A Perfect Heritage (56 page)

‘Do you ever send ladies flowers?’ she said. ‘Or buy them champagne?’

‘No of course not,’ he said. ‘Why would I do that?’

She gave up. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘OK.’ He leaned forward and kissed her very briefly on the lips. ‘I’m sorry we can’t spend the evening together.’

‘Me too,’ she said carefully.

‘But I do have an awful lot to do.’

She slept well that night and felt much better and arrived at the Mercer to find Saul drinking coffee and talking on the phone. He waved at her, called the waiter over, while continuing to talk. She sighed and ordered a croissant and a cappuccino, studying him. He was dressed, as usual, in jeans, with a red cashmere sweater over a pink and white striped shirt and under a grey tweed jacket and as a fashion statement it didn’t work. But then he had no interest in clothes – his own at any rate. She could imagine him grabbing things from the tops of piles in the morning, with no thought as to what he might look like; she rather liked that; it was a welcome change from men who looked as if
Men In Vogue
was compulsory reading.

There had been an email from Patrick when she got in from her dinner.

‘All well here, more or less. Hope trip continues to be a success. You might hear from Saul, he said he might have a location for you. Patrick.’

The cosmetic buyer – from Parkes, one of the great Fifth Avenue stores, which had stocked Farrell’s quite successfully in the glory days, and had dropped it in the late nineties – seemed mildly interested in the relaunch, rather more so in the shop.

‘That’s a cute idea. It certainly gives you something to talk about. You should be on Fifth, though. You won’t get much volume any place else. I’ll visit the shop when it’s open and probably not decide on an order until then. See what sort of volume we were talking. And I can tell you now, we won’t take the perfume. It’s a sweet story but you’re not spending nigh on enough. Now, how about a brandy? And then I should let you go to bed. You look all done in.’

She arrived back at the Algonquin feeling depressed, looked at the table she had sat at with Saul, half expecting him to be still there. And how ridiculous was that? She’d be hallucinating in a minute.

‘Right,’ said Saul now, finally switching off his phone. ‘How was the buyer?’

‘Useless.’

‘I could have told you that. Bianca, this town runs entirely on money. Not cute little ideas.’

‘I know, I know – but we have legend on our side.’

‘Legend doesn’t pay the bills. Right, you done? I’ll show you this place. It’s very near.’

The shop was in a small street just off Wooster; it was charming: cobbled, tree-lined, chic, but not as cool as the Meatpacking district, nor would it get swallowed up as it would in the Village. She could see that now, recognised the reason for her reservations.

It was presently a book shop, with small windows and a stout wooden door, raised from the street by a couple of steps. It looked vaguely Dickensian, certainly could be English.

‘Contact of mine tells me they’re about to go bust,’ Saul said. ‘You’d get it pretty cheaply, I reckon, if you jumped in with an offer now. You’d better get your colleague down here smartish.’

She went in, wandered round; it was divided into two, one area leading to the other through an arch. It even had a tiny upper floor reached by a spiral staircase. Shades of Florence and her parlour, she thought and smiled.

‘It’s perfect, Saul, I love it! How did you find it?’

‘I know the guy who owns that lot. Global chain, I expect you know them.’ He indicated the shop next door, a huge-windowed fashion emporium; she smiled.

‘Yes, I do. I’ve contributed to his profits Well – it’s wonderful. Let me call Lou.’

She made the call; Lou said she’d always thought SoHo would be the perfect place, and she could be with Bianca by four.

‘Great. I’ll meet you there.’ She turned to Saul. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

‘That’s OK. What are you doing now?’

She looked at her watch. It was, astonishingly, only just after eleven. ‘Would you believe nothing? You?’

‘Nothing. Just waiting on a couple of calls. And I’d budgeted some time for you.’

‘Well, I’m honoured,’ she said.

‘Don’t you do that?’

And she realised that of course she did it all the time. Even for the children. Certainly for Patrick. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Want to look around the neighbourhood a bit? That’s important to you, I imagine.’

