Page 136 of A Night with Damien Spur

Damien gazed around the golden room, with its mirrored walls and glass pillars painted with classical figures, at the ornate gilded empire furnishings, and for a moment imagined himself dining next to Nana, who looked surprisingly like Anoushka, her plump breasts overflowing in a red velvet bodice, one hand between his legs and the other slipping a succulent oyster into his mouth.

The waiter coughed discreetly.

‘Damien,’ Teddy whispered, ‘wake up. What would you like to eat?’

For the starter, like his stepfather, he chose theravioles de foie gras, splashed with a froth of truffle cream. To anchor the rich flavour, a small leaf of Savoy cabbage added to the sumptuous little packets of decadence, accompanied by a half-bottle of Chateau Rieussec, an elegantly sweet Sauternes.

‘Ah,’ Damien gasped, biting into the buttery perfection, ‘my education is complete.’

Teddy raised his glass of wine. ‘A toast to manhood,’ he said, ‘and so much better to be initiated by a professional,’ he added with a rakish smile.

A few years later, Teddy and his mother were killed in a car crash, en route to Monte Carlo.

But for all the bonhomie Damien had shared with his stepfather he would have gladly swapped it for a kinder mother.

He shut his eyes again. Laura came to mind, eclipsing any happy thoughts of Paris.

Get over it, Damien, said the Voice.Let’s face it, she wanted a no-holds-barred, free sex wrestle. A tussle with muscle. And that’s that. Must have, can’t have. The story of your life. Always looking for someone to leave you. Just like Mummy did.

‘Okay, okay. How many times do you have to say it?’ Damien said.

Until you find the mother inside yourself, said the Voice.

Chapter 43

Damien scanned the lovely woman standing next to him waiting for a table at Le Pain Quotidien. She caught his look and gave him a wide Cheshire Cat grin, her teeth shiny and even. She was almost certainly American. Mid-to late-twenties, he guessed. Her blonde hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, two diamond studs in each ear, she held her mobile in one hand and the handle of her neat designer rucksack in the other.

He paused and gave her a full-focus stare. She was wearing an edgy biker jacket and tiny mini skirt. His eyes slid down her long, sculpted legs to her foxy high-heeled ankle boots.

‘Don’t say a word… I bet you’re a New Yorker. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll buy you a coffee,’ he said.

‘How did you guess?’

‘It’s obvious. Your smile. Open and friendly. None of that English reserve. And the way you dress. Chic Manhattan.’

He looked for a ring on her finger. There wasn’t one. Good.

‘Ah, there’s a table. Shall we sit together?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘As long as I can pay for your coffee.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You sussed I was from NYC.’

They sat by the window.

The waitress came.

‘I’ll have a soy cappuccino,’ she said. She turned to him. ‘What are you having?’

‘I’ll have a double espresso, please.’

He was enjoying himself. She was quirky, this fresh-faced American girl.

‘Wanna try and guess my name?’ she said.

‘Okay.’ He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Well, you could be a Paula or Gemma or Helen. Or maybe an Angie, Mandy or Anna.’

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