Page 22 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘Sophie, please keep on track,’ Claudia said. ‘We haven’t got all day. Just try and focus.’ But in truth Damien had played on her mind. He was handsome, dynamic and passionate. She looked forward to reading his cards, finding out what made him tick.

Passion was something that Peter lacked. But he was kind and warm and she knew he would never betray her.

Not like her first husband, Adam, who’d had an affair with Lala, a Southern belle married to a Russian billionaire called Boris Smirnov.

Claudia had caught them together having erotic sex. Lala was lying on the kitchen table, while Adam was licking her breasts, which were covered with honey.

Sophie glanced at the card. ‘Is that really meant to be his wife?’ she asked. ‘Because I certainly don’t think she’s creative. According to Nicholas, she hates the arts.’

‘Whatever you say, I am sure she’s been a good mother, maybe too good. Her children might find it hard to fly the nest. He also may well have become her son, if there isn’t sex – after all, she’s had the children. What’s the point!’

‘That’s spot on.’ Sophie nodded vigorously. ‘They’re at home way past the time they should be, and he said the sex stopped after the children. Can I pull a card on whether he will leave her?’

‘Only if you’re prepared to accept the truth,’ Claudia said.

Sophie pulled the card. ‘Three of Swords!’ She clutched her breast. ‘That’s so horrible, three swords through a heart. Please tell me… do you see death?’

‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ replied Claudia. ‘There’s no blood.’

‘So what will happen?’ Sophie asked.

‘He won’t be leaving any time soon. Absence, delay and separation, putting things on hold for logical reasons… It could be three years.’

‘Well, I am not waiting!’ Sophie raised her voice. ‘It’s not fair. How can he be so weak? She’s just a convenience and he thinks I’m prepared to be his bestie without benefits.’

Someone coughed from over the next-door fence.

‘Sophie,’ Claudia said, ‘please keep your voice down and do stop airing your dirty laundry in my back garden.’

‘Dirty laundry in my back garden. Funny, funny pun.’

Sophie shook her head and giggled… and then she cried and wailed like an air-raid siren until the new neighbour, a literary sort in a Panama hat, popped his head above the fence and said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to write and it’s very hard to concentrate with all the noise.’

‘No, no, it’s we who should apologise,’ Claudia replied. ‘We’re just going inside.’

Sophie’s eyes lit up, despite the rivulets of black mascara running down her cheeks.

‘Are you writing a book?’ she said, all cocktail-party chatty. ‘What’s it about? You look academic. Let me guess. Is it hysterical?’ She gripped the arms of the wicker chair and, rocking back and forth, levered herself to her feet.

‘I mean historical… silly me!’ She teetered towards the fence. ‘Mind you, it could be a funny book, couldn’t it?’

He was a handsome man in a writerly sort of way. An intelligent, refined face with defined features and a smooth jawline.

Sophie wondered if he was single and, tilting her chin just a little, gave him a coquettish smile, half shy, half come-hither.

‘You got it right first time. I am a historian.’ He looked at this divine woman who, even in a dishevelled state, her white linen dress creased, her messy hair and sweaty face – a damsel in distress – appealed to his chivalry.

But just as he was ready to progress the tête-à-tête, a woman shouted from the window.

‘Claude, shall we eat alfresco?’

‘Oh.’ Sophie sighed. ‘Claude! What a lovely name and ofcourse that must be Mrs Claude?’

‘Well…’

‘Well yes,’ Sophie said. ‘The world is full of married men.’ She blew him a kiss and turned away.

Claudia took her by the arm and guided her back through the French doors. ‘Please, Sophie, pull yourself together. How much did you drink before you came?’

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