Well, he’s not exactly an old friend — but I know him, don’t I? And I so want to table-hop like the others.
“Oh look, there’s Luke!” I shriek (quietly, so he doesn’t hear). “I simply must go and say hello!”
As the others look at me in surprise, I toss my hair back, leap to my feet, and hurry off, full of a sudden exhilaration. I can do it, too! I’m table-hopping at Terrazza. I’m an It-girl!
It’s only when I get within a few feet of his table that I slow down and wonder what I’m actually going to say to him.
Well. . I’ll just be polite. Say hello and — ah, genius! I can thank him again for his kind loan of twenty quid.
Shit, I did pay him back, didn’t I?
Yes. Yes, I sent him that nice recycled card with poppies on it and a check. That’s right. Now don’t panic, just be cool and It.
“Hi!” I say as soon as I get within earshot of his table, but the hubbub around us is so loud, he doesn’t hear me. No wonder all Fenella’s friends have got such screechy voices. You need about sixty-five decibels, just to be heard. “Hi!” I try again, louder, but still no response. Luke is talking earnestly to the older man, and the woman’s listening intently. None of them even glances up.
This is getting a bit embarrassing. I’m standing, marooned, being utterly ignored by the person I want to table-hop with. Nobody else ever seems to have this problem. Why isn’t he leaping up, shrieking “Have you heard about Foreland Investments?” It’s not fair. What shall I do? Shall I just creep away? Shall I pretend I was heading toward the Ladies’?
A waiter barges past me with a tray, and I’m pushed helplessly forward, toward Luke’s table — and at that moment, he looks up. He stares at me blankly as though he doesn’t even know who I am, and I feel my stomach give a little flip of dismay. But I’ve got to go through with it now.
“Hi, Luke!” I say brightly. “I just thought I’d say. . hello!”
“Well, hello,” Luke says eventually. “Mum, Dad, this is Rebecca Bloomwood. Rebecca — my parents.”
Oh God. What have I done? I’ve table-hopped an intimate family gathering. Leave, quick.
“Hello,” I say, and give a feeble smile. “Well, I won’t keep you from. .”
“So how do you know Luke?” inquires Mrs. Brandon.
“Rebecca is a leading financial journalist,” says Luke, taking a sip of wine. (Is that really what he thinks? Gosh, I must drop that into a conversation with Clare Edwards. And Philip, come to that.)
I grin confidently at Mr. Brandon, feeling like a mover and a shaker. I’m a leading financial journalist hobnobbing with a leading entrepreneur at a leading London restaurant. How cool is that?
“Financial journalist, eh?” grunts Mr. Brandon, and lowers his reading glasses to have a better look at me. “So what do you think of the chancellor’s announcement?”
I’m never going to table-hop again. Never.
“Well,” I begin confidently, wondering if I could suddenly pretend to spot an old friend across the room.
“Dad, I’m sure Rebecca doesn’t want to talk shop,” says Luke, his lips twitching slightly.
“Quite right!” says Mrs. Brandon, and smiles at me. “That’s a lovely scarf, Rebecca. Is it Denny and George?”
“Yes, it is!” I say brightly, full of relief. “I was so pleased, I got it last week in the sale!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Luke Brandon is staring at me with an odd expression. Why? Why is he looking so. .
Oh fuck. How can I be so stupid?
“In the sale. . for my aunt,” I continue, trying to think as quickly as I can. “I bought it for my aunt, as a present. But she. . died.”
There’s a shocked silence and I look down. I can’t quite believe what I’ve just said.
“Oh dear,” says Mr. Brandon gruffly.
“Aunt Ermintrude died?” says Luke in a strange voice.
“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to look up. “It was terribly sad.”
“How awful!” says Mrs. Brandon sympathetically.
“She was in hospital, wasn’t she?” says Luke, pouring himself a glass of water. “What was wrong with her?”
For an instant I’m silenced.
“It was. . her leg,” I hear myself say.
“Her leg?” Mrs. Brandon’s staring at me anxiously. “What was wrong with her leg?”
“It. . swelled up and got septic,” I say after a pause. “And they had to amputate it and then she died.”
“Christ,” says Mr. Brandon, shaking his head. “Bloody doctors.” He gives me a suddenly fierce look. “Did she go private?”
