Page 69 of Not in a Million Years

High places? Please don’t remind me we’re in one right now.

I gave what I hoped was an alluring and mysterious smile and said, ‘Maybe,’ even though I’d just made the reservation online as I usually did.

But when we reached our table, I felt my mysterious allure fade away. It was right at the edge of the terrace, next to a glass barrier. The view over London was spectacular – I could see why it was a popular spot. But all I could think about was the view straight down. Next to me, if I so much as glanced sideways, was a sheer drop to the street far below. Cars and buses crawled along, tiny as toys. Commuters hurried along like a swarm of ants making their way home to their nest. Pigeons flew past at my eye level.

Looking at it made me feel sick and dizzy, so I forced my eyes upwards and looked straight ahead, at Claude, which was certainly no hardship. But even when I couldn’t see it, I knew that the precipitous drop was there, just a chest-high pane of glass away.

‘You okay, Kate?’ Claude asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

Poor bugger’s probably worried I’m about to spew all over his shoes again, I thought. And who could blame him?

‘I’m great.’ I forced a cheerful note into my voice. ‘Would you like a cocktail, or shall we move straight on to wine?’

‘I couldn’t resist taking a look at the wine list online earlier,’ he said, his toothpaste-commercial-perfect smile flashing out. ‘They’ve got some bin ends that are fantastic value. The sommelier knows his thing.’

‘Why don’t you choose?’ I slid the leather-bound menu across the table. It felt weighty as a telephone directory; if I dropped it over the edge, I’d probably kill a pedestrian in the street below. ‘I’m no expert.’

‘I’m sure you know the most important thing,’ he said, ‘which is what you like.’

‘I suppose we should decide what we’re eating first.’ I opened the food menu, my mouth instantly salivating at the prospect of langoustines cooked in Pernod, roast turbot and peach soufflé.

‘You order food for us both, then,’ he suggested. ‘And I’ll pick the wine.’

‘Deal.’

A waiter appeared with a board of bread (not just any bread – four different kinds, each with accompanying whipped, flavoured butter) and I ordered our food: tomato salad and turbot for me, langoustines and roast lamb for him. Claude frowned down at the wine list for a moment, then placed an order in fluent French.

It seemed to go on for a long time – inside my handbag, I could almost hear my credit card giving a sharp intake of breath and felt vastly relieved that it wouldn’t be long before I was back working and earning money.

Minutes later, a waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne and a tripod holding six oysters on a bed of ice.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Claude said. ‘I feel like no meal is complete without oysters. You don’t hate them, do you?’

‘Love them.’

‘Bien.’ He smiled, squeezed lemon onto an oyster, added a grind of black pepper, eased it loose from its shell with a fork and passed it across the table to me.

I slurped, tasting the delicious briny saltiness – like being hit in the face by a wave. I was instantly, fleetingly transported back to Alsaya, and swimming in the sea with Daniel. But I pushed the thought aside – I was back home now, with another man; a man with whom I could imagine a real future.

As we ate and drank – Claude, it turned out, had ordered not one wine but three: the champagne, a flinty Riesling for the salad and seafood, and a carafe of peppery, fruity red to accompany his lamb, which of course he insisted I share – he asked me about my time away, and I filled him in on the edited highlights of Andy’s situation.

‘He’s staying with a friend of ours, just while he gets more mobile,’ I explained. ‘Then he’ll be able to go back home and back to work. I’m glad we went, even though he’d have probably been okay without us.’

‘You’re a good friend,’ Claude said. ‘He – Andy – is lucky to have you. I hope I’ll meet him one day; he sounds like a character.’

‘He certainly is,’ I said.

I felt a spark of pleasure at the idea that Claude might one day want to meet my friends. I imagined Rowan, Abbie and Naomi’s glowing approval of him. My mind briefly wandered into a fantasy future with him: the stylish house we’d have, perhaps in South West London, with a garden and a vast kitchen where I’d learn to bake croissants. Our children would be bilingual, and I supposed I’d have to learn French as well, so I could charm his mother when we visited her during our regular trips to Paris. We’d honour their Cameroonian heritage of course, visiting Africa with our children and connecting them to their roots.

Whatever those looked like – I realised I had no idea. But still: we’d be a power couple, successful and attractive, utterly in synch and smitten with each other. Our careers would go from strength to strength, but we’d always have time for our friends, our family and each other.

Even Daniel, my imagination provided optimistically, would get on well with Claude.

Two hours later, I spooned the remnants of the intoxicatingly sweet purée from the bottom of my soufflé dish and sipped the last of the pudding wine Claude had ordered. The sun had set and the lights of the city beneath me looked positively benign, the sheer drop rendered invisible in the darkness. At some point, Claude’s ankle had reached beneath the table, made contact with mine and stayed there. Our hands had brushed when we’d shared spoonfuls of dessert. Our eye contact had become longer and more intense as darkness fell.

‘Would you like anything else?’ I asked. ‘A brandy or something?’

‘I can seldom say no to an Armagnac,’ he said. ‘But tonight I think I will.’

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