‘Isn’t it?’ said Didier. ‘A lie is a lie. Pain is pain, non? All I’m trying to say is, each one of us has our strengths and weaknesses, and we each justify our decisions to ourselves. Your husband may change, or he may not change, but you can’t change him. You can only change yourself. So I am wondering … will you?’
Didier was caressing the underside of her wrist with his thumb. Will I what? thought Angela. Will I change? Or will I have an affair with you?
‘You’re very attractive,’ she said, truthfully, withdrawing her hand. ‘And I’m flattered. But my life is complicated enough right now without …’
She left the sentence hanging.
‘Without what? Happiness?’ Didier prompted. ‘Without pleasure?’
Angela shrugged. ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’
‘So what will you do?’ Didier asked after a while, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his wine.
‘I don’t know,’ said Angela. ‘Go back to the boat. Take care of my daughter. But beyond that … I don’t know.’
She couldn’t imagine leaving Brett. She’d been with him her whole adult life. He was her life, in so many ways. But she also recognized the truth in what Didier was saying. The only way to break a cycle was for one person to change. And if it wasn’t going to be Brett, it would have to be her. They couldn’t go on like this forever.
Didier paid the bill and walked her back to his car.
‘Can we keep in touch?’
He hadn’t given up hope of seducing the lovely Mrs Cranley. But he sensed that coming on too strongly now would be a mistake. He must go slowly with this one, break her in gently like a frightened young foal.
‘I’d like that.’ Angela smiled.
For now, it was enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tatiana fiddled with the strap of her watch and looked awkwardly around the restaurant. Daphne’s on Draycott Avenue had been her choice, an old favourite from her ‘It girl’ partying days. But she regretted it now. It was so small and intimate, she felt as if every table of diners were watching her, wondering who it was who’d stood her up and how long she’d be hanging around at the bar like a spare part, waiting for him.
Of course, they probably weren’t thinking anything of the kind. No doubt they had bigger fish to fry than worrying about a society has-been’s romantic entanglements. Or lack of them. The truth was, it was so long since Tati had been on a date, she felt as wired and nervous as a racehorse on Derby Day morning.
Two more minutes. Two more minutes then I’ll go, and never speak to that self-important dickhead again.
‘Hello. Oh my God I am so sorry I’m late. There was a pile-up on the Embankment, it was insane. Please tell me you haven’t been here long?’
And there he was. The self-important dickhead, aka Marco Gianotti, an Italian-American investment banker whom Tati had been introduced to by her friend Katia a few weeks ago, the same day she’d bumped into Jason Cranley on the train, and who hadn’t stopped calling her since.
‘I was about to give up on you,’ she said, more frostily than she’d meant to, but only because she’d forgotten just how unbearably attractive Marco was. Tall and broad shouldered with thick, wavy black hair and a flawless olive complexion, he looked more like an aftershave model than a banker. Although Goldman Sachs were known for hiring ridiculously good-looking employees. Back in her heyday, Tati had bedded quite a number of them.
‘Please, don’t do that.’ Marco smiled. ‘Not after keeping me hanging for almost a month. That would be too cruel.’
Tati felt the blood rush to her head then straight back down to her groin. It had been too long, far too long, since she’d had a decent man. Her abortive encounter with Dylan was hardly a night she wanted to remember.
The ma?tre d’ led them to their table, tucked away in a rear corner of the restaurant. Marco ordered champagne and a plate of oysters to share, then boldly reached across the table and took Tati’s hand.
‘You look incredible.’
This was no more than a statement of fact. In a cream Ala?a minidress with a flared tennis-style skirt and raffia wedges, Tati’s flawless figure and famous, gazelle-like legs were showcased perfectly. Her make-up was minimal, just a sweep of bronzer and some lip gloss, but she radiated youth and health and natural beauty. The rose remained thorny, however.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she said coolly, reclaiming her hand.
‘All what girls?’ asked Marco.
‘All the girls you’ve been screwing while I kept you hanging.’
Marco grinned. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’
Tati grinned back. ‘I love it when you talk business. Tell me more about Avenues.’
When they’d met at Katia’s party, Katia had introduced Tati as ‘a teacher at a village school.’ Marco had flatly refused to believe this. ‘I’m sorry. I went to school. Teachers don’t look like you and I know that for a fact.’ Having successfully begun a flirtation, he’d asked Tati about her background and ambitions. She’d given him the edited version of her battle with Brett Cranley and the furore over her father’s will.