‘Evening, Tom. Sophie told me you were at the door. Fur coat and thermal undies tonight, I fear. Come in while I suit up.’ She ushered him in. He smelt her perfume. It took considerable self-control to avoid a heartfelt sigh of delight.
The spaniel rushed out and made a fuss of him. Again, she seemed especially interested in his crotch.
‘All set. Where are we going?’
He looked up from the dog. What he could see of her looked wonderful. She was enveloped in a fur hat and coat.
‘And you must be Mrs Zhivago. How is the good doctor?’ He bowed formally.
She giggled. ‘It’s faux fur. Made of old mineral water bottles, or whatever. No animals were hurt in the making of this outfit.’ She patted the dog on the head and they went out into the cold.
He had booked a table at a gastro pub a few miles away. ‘We’re going to the Red Lion at Woodford. The chef’s Italian. I know him pretty well. He’s has just won some TV cooking thing.’
‘That sounds good. I hardly know any of the places round here.’
‘What? I would have assumed a lovely girl like you would have been wined and dined all over the county. What am I saying? I mean all over the United Kingdom, the world.’
‘Not nowadays. Sophie and I don’t socialise a lot.’
He negotiated a humpbacked bridge that was white with frost. He made a mental note to watch out on the way back. It was well known for ice.
‘From choice?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He had to wait a while for her to continue. ‘In my job I used to do an awful lot of travelling. One year I worked out I had been in two hundred and thirty different hotel rooms, spread over sixteen countries.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise you journalists did so much travelling.’
‘That was in my previous incarnation. I have only been a journo for three years.’
‘And your previous job was?’ He saw the sign up ahead. They were still early enough to find a place in the pub car park.
‘Modelling.’
‘I did a bit of that when I was a boy. You know, Airfix Spitfires and the like.’ He backed into a space and turned off the engine. ‘So, here I am with a famous model. Should I have recognised you? I’m afraid I’m not very well up on the fashion world.’
She didn’t answer and he did not dare to ask her again.
Their table was close to the fire. The room was snug and warm. They weren’t the first. Three or four tables were already populated, their occupants choosing from the menu. He was pleased not to see anybody he knew. He very much wanted this evening to be about the two of them alone.
‘Can I take your coat? There are hooks over there by the door.’
‘Ah, a true gentleman. There aren’t many of you left these days.’ She let the coat slip off her shoulders. She was wearing a wonderfully soft polo neck jumper. It was a delicate shade of green, which, he noticed for the first time, exactly matched her eyes. It fitted her to perfection, following every curve of her body. He took the coat and hung it up on top of his old jacket. Returning to the table, he felt he was the luckiest man alive.
‘Good evening. Here’s the menu. Tonight’s specials are on the blackboard. Can I get you a drink?’ The waitress looked about fifteen. He glanced across the table and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.
‘I’ll just have some wine with my meal, I think.’
‘Same for me. Can we see the wine list?’
After ordering food and drink they started to chat. At first, things were a little stilted, but as they settled down in each other’s company the atmosphere became more relaxed. He asked about her work.
‘I’m freelance. I do a regular two-page spread for one magazine, called From the Catwalk. The magazine provides the photos and I do a review of what’s new. Then I also do a few other articles here and there. Just about enough to keep me in chocolate Hobnobs and Sophie in dog biscuits.’
‘Buona sera, Tom.’ They both looked up. The chef had bought them out their starters himself. Tom leant back as a plate of whitebait was laid in front of him. Ros had opted for goat’s cheese salad. Both looked very appetising.
‘Buona sera, Nino? Come va?’ Tom gave him a broad smile.
‘Non c’e male. E tu?’ Ros watched and listened as the two men chatted in Italian together. She had always loved the sound of the language. After a few moments, the chef returned to more serious matters. ‘Su, su, mangiate. Qui verra freddo.’ He looked across at Ros. ‘Please do start. I mustn’t hold you up. The food needs to be eaten while it’s still hot.’ He bowed to Ros, patted Tom on the shoulder, and returned to the kitchen.
‘That didn’t sound like GCSE Italian.’ She gave him a smile.
‘Not really. I lived there for eight years. You can’t help picking it up if you’re there for that long.’
They started eating. His fish was excellent. He told her some of his experiences of life in Italy. ‘But you must have spent lots of your time in Italy as well, surely? Isn’t that the home of fashion?’
She looked up from a piece of toast. ‘There are a few French fashion houses that might debate that one. But, yes, I have spent quite a bit of time over there, but only working. I’ve always wanted a proper holiday in Italy. Maybe now that I’ve got a bit more time on my hands.’
The conversation became more animated. The food was delicious and he couldn’t have wanted for a better companion. He began to relax. Even when she asked about his current writing project he was able to sidestep it with ease.
‘So much of writing is research, as you well know. I am researching all sorts of things at the moment. I am trying to settle on the historical setting for my next book.’
‘Middle Ages once more?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll go for something more recent. I was wondering about the 1920s.’
‘Ah, the flappers and the Beautiful Young Things. The clothes from those years keep coming back into fashion over and over again.’
‘So what sort of clothes did they wear then? Say, in the period between the wars?’
‘You realise,’ she fixed him with serious eyes, ‘you are courting disaster here.’
He grunted, unsure where this was leading.
She smiled broadly as she explained. ‘Asking me about fashion is like asking you about the Cathars or the Knights Templar. Promise me you’ll give me a smack if I go on for more than a couple of hours.’
‘The night is young.’ He sat back and listened.
‘Well, the 1920s were the time when things changed drastically in the battle of the sexes. I’m not talking about Votes for Women or the Wall Street Crash: I don’t mean politically. It was during the 1920s that women started dressing to show off again. In the century before it was the men who wore frilly shirts, velvet breeches, gaudy waistcoats and so on. Victorian women were imprisoned in corsets and pretty universally dressed in dark colours. During the World War I lots of women wore trousers and more utilitarian clothing. In the 1920s it all changed. Imagine a male bullfinch with his glorious red plumage swapping feathers with his drab little wife, or a cockerel swapping with a dowdy hen.’
Her use of the word ‘breeches’ reminded him for a moment of the ‘breachers’, ripped