Stella Newman - Pear Shaped

‘For you,’ I say, handing her the tulips.

‘My favourite!’ she says. ‘Evie! A vase please? Now sit. Have a biscuit,’ she says, pointing at a dozen star-shaped, sugar-dusted biscuits arranged neatly on a red and white Delft plate. I nibble a lemon shortbread even though I hate lemon with sweet things. ‘What’s new then, Sophola? How was that pistachio lamb?’

We’d discussed that dish more than a month ago.

‘Needed longer on a lower heat,’ I say.

‘Always the lowest heat,’ she says, shaking her head.

My foodie genes come from my grandma, who is my dad’s mother, and my mum. My grandma was an excellent cook before she tired of food in her dotage. Now all she eats is boiling hot soup, stale lemon biscuits and coffee ice cream, washed down with a small whisky of an evening. I inherited her habit of always trying something new, and my mother’s habit of always ordering three times too much of it.

‘So your brother’s making me feel old – a great-grandmother indeed!’

‘It’s so exciting, I can’t wait!’

‘I’m not sure I’ll still be here when the baby arrives.’

‘Oh, stop it. Of course you will.’

‘This is my last winter, I can feel it,’ she shakes her head.

‘Nonsense, you say that every year!’

‘I’m ready to go,’ she says, her shoulders rising and falling slowly. ‘And you? When are you going to stop flitting about?’

‘I’m not ready for all that baby stuff yet.’

‘Of course not, you need to find a decent man first. Is there no one nice at work?’

Raymond Cowell-Trousers in accounts? ‘Not at work, no. But I have met someone who I think you might approve of.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘He’s … he’s very bright. And handsome. Nice and tall.’ I won’t mention his age; I don’t think she’d approve of that.

‘What does he do?’

‘He runs his own company, he sells socks.’

‘Jewish?’ she says, a faint trace of hope in her voice.

‘I think his grandfather was.’ We both know this doesn’t count. ‘East End, furrier.’

‘Your grandfather knew some people in the schmutter trade. What’s this creature’s name?’

‘Stephens. James Stephens, in fact!’

‘Oh dear!’ she raises her hands to her face in mock horror. ‘Don’t be too nice to him! You know how that poem ends …’

Chance would be a fine thing. He’s now been in Portugal for four days and hasn’t even texted me. Still, he’s busy working. And he’s forty-five. Do 45-year-olds really text? Isn’t that a bit teenage? I hate texts anyway, so avoidant, I’d much rather talk. He’s due back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll call then.

Three days later he phones from Lisbon airport.

‘I was starting to think I’d imagined you,’ I say. And I’m starting to think Laura’s right and there is another woman.

‘Is that a dig?’ he says, with good humour.

‘Have you been terribly busy with work?’

‘It’s not been too bad, actually. A bit of work, a bit of fun.’

‘Are you just one of those people who compartmentalises their life?’

‘No, not really.’

‘So you stayed a few days longer than planned?’

‘Yeah, the Bonders own a place down the coast, they invited me for some golf.’

‘The Bonders?’

‘The venture capital guys.’

‘Are they Portuguese?’

‘Swiss, but they’ve got houses all over the place.’

I daren’t go for a sixth question, the only one I want the answer to, which is: why didn’t you call? Because he is calling. And I know I’d sound needy and weird. Besides, he’s forty-five. He’s been on a business trip. It’s very early days. We’ve only had three dates. Three great dates and some good sex. Still, you aren’t allowed to expect too much attention at this stage, so Pete tells me, and I should stop being paranoid.

‘So, when are you free to see me, woman?’

I pause. I am genuinely busy this week, plus I want to spend more than just an evening and a morning with him. ‘At the weekend?’

‘What are you doing in the week?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Friday night?’

‘Busy … I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I made other plans.’ And if you’d called me sooner then I wouldn’t have had to …

‘I’m not surprised you’re so popular, a girl with your qualities. Okay, Sunday afternoon, let’s see a movie – all these dinners with you are making me fat!’ Nonsense, he had a gut when I met him!

‘I might be free Saturday night …’ I say.

‘Seeing Rob and the boys,’ he says quickly.

‘Fine, no, Sunday then …’

‘I’ll pick you up at 3pm, I’ll choose the film.’

I like a man who takes control.

‘I’m outside your flat, come on down,’ he says at 3pm on the dot.

‘What car are you in?’

‘The little blue one that makes a funny noise.’

For some reason I imagined he’d drive a BMW or a Golf GTi – something mainstream and fast and solid and a little bit flash.

But no. No, no, no. He is, in fact, behind the wheel of a very shiny, fancy sports car.

What make is it? There is a little crown insignia at the front, but I can’t tell. I know the difference between a Porsche, a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. James does not have a small penis and clearly doesn’t feel the need to drive any of these.

But nowadays Jaguars, Aston Martins, even that Ford with the old Steve McQueen ad – all meld into one.

‘Listen to this,’ he says, and revs the engine, ‘it has the best purr of any car. And it’s shaped like a woman’s body …’

‘Sometimes you sound like such an 80s dickhead,’ I say, smiling as he leans over to open the door for me.

As I step in, I see a large Maserati logo in silver on the floor. Handy. In case you forget which of your cars you’re driving.

I am surprised and pleased to see what a tip it is inside, as bad as my Honda Accord. Boots, fleeces, mud, sweet wrappers, even an empty white mug in the drinks holder, that’s surely meant to accommodate a goblet of Krug.

I do so like this about James. He is not precious about things, he’s carefree, careless even. I had a boyfriend at college who had a three-day tantrum after I knocked his Raybans onto the floor as I handed him an orange juice at a Happy Chef on the M6. I hate people who treat generic branded goods like they’re family heirlooms; it’s just stuff.

‘So, what’s with this car?’ I say, trying not to sound impressed.

‘A little toy I bought myself when the Bonders bought 25% equity in JSA. I do like the occasional toy.’

‘How much did they pay you?’ Blunt, but I’m trying to work out just how fancy this car is.

‘Three.’

‘£300,000?’ If that’s 25%, that’s a £1.2 million pound business. Not bad for selling socks.

And a whole house in Camden must be worth a million at least.

He laughs. ‘You’re so sweet, Soph. Add an 0.’

‘Oh.’ Oh, oh, oh.

We’re driving to the Curzon in Soho. I am still in shock about his wealth.

My immediate reaction had been: my God. I’ve found a prince, the last handsome, tall, not-bald multimillionaire in London. That’s lottery ticket win money. That doesn’t happen. Well, the odds are 1 in 12 million.

But a nanosecond later the discovery has started to bother me. It has set off various small alarms that I’m trying to put on snooze:

That sort of money rockets him in to a different universe.

That sort of money lets him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without consequence.

That sort of money goes to a man’s head. It is power.

No one makes that much money without being ruthless and hard as nails along the way.

People want to be close to a man like that. Men, yes, but the women. The type of women who would not look at him twice if he was a regular guy. That explains the Wolford model.