‘Am I meant to choose the menu for Frances?’

‘No, I’ve already decided it.’

‘Then what am I doing here?’

‘I thought you were sad. I’m going to look after you. Wait.’ He disappeared through a small swing door and returned holding a large glass with a tiny amount of gold liquid in the bottom. ‘Drink this first.’

I took an obedient sip. It was sweet, pungent, like apricots.

‘Now, some soup. Radek, soup for the lady here!’

It didn’t come in a bowl, but a tiny teacup, and was frothy like cappuccino. I drank it slowly, finishing it with a teaspoon. ‘What is it?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s delicious.’

‘Artichoke.’

Lunch came in miniature portions: a sliver of sea bass with wild mushrooms, a single raviolo sitting in a puddle of green sauce in the middle of a huge bowl, a square inch of lamb on a spoonful of crisped potato, a thimbleful of rice pudding with cardamom. I ate very slowly, in a dream, while around me the bustle gradually died down as the restaurant emptied and the kitchen filled with racks of washed plates and glasses. Johnny fussed over me, wanting my approval. The mess of my life receded; in this warm space I felt I need never venture to be Ellie again.

‘I’ve never eaten like this in my entire life,’ I said, over strong black coffee and a bitter chocolate truffle.

‘Is that in a good way?’

‘I feel looked after,’ I said.

‘That’s what I wanted.’ He put a hand on my shoulder. ‘What is it, Gwen?’

Our eyes met. For a moment, I so badly wanted to tell him the truth that I could feel the words in my mouth, waiting to be spoken. Then I shook my head, smiling at him. ‘Everyone has their sad days,’ I said. ‘You’ve cheered mine up.’

‘That was what I wanted.’ His hand was still on my shoulder. ‘Tell me something, please.’

‘What?’

‘Is there anyone?’

‘There was,’ I said. ‘For a long time there was. But not any more. That’s all over now.’

I felt so sad as I said the words. Cocooned in sadness, tiredness, food, warmth and the admiration of this nice stranger.

I let him take me home. Not to my home, of course, but his: a flat near the restaurant, up two flights of stairs and looking out on to a street market that was just packing up. It wasn’t out of desire but need, and the sheer, raw, monumental loneliness that had engulfed me: to be held as the day faded, to be told I was lovely. I shut my eyes and tried not to think of Greg’s face, tried not to remember and compare.

Afterwards, when he tried to hold me, stroke my hair, my body wouldn’t let me stay still. I got out of bed and dressed with my back to him, so I couldn’t watch him watching me. An hour later, as I opened my front door, I felt a sudden unease, as if the house itself would be angry with me for what I’d done.

Chapter Eighteen

‘What was it like with Johnny?’ asked Frances.

I looked up from some files and wondered if she could see my cheeks going red. Had he blabbed? ‘What do you mean?’

‘The food,’ she said. ‘What did you think?’

‘It was fine,’ I said.

‘Just fine? Is that all?’

‘It was good,’ I said. ‘It was really nice.’

‘Details, details,’ said Frances. ‘I need to know everything.’

Frances poured a cup of coffee for me and one for her, and I went through every dish Johnny had served me, describing its appearance, its texture. Under Frances’s intense questioning I was forced to recall the ingredients, the garnishes, the presentation. And as I talked, she leaned forward, her lips parted, as if she was tasting the food in her imagination. I suddenly saw her as a hungry woman – not just for the meals I was describing, but for intimacy, affection.

‘Mmm,’ she said, when I’d finished. ‘Lucky you. Do you think it’s stuff we can use?’

‘It might be a bit ornate,’ I said.

‘Ornate is good,’ she said.

‘Johnny never showed me a menu, but I guess it’s expensive.’

‘That’s the whole point,’ said Frances, briskly. ‘You’ve been looking through the bills, haven’t you? In the bonus season, the problem for most of our clients is finding things that are expensive enough. And that look expensive as well, without being vulgar. But you know that. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Johnny. Did you see him at work in the kitchen?’

‘That was where I ate.’

‘On a first date?’ said Frances.

‘It wasn’t exactly a date.’

‘Whatever,’ said Frances. ‘But wasn’t it wonderful, watching him cook? I remember the first time he made supper for David and me – it was a revelation. It was like knowing someone and thinking they’re fairly normal, then discovering they can juggle or do magic tricks. He was so at home. Just the way he chopped vegetables or handled a piece of meat. I couldn’t see how he did it all so quickly and casually. Except it wasn’t casual. When I saw him cook, I thought he loved food more than he loved people.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Preparing a meal, tasting it… I think he misses that, being management rather than spending all his time in the kitchen, hands on, getting his fingers sticky.’

‘I get your point,’ I said. I was trying to think of a way to change the subject.

‘David is one of the restaurant’s main backers,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid it’s all very incestuous.’

‘Is that what David does for a living?’

‘Sometimes. It’s hard to explain – I don’t think I really understand it myself. David is a rather mysterious man.’ She gave a little frown, as if an unpleasant thought had occurred to her. I saw the way she plaited her hands together tightly, so her thick gold band cut into her wedding finger. ‘He buys things, changes them a bit and sells them again, usually for much more than he bought them. And he makes problems go away for people who’ve got into a financial mess.’

‘What’s that called?’

Frances laughed. ‘I don’t really know. He earns a horrible amount of money from it, though. When you met him he was on his best behaviour. I’m not sure I’d like to be in one of those companies while he’s doing the sort of things he does to them, cutting away the dead wood or the fat, whatever he calls it. Anyway, that’s what gives me the freedom to do things like this.’

‘You make it sound like a hobby,’ I said.

‘From David’s point of view it is,’ she said, a bit wistfully, I thought. ‘Not mine. But he keeps an eye on me, for what it’s worth. Matter of fact, I think he’s having lunch with Johnny today.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Frances. ‘Just to talk things over. I don’t think he’ll get to eat in the kitchen, though.’

It must have been a very long lunch because it was late in the afternoon when the two of them wandered into the office, looking very relaxed. I didn’t trust myself to meet Johnny’s eye. I wondered if he would come over and kiss me or put his arm round me, do something to suggest what had happened, but he didn’t acknowledge me at all, so far as I could tell with my head down and pretending to concentrate. Instead I heard him talking to Frances in a low voice about a party that was coming up. At the same time I detected another presence close by me. I smelled a wave of aftershave and alcohol.

‘How do you take your coffee?’ David asked.

I looked round. He was wearing a fawn-coloured suit made of a peculiar material that was probably rare, expensive and enormously desirable. ‘No milk, no sugar,’ I said.

‘That’s easy, then,’ he said, and handed me the mug he was holding.

I expected him to join the others but he pulled up a chair and sat next to me. I sipped the coffee while he leaned over my desk. He picked up a piece of paper. It was just a summary of invoices with details of what had been received and not, paid and not, but he scrutinized it with a frown. He replaced it with a grunt I couldn’t interpret.