Sour Cream

This morning I was sitting in Sergei’s tropical conservatory thinking happy thoughts and sipping tea out of a gilded pink tumbler, while he whipped up blinis and sour cream to go with the inevitable caviar, which I am resigned to now, because I could have fallen for a Scandinavian, who are apparently all mad about herring and eat it at every meal, according to Jackie, who once worked in Sweden for six months. So, thank my lucky stars for that one.

The sun was warm, the birds and Sergei were singing, my rocket was still rising and my bolt-hole by the sea was secure.

Sergei came in carrying a tray and smiling. ‘That was Nathan on the phone. Did you not hear me call? The film rights, he thinks the option will be taken up.’

I sat up straight and stared. ‘The film rights to Travels Through a Life?’ I demanded.

‘No, my darling: to Dark, Passionate Earth.’ He put the tray down on the low table, sat down next to me and took my hand, the one with the big sparkly ring on it that was casting refracted rainbows all over everything.

‘You know, Tsarina,’ he said softly, ‘the upstairs tenant’s lease is about to expire and I am thinking that now we could convert the property back into one big house – big enough for both of us to be together always, but still have our own space – our own apartments, if you wish. So maybe we should turn this engagement into a marriage – have a family, even. What do you think?’

He pressed my hand tenderly to his lips, while I gazed down at his glossy, blue-black hair, totally tongue-tied.

What did I think? I thought he’d had a brain transplant, personally, but off the top of my head I simply couldn’t think of a polite way of putting it, since clearly a resounding, ‘No way!’ would have been totally inappropriate in the circumstances.

My mind was still discarding phrases of acute disinclination for the idea while he prepared a blini with his long, elegant fingers and delivered it to me with one of his sexy, slightly demented smiles, which have started exerting their old magic on me now that his face is unfreezing.

Then the answer that I hoped would put him off the idea without putting off our engagement came to me in a blinding flash, as do most of my better inspirations!

I expect you got there first? But then, bear in mind that you didn’t have Sergei Popov in close proximity, addling your brains.

Yes, it was confession time – truth or dare.

‘Sergei, that’s a terribly sweet idea, but I’m afraid I have a confession to make. You know I admitted last birthday to being thirty-five—’

‘But of course,’ he said. ‘And the one before. Why not? Do I tell the truth when a lie is kinder to myself?’