‘There are lots of things you don’t know about me. I’ve always loved cooking. But it can be so time-consuming. I just thought it would be a bit of fun to keep them amused today; as Saffron is away.’

‘Saffron never lets the children anywhere near her cooking. So this is a treat for them.’

‘Has Saffron always enjoyed cooking?’

‘No. It’s a very recent interest. She’s doing it to relax. I think she’s distracted at the moment. There’s something on her mind that she isn’t telling me.’

Is he trying to tell me that there is a chink in the armour of their relationship? Will there be room for me, one day?

116

Caprice

Despite my permanent exhaustion I manage to book a taxi to Esher Railway Station and board a train to Waterloo. My mission is to meet my new acquaintance, Andrew Cunningham, at the Skylon Restaurant, on the Southbank.

I sit at a table by the window, waiting for him to arrive, muscles aching with fatigue. The Thames slides by, grey and wide. A flowing stream of steel. People meander past. Wide-eyed tourists drinking up the atmosphere of the big city. Youths loitering. Businesspeople on a mission, marching towards a lunchtime tête-à-tête, or the office. To pass the time I peruse the menu. But I’m not hungry. Despite all your efforts to fatten me up, Saffron, I’m not interested in food at the moment.

‘Wotcher.’ I look up. A large bear of a man with floppy brown hair and tree-trunk legs is grinning down at me. ‘Cunningham, Andrew, at your service. What can I do to help?’ His already wide grin widens and splits his chunky face in half.

‘Hello. Thanks for coming to meet me. Do sit down.’ He joins me at the table, so tall he dwarfs it. He rests his hands in front of him. Even his fingers are oversized, like a row of fish fingers. ‘Shall we order first and then I’ll explain why I wanted to see you.’

‘Good with me. Thanks for inviting me to lunch. It’ll cost you. I have to warn you. I’ve got a big appetite.’

I smile a tight smile. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Imagine all you like. You’ll soon find out.’

We sit looking at the menu. The more I look at it the more I don’t fancy anything to eat. The waitress saunters over. She is a very pretty girl, like Scarlett Johansson, pink-lipped and delicious.

‘What can I get you?’ she asks.

‘A green salad, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water,’ I reply.

‘Burger and chips and a double whisky will do for starters,’ Mr Cunningham quips.

Scarlett Johansson melts away. ‘So, what did you want to see me about?’ he asks.

‘It’s about your comment on the Belgravia Private Clients website.’