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 pulling the dress out of shape. How stupid do I look now?

'It looks wonderful,' says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. 'But then… you always look wonderful.'

My stomach gives a flip 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 towards 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 Bloonwood Foundation for… violinists, I improvise, catching sight of a poster for a musical evening. 'Violinists in Malawi. That was her cause.'

'Violinists in Malawi?' 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's looking really interested.

'So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?' he asks. Oh God. 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 cheque payable to?' he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. 'Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?'

And as I watch, paralysed in astonishment, he brings out a Coutts chequebook.

A pale grey Coutts chequebook.

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 poxy…

Thousand pounds,

T. A. J. CleathStuart

I can't believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a cheque, addressed to me. Five thousand pounds which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Malawi.

If they existed.

'Here you are,' says Tarquin, and hands me the cheque – and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out towards it.

Pay Bebecca 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 cheque 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 Malawi – but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he? He'd never check up.

Or if he did, I could come up with some story.

Anyway, what' ?5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn't even notice whether I paid it in or not. A poxy ?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. I'm talking about pinching fifty pence. Why am I even hesitating?

'Rebecca?'

Tarquin is staring at me, and I realize my hand is still inches away from the cheque. Come on, take it, I instruct myself firmly. It's yours. Take the cheque and put it in your bag. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the cheque. 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 cheque payable to when I've got more details,' I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. 'You'd better tear that up.'

As he slowly rips the paper, 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. 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 towards the back of the restaurant, and I take another gulp of champagne. Then I lean my head in my hands and give a 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 chequebook which Tarquin has left on the table. That's the chequebook of the fifteenth-richest man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it's like inside? He probably writes enormous cheques all the time, doesn't he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.

On impulse, I pull the chequebook towards me and open it. I don't know quite what I'm looking for really, I'm just hoping to find some excitingly huge amount. But the first stub is only for ?30. Pathetic! I flip on a bit, and find ?520. Payable to Arundel and Son, whoever they are. Then, a bit later on, there's one for ?7,515 to American Express. Well, that's more like it.

But I mean, really, it's not the most exciting read in the world. This could be anybody's chequebook. This could practically be mine. I close it and push it back towards his place, and glance up. As I do so, my heart freezes. Tarquin is staring straight at me.

He's standing by the bar, being directed to the other side of the restaurant by a waiter. But he isn't looking at the waiter. He's looking at me. As our eyes meet, my stomach gives a little lurch. Oh damn.

Damn. What exactly did he see?

Quickly I pull my hand back from his chequebook and take a sip of champagne. Then I look up and pretend to spot him for the first time. I give a bright little smile, and after a pause he smiles back. Then he disappears off again and I sink back into my chair, my heart thumping.

OK, don't panic, I instruct myself. Just behave naturally. He probably didn't even see you. And even if he did – it's not the hugest crime in the world, is it, looking at his chequebook? If he asks me what I was doing, I'll say I was… checking he'd filled in his stub correctly. Yes. That's what I'll say I was doing if he mentions it.

But he doesn't. He comes back to the table, silently pockets his chequebook, and says politely, 'Have you finished?'

'Yes,' I say. 'Yes, I have, thanks.'

I'm trying to sound as natural as possible – but I'm aware my voice sounds guilty, and my cheeks are hot.

'Right,' he says. 'Well, I've paid the bill… so shall we go?'

And that's it. That's the end of the date. With him peccable courtesy, Tarquin ushers me to the door of Pizza on the Park, hails a taxi and pays the driver the fare back to Fulham. I don't dare ask him if he'd like to come back or go for a drink somewhere else. There's a coldness about my spine which stops me uttering the words. So we kiss each other on the cheek and he tells me he had a delightful evening, and I thank him again for a lovely time.