This bar is fairly bling too, with glass floor-to-ceiling windows and a narrow wraparound swimming pool tiled in black, which all the beautiful people/glamour models/business types are regarding with disdain. Unlike Noah, who is hopping up and down, demanding to be allowed in.
“Your swimsuit is all packed away,” I say for the fifth time.
“Let him swim in his underpants,” says Lorcan. “Why not?”
“Yes!” crows Noah, enchanted by this idea. “Underpants! Underpants!” He’s jumping up and down, totally hyper after the flight. Maybe a swim is a good idea after all.
“OK.” I relent. “You can go in in your underpants. But quietly. Don’t splash anyone.”
Eagerly, Noah starts to strip off, discarding his clothes with abandon.
“Look after my wallet, please,” he says with grown-up precision, and hands me the airline wallet he was given on the flight. “I want some credit cards to go in it,” he adds.
“You’re not quite old enough for credit cards,” I say, folding up his trousers and putting them neatly on a velvet-upholstered banquette.
“Here’s one,” says Lorcan, and hands him a Starbucks card. “Expired,” he adds to me.
“Cool!” says Noah in delight, and carefully slots it into his wallet. “I want it to be full like Daddy’s.”
I’m about to make a barbed comment about Daddy’s bulging wallet—but rein myself back just in time. That would be bitter. And I’m not doing bitter. I’m doing sweetness and light.
“Daddy works hard for his money,” I say in sugary tones. “We should be proud of him, Noah.”
“Geronimo!” Noah is running up to the pool. A moment later he lands in a bomb with the most almighty splash. Water showers onto a nearby blonde in a minidress, who recoils in horror and brushes the drops off her legs.
“So sorry,” I call over cheerfully. “Occupational hazard of drinking next to a swimming pool!”
Noah has begun his extremely splashy version of the front crawl and is drawing looks of consternation from beautiful people and beautiful waitstaff alike.
“What’s the betting that Noah is the first person ever to swim in this pool?” says Lorcan in amusement.
As we’re watching, Richard enters the bar, along with a group of travelers I recognize from the plane. He looks wearier than he did earlier on, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for him.
“Hi,” he greets us, and sinks onto the banquette. “Heard from Lottie again?”
“Yes, and the good news is they still haven’t got it together!” I say, to cheer him up.
“Still?” Lorcan sets down his glass with an incredulous crash. “What is wrong with them?”
“Allergic mishap.” I shrug carelessly. “They used peanut oil or something on Lottie and she swelled up.”
“Peanut oil?” Richard looks up suddenly, concerned. “Well, is she OK? Did they call a doctor?”
“I think she’s fine. Really.”
“Because those reactions can be dangerous. Why did they use peanut oil, for God’s sake? Didn’t she warn them?”
“I … don’t know,” I say evasively. “What’s that?” I add, to change the subject, and nod at the piece of paper Richard is holding.
“It’s nothing,” says Richard protectively, as Noah bounds up, wrapped in a chic black towel. “Nothing much.”
“It must be something.”
“Well … OK.” Richard looks fiercely from Lorcan to me, as though daring us to laugh. “I’ve started a poem in French. For Lottie.”
“Good for you!” I say encouragingly. “Can I have a look?”
“It’s a work in progress.” Grudgingly, he hands over the paper and I shake it out, clearing my throat.
“Je t’aime, Lottie. Plus qu’un zloty.” I hesitate, not sure what to say. “Well, it’s a start.…”
“ ‘I love you, Lottie, More than a zloty’?” Lorcan translates incredulously. “Seriously?”
“Lottie’s a difficult rhyme!” Richard says defensively. “You try!”
“You could have used ‘potty,’ ” suggests Noah. “ ‘I love you, Lottie, Sitting on the potty.’ ”
“Thanks, Noah,” says Richard grouchily. “Appreciate it.”
“It’s very good,” I say hastily. “Anyway, it’s the thought that counts.”
Richard grabs the paper back from me and reaches for the bar menu. On the front it reads Delectable Bulgarian Specialties, and inside are lists of bar snacks and light meals.
“That’s a good idea. Have something to eat,” I say soothingly. “You’ll feel better.”
Richard gives the menu a cursory glance, then flags down a waitress, who approaches with a smile.
“Sir? Can I help?”
“I have some questions about your ‘delectable Bulgarian specialties,’ ” he says with an uncompromising stare. “The tricolore salad. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir.” The girl’s smile widens. “I will check.”
“And the chicken korma. Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir, I will check.” The girl is scribbling on her notepad.
“Richard.” I kick him. “Stop it.”
“Club sandwich.” Richard presses on. “Is that a Bulgarian specialty?”
“Sir—”
“Curly fries. Which area of Bulgaria do they come from?”
The girl has stopped writing now and is gazing at him, perplexed.
“Stop!” I hiss at Richard, then smile up at the girl. “Thanks so much. We’ll need a couple more minutes.”
“I was just asking,” says Richard, as she walks away. “Clarifying. I’m allowed to clarify, aren’t I?”
“Just because you can’t write French love poetry, there’s no need to take it out on an innocent waitress,” I say sternly. “Anyway, look. Meze platter. That’s a Bulgarian specialty.”
“It’s Greek.”
“And Bulgarian.”
“Like you know all about it.” He looks at the menu broodingly, then closes it. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’ll get room service. See you in the morning.”
“Sleep well!” I call after him, and he gives me a gloomy nod over his shoulder.
“Poor guy,” says Lorcan, after Richard has disappeared from view. “He really loves her.”
“I think so.”
“No one writes a poem like that unless they’re so in love that their faculties have become temporarily defective.”
“More than a zloty,” I quote, suddenly getting the giggles. “Zloty?”
“ ‘Sitting on the potty’ was better.” Lorcan raises his eyebrows. “Noah, you may have a future as Poet Laureate.”
Noah bounds off to leap back into the swimming pool, and we both watch him splashing around for a moment.
“Nice kid,” says Lorcan. “Bright. Well balanced.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah is bright. Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids boast about their fictitious heart transplants?
“He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody amicable?”
At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to punch someone.
“Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody battles,” Lorcan adds.
“Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”
Torrid? I want to exclaim. You want to hear about torrid?
But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime of a warning bell. You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.