‘Thank you,’ I reply primly.
He goes back to the bed and upends the bag he has brought with him on to the bed. A shoebox and something else drop out. The something else is soft and covered in tissue. He shakes it loose of its wrapping and my mouth parts. The dress is stunningly beautiful. Above the waist it is entirely blue appliqué lace design with a V-neck. Below the waist it is a sleek electric blue taffeta figure-hugging skirt. He holds it up.
‘Fleur?’
‘Of course. What’d you think?’
‘Beautiful.’
He helps me get into it and touches my skin through the lace. Then he walks away and opens the shoebox. He brings it to me and, kneeling at my feet, grasps each in turn and fastens the delicate straps around my ankles. I grip his shoulders. When I am securely fastened in my new shoes he stands, and looking at me smiles with satisfaction.
He takes me to the mirror, turns me around so I can see my own reflection. Then he fastens around my throat a necklace glowing with deeply blue stones.
‘Wow!’
‘Sapphires,’ he says. ‘To match your eyes.’
I touch them wonderingly.
He reaches for a tissue and gently, as if I was made from the most fragile glass wipes off the red lipstick. My lips part to allow him access. He drops the tissue on the vanity top and picks up lip gloss. Nude. Carefully he dabs it on the insides of my lips.
When he turns me back to face the mirror, I understand what he has done. I meet his gaze with grateful eyes.
‘Thank you, for selling yourself to me,’ he says with a soft smile.
‘Thank you for buying me.’
‘I think we should live happily ever after, don’t you?’
‘Most definitely.’
I look at the blaze of his eyes, the belief shining in them and my heart feels as if it would burst with happiness. And for a moment I even forget the ordeal of sitting down to dinner with Marcus.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask nervously.
‘Your favorite restaurant. The Waterside Inn.’
I smile, remembering the red carpets, the tranquil view of the river, a kindly civilized ambience, unobtrusively attentive waiters, and milk-fed lambs roasted and expertly carved into leaves of flesh at the table. ‘Thank you.’
We arrive before Marcus, which is the way Blake planned it, so I would have time to settle myself. Blake parks and comes around to open my door. He helps me out and we stand a moment looking around us. The autumn wind picks up a few brown leaves swirls them in a dance drops them again a little farther down the road.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I promise I won’t let him eat you.’
‘I’m not really scared of him.’
‘That’s my girl.’
The staff remember us and greet us with genuine warmth, which immediately makes me feel a little more confident. We are shown to a round corner table in the elegant waiting area. I sit back and stare unseeingly at my menu sans prix.
Soon I am accepting the complimentary glass of Michel Roux’s champagne. We clink glasses.
‘To tonight,’ Blake says, and we sip our aperitif. It is perfectly chilled.
‘Do you know what you want to eat?’
I shake my head and look again at the menu, but I cannot concentrate on the words. I will have what I had before, it was glorious—salad of crayfish tails and flaked Devon crab with melon and fresh almonds.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. Canapés appear. I ignore them.
‘The smoked eel tempura is nice,’ says Blake encouragingly.
I bring it to my mouth. Chew and swallow having tasted nothing.
I shouldn’t be so nervous. There is nothing he can do to me and if he disapproves of me so what?
And then Marcus appears.
Ten
Blake stands. I am not sure if I should stand, and eventually I don’t. Marcus shakes his brother’s hand, but also touches his shoulder in the way that politicians engaging in power games do. Then he turns and nods at me.
‘Marcus, I don’t believe you have been formally introduced to Lana. Lana, this is my brother, Marcus.’
‘Hello,’ I say. My voice comes out cold and distant.
But Marcus bends slightly from the waist, tilts his head as if it is a great honor, and allows his good-looking face to curve into a genuine open smile. He offers his hand to me. ‘I have to admit I am jealous of my brother. How on earth did he pull off getting a girl as beautiful as you?’
The friendly gestures and words throw me. ‘Um…’ I close my mouth and take the proffered hand.
His handshake is the right shade of firm. He sits down opposite us, and starts chatting. He is utterly, utterly charming. I find myself staring at him with bewilderment. Could this be the same man I met in the hospital? Was I in such a state of shock that I misread him? I watch him throw his head back and laugh at something Blake has said to him.
The family resemblance is very strong. They are both tall and broad, but his brother lacks the strong sense of purpose that surrounds Blake like a crackling vibrating energy. I can see now why Blake’s father decided that it should be Blake who should take over the helm of leadership.
The waitress comes by. Our table is ready.
Marcus stands politely and holds his hand out to help me up. Since he is closest to the door, I have no choice but to put my hand in his. Our eyes meet. His betray nothing but a polite desire to help me up. And yet, there is tension in my body. Before I can extricate my fingers from his, I feel the tug of Blake’s hand on my waist.
I look up into his eyes and I realize he was perfectly serious when he said he cannot bear any other man to touch me. Not even his brother, not even in the most innocent social setting. We are shown to our table. I slide into the long seat and Blake slides in after me.
Bread appears to my right. I point to a roll, and it is gently deposited onto my side plate. Our wine glasses are filled with straw-colored wine. Waiters start arriving with our starters. I pick up my fork. Parmesan cream with truffles. There is conversation going on around me, over me. I nod. I smile. I say thank you and I find myself drinking more than normal. Stop, right now, I tell myself.
‘Have you been to the opera?’ Marcus asks me. His voice is smooth.
I suddenly remember the way I was that night, and flushing bright red with embarrassment and confusion, look to Blake.
‘Yes, we went to see L’incoronazione de Poppea in Venice,’ Blake cuts in smoothly.
Marcus nods approvingly. ‘The only place to experience Monteverdi.’ He turns to me. ‘Was that your first time?’
‘Yes,’ I mumble.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
The memory makes me blush. I turn my head towards Blake, and my eyes are caught by his. There is hunger in his.
Marcus coughs delicately. I tear my eyes away. ‘Yes, very much,’ I say huskily.
‘Freya, my wife, and I love the opera. We were at the Met for Rossini’s La Cenerentola last week.’
Blake glances at me. ‘Cinderella,’ he says by way of explanation.
I nod gratefully.
‘I’m afraid it was a grotesque, painfully anti-musical burlesque, only intermittently redeemed by virtuoso vocalism by the central waif.’
Marcus sips at his Latour.
I bite my lip. Suddenly I feel ignorant, uncultured and inferior. I realize that Blake has been careful never to let me feel less educated than he is. The truth is his world is totally different from mine. I remember Victoria telling me that no matter what I wear or do they will smell me out. In their eyes I will never be good enough. Will I ever be able to wear this mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance that Marcus wears with such ease? Will I ever possess this studied carelessness that hides all that is real about a person? Marcus is still talking. Surreptitiously I sneak a look at Blake. He is buttering his roll and nodding. Will Blake be ashamed of me one day?