‘Yes I have as a matter of fact. And look at you! Positively glowing! You must be dating a homosexual.’
‘How clever you are.’
They raised their coffee cups to each other.
‘Oh dear,’ said Isabelle, ‘I’m not making much of a go of things, am I?’
‘Don’t feel too bad about it, Isabelle. We all make mistakes. Remember – I married your father.’
And for the next hour, they were friends – not just mother and daughter, warring and worrying and winding each other up. When they said goodbye, they both wondered why it could not always be like this.
Victoria and Adele had regular lunches at a little French restaurant hidden away behind Harrods, where they talked fashion, gossiped about mutual friends and, in their breezy way, counselled each other through the latest drama. Adele, for all her financial stability, was still a tenderhearted old girl, and easily bruised by men who thought she was tougher than she really was. As for Victoria, there was only one song in her repertoire, and it went to the tune of Massimo Rivelli.
It was a foggy day in London town, the morning mists thickening rather than clearing, leaves falling from the trees and a sense of decay in the air. Victoria, who didn’t have a job or a family to take her mind off such things, was morbidly sensitive to the changes of the season.
‘It all seems so hopeless,’ she said over a salad of warm duck and endive. ‘The closer we get, the further he seems from any idea of leaving his wife and marrying me.’
‘But surely you don’t expect him to do that. I mean, they don’t.’
‘He said he would.’
‘Oh, chérie, how many times have I told you that what men say and what they do are two completely different things.’
‘But how can he stay with her? He doesn’t love her. They don’t have sex.’
‘Says Massimo.’
‘I know when he’s telling the truth, darling.’
‘I’m not sure that you do. Okay, he says he doesn’t love her. What does that mean? He’s not in love with her, maybe. He doesn’t feel the urge to buy her expensive presents, to be with her all the time. He doesn’t want to sneak off from work to see her for a couple of hours. But she is his wife, the mother of his son, the centre of the family. He loves her – but in a different way.’
‘How do you know? You haven’t spoken to Massimo in years.’
‘I know because I know men.’ This was Adele’s answer to everything. She was a self-certified expert on men and their funny ways – and, irritatingly, she was nearly always right. Listening to Adele give her advice on man-management was like reading one of the longer, more ruthlessly cynical French novels of the 19th century.
‘But the woman is a religious maniac. She won’t eat meat if it’s some obscure saint’s day. As for having sex – well, that’s strictly for procreation. And she’s well past that. How can he possibly love her? You, with your knowledge and understanding of men, must know that they are led by their . . .’ She wouldn’t say ‘dicks’ in a nice restaurant, so wiggled her little finger instead. A highly inappropriate digit, she thought, to represent Massimo’s peppermill.