Page 26 of A Class Act

‘I don’t know anything of the sort. It’s a charity do in aid of…’ He broke off.

‘In aid of?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve no idea, have you? So, which particular aspect of society are they feeling guilty about this week? Disaffected youth? A bit of nimbyism: no bypass anywhere near the Home Counties? Fallen gentlewomen? Or are they being totally radical and going for Gay Pride? Rainbow banners across the tennis courts of Bucks?’

‘Stop it, Robyn.’ Fabian wasn’t amused. ‘Sneery sarcasm doesn’t become you.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was. I didn’t know why I was being so petulant. Fabian’s parents, as far as I knew, could be lovely, hospitable people who wanted to share what they had with others. ‘Do they know you’ve been seeing me?’

Fabian grinned wolfishly. ‘A bit more thanseeing, I would advise, Your Honour.’ He reached forwards, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt I’d just fastened, and I batted away his hand. ‘Yes, I’ve mentioned you.’

‘And do they know of my… myheritage?’

‘Robyn,stop it. This is London, for fuck’s sake—’ he added in exasperation ‘—50 per cent of people living in London are non-white. In Newham it’s 70 per cent, if you want some statistics. In my chambers we have barristers, clerks, pupils who are many different heritages.’

‘Employees, yes, and welcomed to show you’ve filled your quota of diversity?—’

‘Stop it, Robyn.’

But I went on, repeating myself like an out-of-control runaway train. ‘Taking me along to a charity do in Marlow would be introducing someone quite different into your family.’

‘And? And how?’ Fabian was really angry now. ‘Different? Why are you sodifferent? You’ve two arms, two legs, a good brain…’

‘You know exactly what I’m saying.’

‘No, I don’t, actually. I can’t believe that a strong, independent, intelligent and beautiful girl like you in today’s society could have such hang-ups… Look at Meghan Markle.’

‘Exactly,’ I snapped. ‘Look at her. Whatshewent through.’

‘My parents are not the bloody royal family,’ he snapped back, throwing up his hands in despair. ‘For all your right-on thinking, Robyn, you might be the most prejudiced person I’ve ever met. I really have had enough of this. Grow up, will you? I’m going to work; I’m late as it is.’ And with that he walked calmly but determinedly away from me, not looking back once as he did so.

Hell, I missed him.

For the next two days I threw myself into my work as much as I could but, with my knee still not 100 per cent, and what now appeared to be a small bursitis on the outer joint, I was advised by my doctor to take a couple of days off. Carl Farmer, the director, wasn’t at all happy and was actually quite off hand with me, promoting one of the other chorus members – a rather shy girl called Yo Ming – to my part. Desperate for my knee to be back to normal, I did as the doctor told me, sitting on the tiny fire escape overlooking the bustling Soho street below, a bag of frozen peas on my elevated leg.

I’d been set on rereading some Hardy novels but in the warm sunshine my concentration soon wavered and I found myself nodding off, coming to with a dribbling but dry mouth and my whole body aching from having my leg raised at a strange angle.

When I wasn’t reading, sleeping or worrying that Yo Ming’s interpretation of Arabella Plumpton-Jones might be superior to my own, I was kicking myself (with my one good leg) for the way I’d behaved with Fabian. What on earth was the matter with me? I’d been given an invitation to the family home of this wonderful man and I was making cheap jibes at their expense. Fabian was right: I was pigeonholing his parents, family and friends and so was guilty as charged of holding prejudiced, working-class-hero views.

I checked my phone constantly, but there was nothing. God, I missed him. I longed for him to draw up in his fancy car outside the apartment and (still inPretty Womanmode) climb up the fire escape to rescue me before bearing me off to Buckinghamshire into the bosom of its posh people.

Having soon realised that Fabian was as proud as he was gorgeous, I knew I was going to have to eat a bit of humble pie and, on the day before the Saturday charity do, I picked up my phone with sweaty hands and texted:

I’m so sorry for my utter pig-headedness, Fabian. If the invitation still stands, and you forgive me, I’d love to come with you tomorrow. xx

His response was immediate and to the point:

Sorry, taking someone else. You had your chance…

I gasped in horror as I read the text, knocking over my half-full cup of coffee with my good leg as I stood. Another text followed on a moment later:

But, on second thoughts, I’d much rather take you. It’s a lunchtime do. Pick you up at eleven tomorrow…

He looked sublime. Wearing faded Levi’s and the ubiquitous white T-shirt, but this time topped with a beautifully cut navy Luca Faloni jacket. I was very tempted to pull him from the car and manhandle him back upstairs to my room. Sod Marlow, my need for his hands on me, and mine on him, was almost overwhelming.

But I was on my best well-mannered behaviour, so I slid demurely into the car seat beside him.

‘You look stunning,’ was all he said and then he hesitated, hands on the wheel but not driving off. ‘I think I’m going to have to take you right back upstairs where you came from.’ He reached a hand to my bare arm, stroking it with intent.

‘I think not, young sir,’ I said primly. ‘Unhand me at once and take me to Marlow.’ I glanced across at him. ‘Iamsorry,’ I said. ‘I behaved like a moron.’

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