once we’re seated, waiters having politely shaken their head in unfamiliarity at Fin’s discreetly proffered photo of Iain Hart.
The floor is black and white square tiles, the walls are crammed with artfully tarnished mirrors. There are glossy black curved chairs, the pendant lights are glowing orbs that throws everyone into moody, woozily drunk half-light. It’s a pastiche of 1940s Paris that makes me feel as if I’ve fallen face first into a date in a romantic novel.
‘Lollipop bay trees in box planters outside, those fairy lights above the wall of wine … it’s my Moon Under Water of restaurants,’ I say, as we open the menus.
‘Let’s hope you like the food then,’ Fin says. ‘It’s got a lot to live up to.’
‘They could turf a slab of Morrisons chicken liver pâté onto a plate with some Ritz crackers and I’d be happy,’ I say and Finlay smiles a small smile and asks my approval of the red he’s ordering.
‘What originally took you to the States, did you go there to study psychology?’ I say, as we finish the bread.
Finlay shoots a look at me.
‘Susie would’ve told you that.’
‘She did.’
‘Then why ask?’ he says, evenly.
‘Because’ – I feel myself becoming less afraid of Finlay; how much of that is familiarity, and how much is Côtes du Rhône, I don’t know – ‘the polite way is to ask. Not confront someone with something you already know, which obliges them to tell you.’
‘That’s merely a longer way round to the same destination. I think we call it fishing.’
‘God’s sake!’ I say, in exasperation. ‘I’m making conversation. Whatever you told me the answer was, I’d accept. Including “It’s none of your business.” You act as if there’s landmines and tripwires everywhere, when there aren’t.’
Fin sits back, fiddling with his wine glass stem and surveying me, and seems to come to a decision.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve had so much shit when I’m here, I come into the ring with my boxing gloves up. I don’t always know when to lower them.’
‘OK.’
‘I got model-scouted in London and taken onto the books of a place that also had New York offices. I only did it for a couple of years, I hated it, but I made enough money to pay me through my degree. I find it hideously embarrassing,’ he shrugs.
‘Why?! If I’d ever been a model, you’d not shut me up about it. Even when my grandkids were like: seriously, Granny, because you look like a warthog.’
‘I had to stand there as if I didn’t exist, while people discussed if my arms were too thin, or my profile photographed as well from the left-hand side,’ Fin tilts his face accordingly and my stomach flexes, as all I see is slightly bristled jaw by candlelight. Pretty sure I could take a good photograph of it.
‘… Or if my look was too “catalogue generic” et cetera. My only talents being utilised were the ability to stand still, or walk down a ramp. It was the very opposite of an ego pump.’
‘Wowee. Who knew.’
‘If you want to be told how good-looking you are, pay for someone’s drinks all night at a bar. Model bookers and clients will tell you how good-looking you aren’t. I would honestly flip burgers before I’d go back to it. Not that they’d have Dumbledore here, aged thirty-six.’
‘What did your family say, that made you bite my head off?’ I ask, with a smile for safety.
‘You spoke to Susie, right?’
‘Yes. She said you were very oversensitive about it.’
‘Hahaha. If you want a perfect nutshell of how they turned the effects of their behaviour into my problem, you couldn’t do much better than that. My dad thought it was synonymous with me coming out as gay, my mother and sister thought it proof of preening vanity. “You? A model?!” So yes, I was “sensitive”. The same way someone makes a noise if you hammer a nail into them.’ He pauses. ‘Do you know why Spanish flu was called Spanish flu?’
‘Because it started in Spain?’
‘That’s what everyone assumes. In fact, to protect the morale of troops in the First World War, they under-reported people dying of it here. Spain was neutral and free to broadcast it, leading to a belief that Spain was worse affected than everywhere else. Hence the name. They found themselves landed with the rep for being the flu hotbed, purely for being more honest. That’s me in the Hart family. I was the one who complained, and so I got blamed as being the