I too had been surprised when Luke had rung that morning, to change the venue.
‘Um, I know I said lunch in London, Poppy, but I’ve been thinking. What about dinner instead? At the King’s Head?’
The King’s Head was a fearfully expensive restaurant down by the river on the other side of the vale. It was very much London prices and fancied itself hugely; in fact it may even have been equipped with some Michelin stars. It was quite a number and not what I’d been expecting. On the other hand, I didn’t have to trek to London and pretend I’d been having a lovely time in Sloane Street, shimmying in and out of outfits, which, in my present mood, I was secretly dreading. I dreaded a lot at the moment. Wasn’t sure I had the heart any for any of this. Luke must have felt me hesitate.
‘I’d so love it if you said yes, Poppy. Please come,’ he said urgently.
It was a long time since anyone had insisted on a date with me, urgently or otherwise, and the King’s Head was a treat. I’d only been there once, on Phil’s birthday, and yes, obviously his mother and sister had come too. I rallied and agreed.
Tuesday night at eight, then, with Felicity, Angie’s daughter home for half term, babysitting, I made my way down the lanes across country, having elected to drive myself and maintain some independence. The hedgerows shivered darkly in the breeze, shaking themselves dry after the rain, the fields behind them damp and browned off for the winter. It was a beautiful soft autumn evening and I was tempted to just drive on up to the Beacon and sit in the car, watch the stars gather over the wide flat valley floor below, such a treat it was to be out of the house at night, no children. I knew the rules, though, and dutifully turned left where the lane plunged through the wood to Cumpton, then swung round the corner and under the arch of the pretty white inn, clad in dazzling red Virginia creeper, to the car park.
Luke was already in the dining room when I arrived: a good sign, I felt. I’d relied a lot on signs recently. I crossed the room to his table in the corner, remembering to hold my tummy in.
‘Poppy!’ He stood up, one hand holding the bottom of his tie. ‘How lovely. You look amazing.’ We exchanged a peck.
I didn’t really. I looked OK. I had on my usual Jigsaw black, which had seen better days, and a bit of make-up, but I hadn’t made a huge effort. Not because I didn’t like Luke, but because I was flat inside. Odd.
These last few days, instead of rallying a bit after Sam’s revelation, getting angry even, I’d dipped. Dived, perhaps. Yesterday I’d even found myself mechanically going through the motions. Of living. Having been there once before, I was terrified. My hands froze on the tin of beans I was opening. Second tin that day. I ran upstairs, riffled through my drawers and found the old bottle, which was empty, of course, because I’d flushed the pills away. But then I rang the nice GP and she prescribed some more, surprised I’d stopped taking them so soon. We had a bit of a chat over the phone and I assured her I was fine really, just feeling a bit low. But I’d come off the phone exhausted. At the effort of sounding fine. Had to sit on the side of the bed for a few minutes, holding my knees.
Yet now, here I was, cranking up a smile in this softly lit, plushly carpeted dining room, taking my chair opposite Luke, who looked for all the world as if Angelina Jolie had sat down to join him.
‘I thought we’d have champagne.’ He indicated a bottle already chilling in a bucket beside him. ‘Is that OK with you?’
‘Perfect,’ I assured him.
Within moments, a suave sommelier had glided noiselessly across to pour some for me, purring, ‘Madame,’ as he did. The King’s Head was a bit like that: gliding waiters, melba toast, elaborately arranged pink napkins, puddings from the trolley. Expensive, but old-fashioned and parochial. The sort of place where, if you had the right parents, you might easily have been taken as a child. All quite easy to mock these days but, having not had the parents, I rather liked it, I decided, as the waiter slid away as