‘It is. I specially want to go to Balthazar’s; everyone says it’s the most wonderful place, not to be missed.’

He sighed. ‘I hate places that are not to be missed.’

‘Well, I’ll go on my own then.’

‘No, I can cope with it with you.’

They walked through the sunlit streets; Balthazar was on Spring Street, a big, buzzy restaurant and bar in a converted leather warehouse, a vast open space, absurdly Parisian-looking, all brass rails, wooden bench seats, hanging lights and the waiters’ uniforms unmistakably French. They sat at the Oyster Bar on high chairs and Bianca smiled at him slightly nervously. He gave her one of his brief smiles back.

‘It’s very nice to be with you,’ he said.

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘You know I do.’

‘I suppose so. Um – drink?’

‘I’ll have a glass of champagne,’ he said, ‘I imagine that’s what you’re having.’

‘Yes, of course but . . .’

‘I do drink very very occasionally. If the occasion demands it.’

‘And this does?’

Don’t flirt, Bianca, it doesn’t work. But, ‘Yes, I think it does,’ he said, looking at first her and then the bar contemplatively.

He sipped the champagne in silence while checking his phone; clearly the flirtation was over.

Then he suddenly looked at her and smiled again. ‘You look very nice,’ he said. ‘I like that jacket with the red scarf. Red suits you, you should wear it more often.’

‘Thank you.’ She was astonished that he should notice.

That really did seem to be it; he returned to his phone and she looked at the menu – very French,
huître
,
frites
,
frissée au lardons
– and at the rows of wine racks high, high above her, laden with dust-covered bottles that had clearly not been disturbed for years or even decades.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘Perfect. My customers are here, look at them!’ He looked obediently and briefly at them, all chattering and laughing and kissing, in between studying their iPhones and their iPads, New York’s successful young.

They walked some more and he kept away from her, never so much as brushing against her. When they got stuck trying to cross the road, he grabbed her hand and made her run and she wondered if this was a prelude to further intimacy, but he dropped her hand again as soon as they were safely on the pavement. Had she dreamed the other night? she wondered. Had it ever happened at all? It seemed rather hard to believe.

He showed her a bar called 89, so cool it carried a sign that said ‘no tourists after 10 p.m.’.

‘How ridiculous!’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t go there on principle,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I won’t go to most bars on principle. That one today, all right, but—’

‘You should open one,’ she said laughing, ‘and put a sign on the door that says: “No customers”.’

He grinned at her, delighted with the thought. ‘I might just do that. What a good idea. Right. So, shall we go back to the Mercer, have some lunch? It’s still only twelve. That café there is a legend round here, you can’t book, but they will keep you a table if you say you’re only going to be ten minutes. Of course you can be as long as you like.’

‘Perfect,’ she said.

He chose a small table in the middle of the room, and sat opposite her; clearly there was to be no intimacy here, not a hint of it.

‘Saul, I can’t thank you enough,’ she said.

‘You already did,’ he said.

Over lunch, which he wolfed down and she pushed around her plate, remorseful that she had failed him last time, she asked him about Dickon.

‘He’s extremely upset, of course. But there’s nothing I can do for the time being. I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine. What shall we talk about then?’

He looked at her very seriously, clearly about to say something; then his phone rang.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘must take this. Then I want to discuss something with you.’

‘Can’t the call wait? Just this once?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, as if she had suggested he took all his clothes off, or overturned the table. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

She sipped at her mineral water. The champagne had gone to her head and she couldn’t afford to be even mildly drunk. Important deals had to be done, and possibly important things had to be said.

The call ended and Saul put his phone in his pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I promise I won’t answer the next one.’

‘I don’t believe you. Go and give your phone to the maître d’.’

Of course he wouldn’t. It was only a joke. But he hesitated, and then said, ‘All right; I will.’

He stood up, walked over to the desk, said a few words to the maître d’ and handed his phone over.

Then he came back and said, ‘How was that?’

‘I’m very, very impressed,’ she said.

‘Good. You should be. I’ve never done that for anyone. Except Dickon, of course.’

