up by vivid colours and their sudden movements constantly catch me by surprise. We get lost in there for the best part of an hour and then realize it’s long past lunchtime. Zelda wrinkles her nose dismissively at the thought of eating in the canteen, so we take off on a whistle-stop tour of the rest of the enclosures so that we can forage elsewhere for food. When we get to the polar bears I temporarily forget how hungry I am. There are just two of them ranging around the enclosure, occasionally acknowledging one another when they pass.
‘Do you think they’re friends?’ I ask Zelda.
‘Now you’re being sentimental,’ she replies, somewhat hypocritically considering she’s been canonizing the elephants. ‘They might’ve been put in there to mate.’
‘Or maybe they’re siblings,’ I opine. ‘Me and Alice used to wonder if any of Noah’s animals were twins instead of husband and wife.’
‘And why was that?’
‘Because the animals who got on the ark were the only ones who were going to be safe from the flood. So we thought that all the twins were either going to drown or get separated, which would’ve been almost as bad.’
‘And did you think the zebras had actual marriage certificates? Signed with a single hoof print, I suppose?’
‘Of course!’
‘That’s exactly why I never let the boys anywhere near Sunday school,’ says Zelda, linking her arm through mine. ‘It’s ridiculous nonsense.’
We walk back through the park to the car, skirting the side of a beautiful lake. Zelda gestures to a pair of swans gliding across the surface.
‘I’m sure they’re not twins. Swans mate for life, you know, just like elephants.’
‘Do you think they ever get tempted?’
‘Who knows, but they’re a jolly good role model for you. What’s going on with that unpredictable love life of yours now that ludicrous Steve character’s ancient history?’
‘Oh, you know…’
We’re approaching the car now and I’m playing for time.
‘No, I don’t know, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking!’
‘Very little.’ Which is kind of true, as of last week.
‘Hmm, is that the God’s honest truth?’
‘I thought you said that God was ridiculous nonsense?’
Zelda stares at me beadily, waiting for me to elaborate.
‘I’ll try and think of something when we’ve sat down for lunch. What do you fancy?’
‘I think we’ve rather missed the boat, lunch-wise,’ says Zelda and I deflate a little. I’m so enjoying being around her, and I haven’t even had time to ask her all the work questions I’ve got. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she continues. ‘Drive straight through the park and down Portland Place, and then I’ll tell you where next.’
The ‘where next’ is a chichi hotel, right in the centre of Mayfair. Zelda leads the way across the elegant marble lobby, making a beeline for the maître d’.
‘Zelda Marchmont?’
‘Ah, Ms Marchmont. Right this way.’
Soon we’re perched on dainty velvet chairs, poised and ready to consume our own bodyweight in champagne and scones.
‘This is amazing! Why…?’
Zelda’s not mean, but nor is she one for extravagant gestures. And, boy, is this extravagant.
‘Because I wanted to say thank you to you via the medium of finger sandwiches. Seriously, Lulu, I know this job has been far from easy. You’ve had very little support from me and yet you’ve pulled it out of the bag.’
‘Thanks, Zelda, that’s really –’
She holds up an imperious hand to stop me in mid-flow.
‘I also wanted to tell you, and you know I’m not one for sentimental guff, that you’ve been far and away the best assistant I’ve had over the last thirty or so years. Not the most punctual, not always the most confident, but the most talented and the most enjoyable to work with. Now don’t start blubbing or waffling, just have your tea and know that it’s true.’
But I can’t help myself: tears are coursing down my cheeks unbidden. I wipe my face with the starchy linen napkin and try to compose myself. Zelda watches me keenly.
‘Lulu darling, what’s he done to you?’
‘What’s who done to me?’
‘Whatever rotten louse is causing the tsunami! It’s not that ghastly little tyke Tarquin, is it?’
‘Of course not!’ I say, before realizing I’ve given the game away. Oh well, the secret’s already loose: one more recipient makes little difference. ‘It’s – it’s Charles Adamson and I promise you he’s not a louse, whatever it looks like.’
Zelda beckons for the champagne, waving away my protestations about the car, and commences questioning me. This time confiding feels like a relief: with Alice, much as I was glad to blast away the deceit, I