out a Coutts checkbook.

A pale gray Coutts checkbook.

The fifteenth richest man in the country.

“I’m. . I’m not sure,” I hear myself say, as though from a great distance. “I’m not sure of the exact wording.”

“Well, I’ll make it payable to you, then, shall I?” he says. “And you can pass it on.” Briskly he starts to write. Pay Rebecca Bloomwood.The sum of.Five. .

Five hundred pounds. It must be. He wouldn’t just give five miserable. . Thousand pounds.T. A. J. Cleath-Stuart.

I can’t believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a check, addressed to me.

Five thousand pounds, which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Mozambique.

If they existed.

“Here you are,” says Tarquin, and hands me the check — and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out toward it.

Pay Rebecca Bloomwood the sum of five thousand pounds.

I read the words again slowly — and feel a wave of relief so strong, it makes me want to burst into tears. The sum of five thousand pounds. More than my overdraft and my VISA bill put together. This check would solve all my problems, wouldn’t it? It would solve all my problems in one go. And, OK, I’m not exactly violinists in Mozambique — but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he?

And anyway, what’s £5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn’t even notice whether I paid it in or not. A pathetic £5,000, when he’s got £25 million! If you work it out as a fraction of his wealth it’s. . well, it’s laughable, isn’t it? It’s the equivalent of about fifty pence to normal people. Why am I even hesitating?

“Rebecca?”

Tarquin is staring at me — and I realize my hand is still inches away from the check. Come on, take it, I instruct myself firmly. It’s yours. Take the check and put it in your bag. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the check. I’m getting closer. . closer. . almost there. . my fingers are trembling with the effort. .

It’s no good, I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t take his money.

“I can’t take it,” I say in a rush. I pull my hand away and feel myself flushing. “I mean. . I’m not actually sure the foundation is accepting money yet.”

“Oh right,” says Tarquin, looking slightly taken aback.

“I’ll tell you who to make a check payable to when I’ve got more details,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “You’d better tear that up.”

He slowly rips the paper, but I can’t look. I stare into my champagne glass, feeling like crying. Five thousand pounds. It would have changed my life. It would have solved everything. I would have written out checks immediately to Suze, to VISA, to Octagon. . to all of them. Then I would have taken this check and presented it to Derek Smeath on Monday morning. Perhaps I wouldn’t have cleared every single penny of overdraft, but I would have made a start. A bloody good start.

Tarquin reaches for the box of matches on the table, sets the scraps of paper alight in the ashtray, and we both watch as they briefly flame. Then he puts down the matches, smiles at me, and says, “Do excuse me a minute.”

He gets up from the table and heads off toward the back of the restaurant, and I take another gulp of champagne. Then I lean my head in my hands and give a little sigh. Oh well, I think, trying to be philosophical. Maybe I’ll win £5,000 in a raffle or something. Maybe Derek Smeath’s computer will go haywire and he’ll be forced to cancel all my debts and start again. Maybe some utter stranger really will pay off my VISA bill for me by mistake.

Maybe Tarquin will come back from the loo and ask me to marry him.

I raise my eyes, and they fall with an idle curiosity on the Coutts checkbook, which Tarquin has left on the table. That’s the checkbook of the fifteenth richest unmarried man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it’s like inside? He probably writes enormous checks all the time, doesn’t he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.