‘Now I’m really flattered.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be flattering. It was a fact. I don’t like flattery.’

‘I had kind of noticed.’

‘Now, I’d like to have a completely truthful conversation with you,’ he said, ignoring this. ‘Is that all right? I don’t want to upset you, of course.’

‘No . . .’ she said. Now what?

‘The thing is,’ he said, sitting back in his chair and putting his hands in his pockets, ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I enjoy your company. I find you extremely attractive. I really like being with you. And I suspect we would have a very good time in bed. No, that’s not true. I’m
sure
we would have a very good time in bed. Don’t you agree?’

‘I – well, yes. Possibly we would,’ she said finally, struggling to stay calm, not to laugh or alternatively walk out of the restaurant. What was he
like
?

‘I’d like to know how you feel about being with me,’ he said.

‘Well – it’s – you know – I . . .’

What did she feel? Disturbed? Distracted? Irritated?

‘I can see you’re not sure,’ he said. ‘I know I’m not the most socially accomplished person.’

‘That’s true.’

He looked hurt.

‘Saul,’ she said, putting her hand over his. He looked down at it, as if wondering how it had got there, and then at her, and his expression was so intense, so unmistakable in its intent, that she felt quite dizzy.

There was a long silence; he went on looking at her. She felt absurdly unsure of herself, had no idea what to say or do. For want of anything more inspired she struggled to answer his question.

‘I really, really enjoy your company. I’m very sure about that. But – well, it’s a little bit hard to say; I haven’t had much of it, you must admit.’

‘No, that’s true,’ he said and smiled suddenly, releasing her hand. ‘Well, as long as it’s not unpleasant.’

‘It’s not unpleasant at all.’

‘Good. Well, the thing I wanted to say was that I would really like to have an affair with you. Really like it.’

The shock was so intense that she sat back in her chair, feeling totally disoriented, looking round the room, almost wondering where she was, seeking normality, and then back to him. He was looking at her quite calmly, didn’t even seem particularly concerned. He gave her one of his smiles.

‘Bianca?’

‘Oh!’ she said. It seemed to be the only response.

‘How would you feel about that? Given what you said about us having a good time in bed and so on? Would you consider it?’

She sat staring at him. What should she say? What
could
she say? He really was a bit mad. He was sexy and intriguing and brilliant, and actually extraordinarily nice. He had been the greatest help to her. She owed him a lot. But he wasn’t quite . . . normal. And there was no normal reaction to him.

So she just smiled at him. He smiled back at her, and this time it was not fleeting, it went on and on, sitting back in his chair, still not touching her, not even reaching for her hand. The smile clearly had to do. This was extraordinary. She remembered a piece of advice Patrick had once given her when she was in a particularly difficult situation. ‘Just breathe in and out,’ he said. ‘Keep breathing in and out.’ It seemed rather appropriate to this occasion too. At least it stopped her wanting to laugh, which was one of her predominant emotions. She waited for the next words, his next move. They came rather swiftly.

‘Have you ever had an affair?’

‘No,’ she said, too surprised to prevaricate. ‘No, I never have. I’ve never really wanted to.’

‘I thought you hadn’t. Have you thought about it even?’

‘No. Patrick – well, Patrick’s always been everything I wanted.’

‘I see. Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought. Having one with you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Have you ever thought about it? With me, I mean?’

Oh, God she had. A hundred times since that night, when she had longed more than anything to take him up to bed, or even there, on the floor, when desire had flooded her in a way she had thought never to feel again, violent, desperate, careless of consequence.

‘Actually, yes,’ she said finally, ‘yes, I have.’

‘Well that’s very good,’ he said, ‘very good for me to hear, I mean. I’m pleased.’

And he smiled at her again, a joyful, satisfied smile; he looked rather like a small boy who had just accomplished something difficult for the first time.

Then, ‘But I don’t think we can. Can we?’

Any minute now the Red Queen would come rushing through the restaurant shouting ‘Off with her head!’.

‘Well – no,’ she said. It was clearly the only answer; but she could hear her own hesitation in it, her disappointment.