“From what I’ve seen, that’s what happens anyway. Why not ditch the preamble?”
“You’re going to give my daughter very weird ideas about relationships.”
Plopping on the edge of Rosaline’s bed, Amelie swung her feet gently back and forth. “If you were a puffer fish he’d draw a pattern in the sand, then if you liked it you’d lay your eggs in it.”
“But I’m not a puffer fish,” pointed out Rosaline, “I’m an anglerfish.”
“Mummy, you’re not an anglerfish.”
“Yes I am.” Makeup as done as she could be bothered to make it, Rosaline screwed her mascara closed and swam towards her daughter. “I’m going to lure you into my mouth with my little light and eat you.”
“If you eat me, social services will come and take me away.”
There weren’t many things that Rosaline regretted telling Amelie about but social services was one of them. Despite the spectre of state intervention, Amelie eventually consented to be chased around the house by a variety of pretend sea creatures, pausing occasionally to correct inaccuracies in her mother’s performance.
When they’d grown tired of the game, Rosaline kissed her daughter goodbye, and, leaving her in Lauren’s louche but ultimately capable hands, made a dash for the train station.
Some Kind of Cocktail Bar turned out to be pretty much what Rosaline had expected—it was all wooden floors and exposed brickwork and leather sofas that were probably supposed to be vintage but had a faint air of the DFS summer sale. The bar itself was a glassy cage in the middle, which had the unfortunate effect of making the bar staff look like penguins in a zoo as they shuffled back and forth shaking their shakers and garnishing glasses with sprigs of lavender.
Alain and his friend already had both a table and a couple of drinks behind them. Rosaline was sure this had just been a question of logistics, but it still made her feel like she was interrupting.
“Um, hi.” She gave an awkward wave. “Sorry I’m late.”
Rising, Alain kissed her lightly on the cheek—he smelled faintly of cologne, something clean, sharp, and expensive, which was new. As was the business casual look, with the deep blue jacket over the slightly open shirt. “If anything we’re early. Rosaline, this is my friend Liv. Liv, this is Rosaline, who I was telling you about.”
Another kiss on the cheek, this time from Liv. Who was frankly devastating—tall and effortless, and poured like a twenty-pound cocktail into the sort of sleek black dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Audrey Hepburn.
They exchanged lovely-to-meet-yous and then everyone settled back down around the table, Liv and Alain still sharing a sofa, Rosaline opposite them as if she was being interviewed for a girlfriend vacancy. In an effort to fit in, which was always the best reason to start drinking, Rosaline picked up the menu. All the drinks had names like The One with Mint and Berries and The One with a Lot of Crushed Ice.
“Oh God,” she said. “It’s one of those places, isn’t it? I mean, seriously, who calls their cocktail bar Some Kind of Cocktail Bar?”
“Alain. Liv.” A man with a hipster beard and his sleeves rolled up his forearms swooped down on them. “Great to see you. And you’ve brought a friend.”
Alain looked up with a smile. “Hey Robb, this is Rosaline. She’s on the TV thing we’re not allowed to talk about. Rosaline, this is Robb. We went to university together and he owns the place.”
Shit. “Wow.” She tried to look like she hadn’t been insulting his business two seconds ago. “I . . . you . . . Well, this is some kind of cocktail bar.”
“Hence”—he lifted his brows behind his black-rimmed glasses—“the name.”
“Yes, I see what you did there.”
“We apologise for Robb,” said Alain. “He used to be in marketing.”
Robb leaned slightly invasively over Rosaline’s shoulder. “If you’ll permit, may I recommend The One with a Bit of Kick?”
“Do you have anything . . . nonkicky?”
“Well, there’s The One Which Doesn’t Actually Have Any Alcohol in It.”
Rosaline wasn’t sure she could face the evening ahead of her without any alcohol at all. “Some kind of middle ground, maybe?”
“How about The One That’s Quite Summery. It’s passion-fruit-infused vodka with verjus and sugar syrup, topped off with soda.”
“Sounds great.”
“Seriously. Don’t mind him,” Alain murmured the second his friend was out of earshot. “He’s an utter wanker.”
Liv laughed. “He really is.”
This was hard to navigate. On the one hand, it made her feel slightly better for having criticised the bar. But also paranoid that they’d be saying similar things about her the moment her back was turned. As it was, she gave a weak grin. “Good to know.”
The silence that followed managed to pack a lot of awkwardness into a small space of time.
“So,” she tried. “Liv . . . what’s your . . . I mean . . . I don’t . . . what do you do?”
“I run a small interior design firm.” She draped one immaculate leg over the other. “It’s how I met Alain, actually. There was a Georgian country house near Oxford that the owners wanted renovated.”
“I was the outside,” added Alain, “she was the inside.”
Liv nodded, her edged smile reminding Rosaline faintly of Alain. “Which meant I was charged with installing a full range of modern conveniences in a listed building without sacrificing either comfort or the original aesthetic. And Alain put a big pond in the garden.”
“As I recall”—Alain’s tone perfectly bisected the boundary between teasing and deadly serious—“I reimagined several hectares of eighteenth-century landscaping while you spent the whole time saying ‘I think we’ll just leave that as it is.’”
“Actually,” Liv cut over him, “leaving things as they were was the most difficult part of the job. Because the house was intended for a family, I needed to make sure that whatever original features were maintained formed part of an environment that would speak to a child throughout their development. Inspiration is such an important part of a child’s life, don’t you agree?”
Rosaline blinked, slightly dazed and uncertain whether this had been the friendly kind of bickering or the kind that led to everyone going home in separate taxis. “Well. Yes. I suppose so. Do you have children, then?”
“Oh heavens no.” Liv’s horrified laugh echoed off the exposed brickwork of Some Kind of Cocktail Bar. “I was speaking purely professionally.”
As far as Rosaline was concerned, speaking about children without having children was speaking very much as an amateur. “To be honest, I think kids can find their own inspiration pretty well. I mean, my daughter is into deep-sea fish at the moment, and before that it was Norse mythology.”
There was a pause. “You have a daughter?” asked Liv in that What went wrong in your life? voice.
“Did Alain not mention that?”
“He did not.” She turned an arch look on Alain. “What else have you been hiding?”