‘Phoebe,’ Emma said, ‘this is Guy.’ He smiled at me and I felt a little ‘thud’ in my ribcage. ‘Guy, this is my best friend, Phoebe.’
‘Hi!’ I said, smiling at him like a lunatic as I wrestled with the peppercorns. Why did he have to be so attractive? ‘God!’ The lid suddenly came off the peppercorns and they shot out in a black arc then scattered like gunshot across the worktops and floor. ‘Sorry, Em,’ I breathed. I grabbed a brush and began vigorously sweeping, if only to disguise my turmoil. ‘I’m sorry!’ I laughed. ‘What a twit!’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Emma said. She quickly put the roses into a jug then grabbed the plate of blinis. ‘I’ll take these in. Thanks, Phoebes – they look lovely.’
I’d expected Guy to follow her, instead of which he went to the sink, opened the cupboard underneath and got out the dustpan and brush. I registered with a pang the fact that he knew his way round Emma’s kitchen.
‘Don’t worry,’ I protested.
‘It’s okay – let me help you.’ Guy hitched up the knees of his City trousers then stooped down and began to sweep up the peppercorns.
‘They get everywhere,’ I wittered. ‘So silly of me.’
‘Do you know where pepper comes from?’ he suddenly asked.
‘No idea,’ I replied as I stooped to pick up a few in my fingertips. ‘South America?’
‘Kerala. Until the fifteenth century, pepper was so valuable that it could be used in lieu of money, hence “peppercorn rent”.’
‘Really?’ I said politely. Then I pondered the weirdness of finding myself crouched on the floor with a man I’d met a minute earlier, discussing the finer points of black pepper.
‘Anyway,’ Guy straightened up then emptied the dustpan into the pedal bin. ‘I guess I’d better go in.’
‘Yes …’ I smiled. ‘Emma will be wondering. But … thanks.’
The rest of the dinner party passed in a blur. As promised, Emma had put me next to Guy, and I struggled to control my emotions as I politely chatted to him. I kept praying that he’d say something off-putting – that he’d just come out of re-hab, for example, or that he had two ex-wives and five kids. I’d hoped that I’d find his conversation dull, but he only said things that increased his appeal. He talked interestingly about his work, and of his responsibility to invest his clients’ money in ways that not only were not injurious, they could even be positive in their effect on the environment and on human health and welfare. He spoke of his association with a charity that was working to end child labour. He talked affectionately about his parents and his brother, whom he played squash with at the Chelsea Harbour Club once a week. Lucky Emma, I thought. Guy seemed to be everything she’d claimed him to be. As the meal progressed she frequently glanced at him or made passing references to him.
‘We went to the opening of the Goya exhibition the other night, didn’t we, Guy?’ Guy nodded. ‘And we’re trying to get tickets for Tosca at the Opera House next week, aren’t we?’
‘Yes … that’s right.’
‘It’s been sold out for months,’ she explained, ‘but I’m hoping to get returns online.’
Emma’s friends were gradually picking up on the connection. ‘So how long have you two known each other?’ Charlie asked Guy with a sly smile. The words ‘you two’, which had produced in me a stab of envy, made Emma blush with pleasure.
‘Oh, not that long,’ Guy replied quietly, his reticence seeming only to confirm his interest in her…
‘So what did you think?’ Emma asked me over the phone the morning after her party.
I fiddled with my Rotadex. ‘What did I think of what?’
‘Of Guy, of course! Don’t you think he’s gorgeous?’
‘Oh … yes. He is … gorgeous.’
‘Beautiful blue eyes – especially with his dark hair. It’s a devastating combination.’
I glanced out of the window into New Bond Street. ‘Devastating.’
‘And he’s a good conversationalist. Don’t you agree?’
I could hear the hum of the traffic. ‘I … do.’
‘Plus he’s got such a nice sense of humour.’
‘Hmm.’
‘He’s so nice and normal compared to the other men I’ve dated.’
‘That’s certainly true.’
‘He’s a good person. Best of all,’ she concluded, ‘he’s keen!’
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Guy had phoned me an hour earlier to ask me out to dinner.
I hadn’t known what to do. Guy had tracked me down easily enough through Sotheby’s switchboard. I was elated, then horrified. I’d thanked him but said that I wouldn’t be able to come. He’d phoned me another three times just that day but I’d been unable to speak to him as I was frantically preparing for an auction of Twentieth-Century Fashion and Accessories. The fourth time Guy had phoned I’d spoken to him briefly, being careful to lower my voice in the open-plan office. ‘You’re very persistent, Guy.’
‘I am, but that’s because I … like you, Phoebe, and I think – if I don’t flatter myself – that you like me.’ I’d tied the lot number to a Pierre Cardin flecked green wool trouser suit from the mid seventies. ‘Why don’t you say yes?’ he pleaded.
‘Well … because … it’s a bit tricky, isn’t it?’
There was an awkward silence. ‘Look, Phoebe … Emma and I are just friends.’
‘Really?’ I inspected what looked suspiciously like a moth-hole on one leg. ‘You seem to have seen quite a bit of her.’
‘Well … that’s largely because Emma rings me and gets tickets for things, like the Goya opening. We’ve hung out together and had a few laughs, but I’ve never given her the impression that I’m …’ His voice trailed away.
‘But it was clear that you’d been to her flat before. You knew exactly where she kept her dustpan and brush,’ I whispered accusingly.
‘Yes – because last week she asked me to mend a leak under her sink and I had to take everything out of the cupboard.’
‘Oh.’ Relief swept through me. ‘I see. But …’
Guy emitted a sigh. ‘Look, Phoebe, I like Emma – she’s very talented and she’s fun.’
‘Oh, she is – she’s lovely.’
‘I find her a bit intense, though,’ he went on. ‘If not slightly bonkers,’ he confided with a nervous laugh. ‘But she and I aren’t … dating. She can’t really think that.’ I didn’t reply. ‘So will you please have dinner with me?’ I felt my resolve weaken. ‘How about next Tuesday?’ I heard him say. ‘At the Wolseley? I’ll book a table for seven thirty. Will you come, Phoebe?’
If I’d had any idea then where it would lead, I’d have said, ‘No. I won’t. Absolutely not. Never.’
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say …
I considered not telling Emma, but couldn’t bring myself to keep it from her, not least because it would be awful if she somehow