Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,46

vast pineapple. I follow Patrick, past dark red velvet banquettes and plush chairs to the curved reception area.

Here, he checks us both in, and we are led by a young porter dressed all in black with gold epaulettes and shining gold buttons to our magnificent room on the fourth floor. The room is furnished in the palest of pastels: muted blush pink armchairs and a baby blue cashmere blanket on the bed to match the blue headboard. The walls are lined with a cream silk wallpaper, and the paintings are equally delicate, abstract landscapes toned to match the rest of the soft furnishings. The marble bathroom has two sinks and a jacuzzi bath with a separate shower.

‘I hope you like this,’ Patrick says.

‘It’s amazing!’ I throw my arms around him.

‘Plan of action is a cocktail here; then we’re going to see The Book of Mormon, followed by dinner at my favourite restaurant. Tomorrow, I thought you could do the shops in the morning, and early afternoon I’ve booked you an aromatherapy massage here in the hotel. We’ll be home in time for supper. That’s when Mia and Oliver will be back from Switzerland, isn’t it?’

‘Wow! Why do I deserve such a special weekend?’

‘Because you are special,’ he says, kissing the tip of my nose.

I can’t believe that Patrick has been so considerate. He even remembered what time I said the kids would be home.

I am relieved that I packed my little black dress, the one I wore on the hapless date with Rory the solicitor. I put it on, slide into my stilettos and finish off the outfit with a pair of gold hoop earrings and a simple gold chain. I have a smart, heavyweight black coat and a black-and-gold throw to wear at the theatre and just hope I will be warm enough. Patrick is wearing a suit with a tie. He looks particularly handsome. He takes my hand as we walk to the lift and down to the dining room.

After cocktails we take a black London taxi for the short ride to the theatre. It’s years since I’ve been to a show, and I remember how much I have missed going to the theatre. Even though I have never been a great aficionado of musicals, it is a fabulous performance.

And then to dinner. The restaurant is tucked away behind Covent Garden. Le Goût de L’époque is tiny, with just twenty covers, and if you didn’t know it was there, you certainly wouldn’t find it. We walk down a short flight of dark stairs and then a heavy navy velvet curtain is pulled back to let us into the room. The ceiling is curved like in a traditional cellar. Every table is laid with white linen and silver cutlery, along with lit candles in filigree holders that throw patterns of flickering light on the walls. A violinist is seated in the far corner playing gypsy tunes, but quietly, so that it’s perfectly possible to have an intimate conversation without raising one’s voice. The aroma of fine French cuisine makes my stomach rumble.

‘Good evening, Mr Grant.’ The maître d’ nods his head towards Patrick. I’m surprised that he knows his name, but then assume he must have worked it out based on the fact that ours is the only unoccupied table. ‘How are you this evening?’

‘Very well, thank you.’

He gives us each a glass of champagne and then hands me a menu, and Patrick the wine list with a menu. My menu doesn’t have prices on it. I hope that this evening isn’t going to cost Patrick too much. I eat a vegetarian starter with beetroot served numerous different ways, followed by loin of venison that melts in my mouth. Normally, conversation flows easily, but there is a strange tension this evening and I can’t work out why. Patrick is a little restless, drinking more wine than normal and starting a new sentence before he has finished the previous one.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask him, leaning across the table and placing my hand on his.

‘Yes, yes. Everything is more than fine. I’m so happy.’

And then our plates are removed. I expect the waiter to return with a menu for us to choose desserts, but instead he returns with a bottle of Moet et Chandon champagne.

‘Gosh, I’m not sure I can drink much more,’ I say quietly to Patrick.

‘There’s no hurry,’ he says.

About five minutes later, the waiter appears with two plates. On each is a large chocolate dome.

‘This looks