Page 39 of The Women

‘Let me,’ she says, and he smiles his permission. ‘Here’s to—’

He throws up his hand. ‘Just … don’t mention the age, all right?’

She considers him for a moment. It isn’t like him to be vulnerable. But she remembers her first sight of him, how she was moved by his carefully covered bald spot. The bald spot that is undoubtedly bigger this year.

She holds up her glass of fizz once again. ‘Here’s to your no-big-deal birthday, which means little to me apart from my gratitude that you were born in the first place. How’s that?’

He chuckles. ‘You’re a wonder. Cheers.’

Over dinner, perhaps keen to move the conversation away from a birthday he is clearly not comfortable celebrating, he asks her with real interest more about her teaching, about the students. Emily is asleep in her stroller, zonked out by a good feed before they left the house. Samantha finds herself more animated than she has been in weeks.

‘I sometimes feel like I’m winging it,’ she confesses. ‘And it’s taking me hours to plan one lesson because I’m having to learn it myself first. It took me two days to write the class on subtext in dialogue. But I guess it’ll get easier, won’t it?’

‘It will, it will. And then you’ll be bored.’

‘I don’t think so. I love the people, that’s the main part of it. I could be teaching anything, really. I’d … I’d quite like to teach English as a foreign language though. Or teach people to read. You remember I said that?’

He frowns, presses the paper napkin to his mouth. ‘I wouldn’t. You’re too intelligent.’

She pauses to see if he’s joking, but he cuts another triangle of pizza and lowers the wilting point to his mouth.

‘But surely,’ she says, ‘it’s good to put intelligence to real use? Meaningful use? I think I could really help people, make a difference. Some of them look totally lost, and without English, what possible job opportunities can they have here?’

‘Absolutely, absolutely. But someone of your … calibre … I just don’t see you doing that.’ He drains his champagne and, finding the bottle empty, signals to the waiter for another wine glass. When he returns his eyes to hers, he must read something there, because he adds, ‘But if you want to, then go for it, obviously.’

For a moment, their two worlds hang in orbit. This is a whole conversation they cannot have, she realises, one that revolves around perceptions of success, meaning, life itself. In those first weeks and months of late nights and constant sex, she thought they’d talked about everything. She thought they were so aligned.

But perhaps she’s overthinking. Peter tells her she does that sometimes. She remembers the photographs in his bedside drawer. Now would be a good time to change the subject.

‘So, did you go to school around here then?’ she asks.

‘Hampton,’ he replies. ‘Hampton Boys. Nearby, yes, why?’

‘Was that a private school?’

‘Still is.’

The waiter arrives with a clean tumbler into which Peter pours a generous measure of red. Samantha has still not finished her first glass of champagne.

‘Remember I told you my father left me the house and some money?’ Peter says. ‘Well, it was a lot of money. He was the CEO of a pharmaceuticals company. So yes, I went to private school. In fact, I don’t really need to work.’

‘You don’t need to work?’ She can barely stretch her brain around the concept. She knows people like that exist, but …

‘Close your mouth,’ he says.

‘Sorry. I just can’t believe I didn’t know that.’ She can, actually. Their relationship has been such a whirlwind, and now here they are with a baby, getting to know one another retrospectively.

Perhaps he feels it too, because he leans forward, grasps both her hands in his and kisses her knuckles. ‘Which is why I keep asking you to marry me.’

She shakes her head. ‘A wedding ring didn’t protect my mother from anything, did it?’

‘But that’s because your father was bankrupt as well as a philanderer. I sowed my wild oats at the appropriate moment. And if I’ve told you about my situation now, tonight, well, consider it my declaration of trust in you. You’re safe, Sam. As I keep telling you, I’m not your father.’

‘I know.’ She kisses the inside of his wrist. ‘I know that. Maybe one day. Keep asking.’

His eyes shine, the pupils black and enlarged in the low light of the restaurant. He pushes his plate away. ‘I think we should head home.’

‘All right.’ She glances at the table. She has left her champagne, due to the beginnings of a headache, but has eaten all of her pizza as well as a home-made panna cotta. Peter has left half his pizza, but both bottles are empty.

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