‘We’re going out to dinner tonight too,’ I say.
‘He’s still a knob.’
‘Your dad’s under a lot of pressure.’
‘He’s a fucking actor in a third-rate soap. How much pressure can that be? I talked to a kid today who’s been thinking of topping himself. My dad has no idea about anything in the real world.’
I don’t want to get into an argument with Lucas about it and, if I’m honest with you, a small part of me agrees with him. There are people with bigger problems to deal with.
‘I saw you chatting to him. Did it go OK?’
‘Yeah. I got him to talk to the supervisor and I’m going keep in touch with him.’
‘Thank you, Lucas. You did well.’
He tuts at my praise.
‘I don’t like to go out and leave you here by yourself.’
‘I’m not five.’
‘You’ll be all right, though?’
‘Of course,’ he says.
‘I won’t be late.’
‘You can party until dawn for all I care,’ is his parting shot before he disappears into his room.
I don’t want to leave Lucas like this, but I do want to see Shelby too. I seem to spend a lot of my life similarly torn. I put on my one and only nice dress again. I do my hair. I even think about make-up, but tend to end up looking like Coco the Clown without Bev’s assistance, so I think better of it. Natural. That’s me.
I’m just about ready when the dogs start barking, heralding Shelby’s car turning up at the gate.
I go to Lucas’s bedroom and hover in the doorway. ‘I’m off now.’
But he’s still cross about everything and scowls at me.
‘I won’t be late,’ I promise again.
‘You said. Enjoy yourself,’ he snaps. ‘Fill your boots with our star while he deigns to be around.’
I’m not going to win with him in this mood, so I take my leave and totter across the farmyard on high heels that I’m not accustomed too. It isn’t Shelby in the car, it’s his driver, Ken. And I know that shouldn’t disappoint me as he’s a really nice guy, but it does. He’s not Shelby and it feels like it’s not a great start to Date Night.
‘Hi, Ken.’ I slide into the car next to him.
‘Evening, Molly. I’ve already dropped Shelby off at the restaurant.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s not far, so you’ll be there in a few minutes.’
‘Thanks, Ken.’ We make small talk as we drive through the lanes, until he drops me off outside Crispin House restaurant. It’s a posh place in the quaint high street of one of the more upmarket villages near to the farm. I haven’t been here before, obvs, but I know of its reputation. Normally, you have to book months ahead, but I bet your bottom dollar that Shelby – or his assistant – got a table today with one well-aimed phone call. Such is the power of celebrity.
I thank Ken, climb out of the car and make my way into the restaurant. The only good thing about not arriving with Shelby is that no one turns to look at me. It’s very fancy in here and already quite busy. There’s a kind of hush in the place and conversation is muted. Classical music plays softly in the background and the furnishings are plush yet contemporary. I feel hideously out of place.
The place is all decked for Christmas with a huge tree covered in gold and red baubles. Swags of holly are draped from every beam. A basket of oranges sprayed with gold lustre adorns the reception desk. The air is scented with pine, citrus and cinnamon. I realise that I need to seriously up my Christmas game.
When I’ve whispered my name to the mâitre d’, I’m shown to a table in the far corner of the restaurant where Shelby is already seated and is studying the menu.
He stands up when he sees me and, for a moment, his eyes sparkle and I get a glimpse of how he used to look at me.
‘Hi.’
He kisses me and the waiter pulls out my chair. ‘This looks very nice,’ I say as I sit.
‘One of my favourite places,’ Shelby replies. ‘The food is sublime.’
‘I’ve heard all about it.’ The chef is much-celebrated and is always on the telly, apparently. Guess who told me that? Thanks, Bev.
‘You look lovely,’ my date says.
The lighting in here is soft, flattering. There’s a candle burning on the table. But Shelby needs no such devices, he always looks beautiful. He’s in a dark suit tonight with a sharp white shirt and looks like he’s off to some swanky awards ceremony. My heart tightens as I get an image of us entwined together, his body against mine.
‘A glass of champagne, madam.’ The waiter, who I thought had gone, is at my elbow.
‘Oh, yes. Thanks.’ He pours, taking time over the ritual, and then this time he does disappear.
Shelby picks up his glass and clinks it against mine. ‘To us,’ he says.
‘I did wonder,’ I admit.
‘I’ve already said I’m sorry.’ He looks duly penitent. ‘I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’
‘I know. I’ve forgiven you.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘And Lucas?’
‘Not so much.’
Shelby sighs. ‘I’ll put a couple of hundred quid in his bank account, that will smooth things over.’
‘That’s not really the answer,’ I tell him. ‘You know that.’
‘I never know what to do with Lucas,’ he admits. ‘He complains when I’m not there, hates me when I am. I can’t win.’
‘It’s always a balancing act and I realise that you have a lot of commitments, but all he wants is for you to spend time with him. If you were with us more regularly, then the abrasive edges would wear down.’
Shelby’s handsome face darkens.
I hold up my hands. ‘I’m not judging. I’m just telling you as it is.’
‘We have things we need to discuss,’ Shelby says, cryptically. ‘But let’s order first. Would you like to see the festive menu?’
I shake my head. ‘Too soon.’
So he hands me the à la carte menu and my eyes travel over it. I have no idea what to choose.
Shelby must see the terror in my eyes. ‘I recommend the baked figs followed by, perhaps, the confit cauliflower steak?’
‘OK. Great.’ That’s me sorted. With relief, I close the menu.
The waiter miraculously appears as I do and Shelby orders for us both. The baked figs with pomegranate and blackberries, then cauliflower with turnip tops and sweet potato for me. Shelby chooses salt and pepper squid followed by roast loin of cod with charred kale and parsnip puree. All sounds nice.
‘Festive menu.’ I give a shudder. ‘I can’t even believe they’ve already got their Christmas decorations up,’ I whisper. ‘It’s still November. I’m barely getting started.’
‘There’s no holding it back,’ Shelby says. ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.’
‘Tell me about it. We need to get a move on. There’s so much to organise for the open day and nativity.’ I don’t want to spoil the convivial mood of the evening, but I decide to bite the bullet and address a looming issue. ‘The new mayor came to visit us. Seemed like a nice chap. He’s got some money to spend on a community charity and Bev’s keen to have a slice of it.’