Pear Shaped. Stella Newman
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cake,’ he clinks his glass against mine in congratulation.
‘Sometimes I bake cakes all day …’
‘You cook at work?’
‘Great job, huh?’ I say.
‘Is that why you don’t paint your nails?’ He makes it sound like I have half a finger missing that he’s been too polite to ask about, but has been dying to know the story behind – did a squirrel bite it off?
‘No,’ I say, tucking my hands away on to my lap. ‘I’m just not always a full hair and make-up kind of girl. I don’t have the time. Why, do you like painted fingernails?’
‘A little red nail polish never goes amiss …’ he says.
‘You really did have your teenage sexual awakening in the 80s,’ I say, shaking my head.
He laughs and fills my glass, then rests his hands on the table. My hands spontaneously float up from my lap to be beside his.
‘God, you don’t see many women out like that anymore,’ says James, as a six-foot, heavily made-up twenty-something in a full-length fur walks in, flanked by a tubby man of around fifty.
‘Bimbos with sugar daddies? London’s full of them!’
‘No, I mean the coat. That’s Russian sable!’ he says admiringly.
‘– I think it’s a bit tacky,’ I say.
‘The coat?’
‘No, them – he looks like he’s paying her by the hour. – How do you know it’s a Russian sable?’
‘The bluish tinge. Do you know that the mating ritual of the Russian sable can last up to eight hours?’ he says, leaning forward, a huge smile breaking across his face.
‘Sounds like Sting … anyway, how do you know all this?’
‘My grandfather was a furrier – Stephanikov Furs, in the East End. Do you like fur?’
‘I don’t like the thought of animals being hurt just for my benefit, but then I eat meat, so … No, I don’t have a problem with fur, not vintage anyway. Sorry, does that make me mean, horrible and heartless?’
‘No, just asking.’
‘Well, if there are any mink jackets lying round your garage that you need a good home for …’
He laughs and orders a couple of vodka shots.
‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr Stephens?’ I say.
He raises an eyebrow and grins. ‘So, what’s the best pudding in the world?’ he says.
‘Hot pudding, cold pudding, cake, tart, fool, mousse, flan, trifle – define your terms, please.’
‘Cake,’ he says.
‘Number one: a Jean Clement praline millefeuille, you can only get them in Paris. Number two: my mother’s chocolate and raspberry cream cheesecake – only available in California, and when my mother is in a good mood. And three: Ottolenghi’s apple and sultana cake – Upper Street, any day of the week.’
He beams back at me. ‘You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever dated,’ he says.
‘Why?’ I say.
He shrugs.
‘In a good way?’ I say.
He nods. I feel a little flutter in my chest.
‘What do you actually do, anyway? I mean, I know you sell socks, but very specifically what do you do?’
‘Okay, where do you buy your socks?’
‘M&S.’
‘Why?’
‘Good quality.’
‘Why else?’
‘The right amount of stretch.’
‘Why else?’
‘No other reason. I’m not that into socks. Sorry.’
‘Never apologise. What about tights?’
‘M&S, same reasons. Do you sell tights too?’ I hope so. I could do with a man who could keep me in tights, the rate I’m going through them tonight …
‘Just socks for now but I’m starting something new in legwear this summer. Another bottle of red?’ He smiles at me and I can’t help but beam back.
The main course arrives. I realise he still hasn’t told me exactly what he does. This man could be a drug dealer or a pimp for all I know – he has the hustle to be either – but I don’t care because whatever he is, I am bewitched.
We stumble out onto Dean Street to hail a cab. It is freezing and he tucks me inside his coat with him. ‘Come here, you tiny thing.’
On the corner of an alley is a tramp of about sixty. A pink tiara rests on her patchy orange hair. She is wearing a sheepskin coat, a velvet sailor suit that stops mid-calf, and house slippers. When she sees James she points at him and shouts ‘Jackie Boy, you’re a useless cont,’ in a thick Ulster accent.
‘Another one of your ex-fiancées?’ I say, giggling.
He tries not to smile. ‘I told you all beautiful women are mad.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe guys like you make them mad.’
‘Nah, it’s just the way you’re built. Speaking of which, come here.’
I’m already inside his coat with him but he puts both arms around me and kisses me. We stay like this until the tramp lurches towards us and asks James for some change. I expect him to fob her off like the Tory-boy I suspect he really is, but instead he reaches into his wallet and hands her a £20 note. ‘Buy yourself something to eat, please?’ he says.
I’m more amazed than she is.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Nothing. Generous, that’s all.’
He shrugs. ‘Always been a sucker for a well-turned ankle.’ He laughs and grabs my hand and we walk up to Oxford Street to find a taxi.
‘So, how was the morning after?’ says Laura, when I call her back the following afternoon.
‘Great! We had a fry-up in bed, read the papers, then he left to go to White Hart Lane with Rob,’ I say, surveying the mess of pans, wine glasses and crumbs in my kitchen.
‘And the night before?’
I blush remembering it. We had sex. We had quite a lot of sex, all of it good.
I once dated a gorgeous Italian Jewish lawyer who was tall, funny, kind and spoke five languages. The first (and last) time we slept together, it came to light that he had a rare psychosomatic sexual disorder that meant he had a fit at the point of orgasm.
As Eskimos with ‘snow’, Jews have multiple words for ‘disappointment’. None of these came close to covering off that scenario.
Still, since then, whenever I sleep with someone for the first time and they don’t nearly swallow their own tongue and go blue, I’m profoundly grateful.
‘It was good, really natural. I like his body, it’s big – it makes me feel small.’
‘How did you leave it with him?’ says Laura.
‘He rang just after he left to say goodbye, he’s off again tomorrow for five days, to Portugal.’
‘Is he going to call you?’
‘Well, he said “you’re not going to forget about me are you?” and I said why don’t you call me from Portugal, and he sort of evaded the question.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Weird,