Writers, models, photographers, and movie stars went there.
She told Leslie about it the next day. She was impressed and raised an eyebrow to tease her.
“Hardly,” Coco said, patting her slightly protruding belly. She had worn black jeans, and a pink sweater, and her own motorcycle boots that she had brought with her but hadn’t worn since college. She had dressed like an adult for Nigel, in fancy cocktail dresses when they went out. She could be more casual now, which suited her better and was more familiar. It was a relief not to be at parties all the time, or a houseguest somewhere every weekend.
She had read in the gossip columns that Nigel was entertaining in his fabulous new country estate in Sussex, and invitations to spend a weekend there were in high demand. She wondered how he was paying for it on his five-thousand-dollar-a-month spousal support the judge had awarded him instead of three million a year.
She met Ian at the bar in Notting Hill on Friday night at seven. The place was jammed with lots of people from the neighborhood, and a smattering of models and well-known trendies in jeans and T-shirts. He was waiting at the bar for her when she arrived, and she walked over to him with a smile. Her sweater was loose enough that her pregnancy barely showed, and he didn’t seem to notice, and probably didn’t care. It was just a courtesy drink, but she thought it was a nice gesture on his part to thank her.
“Is that your dog outside?” she asked him, after they ordered beers. Her doctor said she could have two a week and an occasional glass of wine. They were more relaxed about pregnant women drinking moderately in Europe. She had seen a huge cinnamon-colored bull mastiff sitting politely next to the entrance. He was massive and no one was going to bother him.
“That’s Bruce. He likes it here. He’s my best friend. He’s my alter ego. I’m not so good with people,” he confessed, with his dazzling smile. “Most writers aren’t. That’s why they become writers. Because they’re afraid to talk to people, so they write. We’re born observers, but poor participators.” It was an interesting analysis of the breed. His mind was quick and sharp, and she suspected that his tongue could be as well. She could easily imagine him getting angry. He exuded brooding inner tension, and then he smiled and the sun came out. He made you want to work for one of those smiles, like winning a trophy for a game well played. “How did you wind up in London? Did you grow up here?” he asked her.
“The reason I’m here is boring and complicated,” she said quietly.
“Like life.” He nodded.
“I dropped out of school in New York, Columbia, journalism major, got an internship at Time over here, worked there for about eight months, and got a job offer from Leslie, who was my boss at Time and started the relocation business, so here I am.”
“I have a feeling it’s more complicated than that,” he said, pointing to her belly. He had noticed.
“Yes, it is. I thought I’d spare you the long version. Bad romance in New York, with a married man, after I dropped out of school. I was an idiot. Lesson learned, so I got that out of the way. Fell for someone else when I got here, got married too quickly. It lasted for eleven months, now I’m getting divorced. And I’m having a baby. He gave up his rights, so my daughter and I will be on our own, which is fine.” At least she hoped it would be. She wasn’t as confident as she appeared, but she didn’t know him.
“Well, it sounds like you got all your big mistakes out of the way quickly. Married man, bad guy. I’m sure the next one will be a good one.”
“I’m not looking. I’m taking a breather.”
“Is your family in New York?” She hesitated at the question, and he noticed that too. He was an observer of people and the human condition, and good at it. It was what he did for a living. “Bad question? Didn’t like your husband? Angry about the baby?”
“No, they died almost three years ago. In the attack in Cannes. Two of the eleven Americans who were killed.”
“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” He winced. “Terrible question. Writers always think they can ask whatever they want to get to the truth. It must have been awful