anyone to fancy her. She ought to light the fire, and as it was the end of the month there was only half a bottle of cheap white in the fridge.
Wearing just one Ugg boot, Etta hopped outside to pick some pink polyanthus for the table and ran slap into Valent. He had put on a red jersey and looked tired and lined, and, to Etta’s relief, much less powerfully glamorous. Could she detect a faint trace of aftershave over the curry fumes? But then he probably wore an expensive brand that had lasted since this morning.
He dumped a carrier bag full of foil dishes, two bottles of red and Gwenny on the kitchen table, and accepted a glass of Etta’s white. Priceless jumped down, flashed his teeth at Valent, but, deciding he didn’t like curry, retreated to the sofa.
Gwenny, unable to find her bowl, mewed indignantly round the kitchen cupboard, which also contained the vases, so Etta had to put the polyanthus in her tooth mug.
‘God, this is a treat,’ she sighed, as she unpacked prawns, tikka masala, lamb rogan josh, spinach, mixed vegetables, and a paddy field of rice. ‘I’m so used to packed dinners for one,’ she went on. ‘I wonder what they put in them,’ she squeezed her waist, ‘I’ve never had such a spare tyre before.’
Dinners for one, thought Valent, ashamed at the tears pricking his eyes.
‘Here’s something to fatten you up. Put it in the fridge,’ he said, handing her a chocolate tart and a half-pint of cream.
‘How deliciously decadent,’ cried Etta. ‘I won’t tell Bonny. Gosh, sorry, I didn’t mean … Bonny’s lovely, and I so love my Ugg boots. I’m going to wear them all through the summer.’
‘Good, and you’ve made this place right cosy,’ said Valent, looking round.
And big as you are, you don’t dwarf it, thought Etta, as Valent tugged the red armchair for her and the sofa, plus Priceless, for himself up to the kitchen table. Taking a corkscrew, he opened one of the bottles of red.
‘Thank you so much for putting us up in such a fabulous hotel in Stratford,’ gabbled Etta, as she spiked up a large prawn.
To her amazement, as he filled up her glass, Valent asked if she’d enjoyed ‘Miranda’, her room, and her four-poster. Did he keep tabs on everything?
‘It was heavenly, but a bit wasted on me. I mean, I’m sure there were couples more deserving who could have enjoyed it.’
‘Evidently,’ said Valent dryly. ‘I gather everyone ended up having a party in your room.’
‘Er, well, yes. Do have some of this chicken tikka, it’s such heaven and the wine’s gorgeous.’ Etta took a gulp, praying he wasn’t going to quiz her. Perhaps the only reason he was there was to cross-question her about Bonny.
‘You moost have all drunk tap water,’ persisted Valent. ‘You didn’t order any room service for your party, or put anything on your bill.’
‘Some people,’ stammered Etta, ‘did get a bit carried away. You provided so much lovely drink at the party that they asked if they could say they had a nightcap in my room.’
‘Who?’ insisted Valent.
‘Oh well, the Major and Alban and people, but I’m so old, their wives wouldn’t be remotely jealous anyway.’
Valent looked at Etta, her big dark blue eyes imploring him not to push her, little white teeth biting her lower lip instead of the prawn and spinach on her fork.
‘Roobbish,’ he said, and reaching across and running a finger down her blushing, anguished face, proudly quoted:
‘No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.’
‘Oh how kind.’ Etta turned even pinker than the polyanthus.
‘I’ve been stoodying your poetry book, except that Bonny would say I should have rhymed “one” with “sun”, not said “wan”. There’s nothing “wan” about your face. Eat oop.’
‘Everyone pronounces things differently,’ said Etta. ‘Alban says “orf” and “corsts”.’
She was about to tell him Corinna was trying to ape his and Ione’s accent for Lady Bracknell, then decided it was a bit close to Bonny being too common to play Corinna’s daughter.
‘You’ve chosen all my favourites,’ she cried instead, spooning up lentils.
Valent then said he’d enjoyed the extract from The Canterbury Tales so much he’d bought the book, and wasn’t Alban exactly like Chaucer’s perfect gentle knight, even to his wearing understated camouflage clothes.
‘What other poems do you like?’ asked Etta.
‘“I struck the board, and cried, No more,”’ said Valent, and he told her about Goldstein Phillipson and how guilty he felt abandoning middle management