Page 41 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘Oh, here. No point in heading out into the cold again, and it’s a nice place to celebrate, don’t you think? Elizabeth Bowen wrote about it, you know.’

I’ve no idea who Elizabeth Bowen is or was. I say nothing, but glance towards the window, through which I see soft white flakes gently falling from the sky. They’ve been doing that on and off all day, but fortunately the snow hasn’t settled.

Charles and I make our way to the dining room. I’ve never eaten at the Shelbourne before, and I’m a little taken aback by the formality of the room, with its dark wallpaper and gloomy paintings. Starched white tablecloths are laid with shining cutlery, and each table has a small floral centrepiece. It’s not really my thing, but with the wintry weather outside, it kind of works.

‘A far cry from the beachside restaurant at the White Sands,’ remarks Charles as a waiter pulls out a chair for me.

‘It’s different,’ I agree. ‘I did like the White Sands, though. Everyone was so lovely there.’

‘On the one hand, I enjoyed myself immensely,’ says Charles. ‘On the other, I’m not really such a warm-weather person that spending nearly six weeks away was a good move. I missed the rain.’

The wine waiter comes to the table and asks if we’d like to order something from the cellar. Charles does this without even looking at the list. I think of all the times I went out with Steve when we studied the wine list carefully, trying to identify wines we knew and always making sure not to choose the least expensive in case the wine waiter thought we were cheapskates. Steve knows as much as I do about wine, which is absolutely nothing. On the rare occasions when we were with people who knew a little more than us, he would always say that thing about not knowing much but knowing what he liked. He would then say he’d be happy with anything except a Tempranillo. This wasn’t because he’d know a Tempranillo from whatever isn’t a Tempranillo but because it made him sound as though he actually did know a little. I bet he’s drunk it loads of times totally unaware.

Charles, however, seems to know quite a lot. On the occasions we ate with him at the White Sands, he used to have discussions with the staff about the wines and where they’d originated. He always chose something nice. When Celeste and I ate alone, we asked for glasses of the house wine. It was included in our package, so we saw no point in ordering anything else.

I pick up the menu and look at the choices. I wish I could see the prices. I’m sure they reflect that this is a luxury hotel, but I feel uncomfortable knowing that Charles is paying for the meal, and for the undoubtedly pricey wine as well as the excellent champagne. He insisted on this when he first asked me out, saying that the evening was entirely his treat. Nevertheless, I’m used to splitting the bill.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

‘Huh?’

‘You’re frowning at the menu. Don’t tell me nothing appeals to you.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What then?’

I explain about the bill, and he looks at me incredulously.

‘I told you this was a celebration, a way of saying thank you,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t dream of you paying.’

‘I appreciate that. But . . .’

‘What?’

How can I say what I’m thinking? That if I allow him to pay for everything, he might have expectations about where the night will lead. And that although I slept with him on the island, it was a very different proposition to sleeping with him now. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. It’s not that I might not want to. But I don’t want to feel obliged.

I look at him wordlessly.

‘It’s different,’ I say eventually.

‘What is?’

‘Here. With you. It’s different to the Caribbean. We were on holiday then. It was fun. You weren’t paying for me.’

‘You’re worried that me paying for you shifts the balance between us? Despite my reasons for asking you?’ He zones in on the main problem.

‘Yes. But the thing is, if I was paying for myself, we’d probably be in Nando’s.’

He laughs, and I feel my mouth twitch.

‘That’s perfectly reasonable,’ he says. ‘And if we ever go out again, we’ll go to Nando’s and I will stiff you with a bill for chicken butterfly and sides as well as halloumi, followed by a salted caramel brownie.’

‘You’re a Nando’s fan?’

‘It used to be my favourite treat,’ he says. ‘I sometimes still order it online.’

‘Oh, Charles.’ This time I’m the one who laughs, then he joins in, and we’re both chuckling away happily when the waiter comes to take our order.

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