Free The Lie of You: I Will Have What Is Mine by Jane Lythell Page A

me to see him every two weeks.
    Tonight I parked my car and walked along a street of expensive houses and shops in an area of London I do not know until I found the restaurant Robert had described. He said it was a recent discovery of his and that the food was outstanding. It had a discreetly opulent entrance hall. The walls were panelled throughout with dark wood. A man in a footman’s outfit took my jacket and handed it to the cloakroom assistant. Then he led me into a room with leather armchairs grouped around low polished tables. Robert was sitting at one of these with our menus. He was wearing a dark grey suit and white shirt. He dresses formally for a man in his thirties. I think he tries to look and behave older than he is, perhaps for the benefit of his patients.
    He stood up, kissed me softly on my lips as his greeting, then stood back and looked at me appreciatively.
    ‘Love the dress.’
    ‘Thank you. I had time to go home first. Have you come straight from work?’
    ‘Yes, another busy day.’
    ‘I never know how much I should ask you about your work,’ I said.
    ‘Do I seem secretive?’
    ‘No, just professionally discreet.’
    Robert had ordered some red wine and the waiter placed a very large glass in front of me, showed the bottle to Robert and then poured the wine reverentially into the bowl of my glass. I swirled the plum-red liquid and sipped it.
    ‘This is so good. Are we celebrating something?’
    ‘Just wanted the best for you,’ he said, toasting me. ‘Now, there are some wonderful things on this menu.’
    I looked and the menu listed rich and expensive dishes – lobster mousse, Norfolk wild duck with peach and bigarade sauce, truffle sausages and roast venison. Nothing simple like grilled fish and steamed vegetables, which I prefer. After we had made our selection we were shown to our table.
    The dining room had the same feel and atmosphere as the other room, that of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. There was a high, ornately plastered ceiling and white-linen covered tables with plenty of space between them. The diners spoke in tranquil tones.
    ‘What are you working on at the moment?’
    ‘Our editor has this idea to do a series on World Heritage Sites in Europe.’
    ‘Sounds interesting.’
    ‘I am not so sure. A reference work on historical buildings... I prefer to write about new buildings.’
    ‘I think your editor knows her audience. The British love to look back.’
    ‘All the more reason we should be educating them about modern architecture.’
    ‘I think I should subscribe to your magazine. I need some educating.’
    ‘Yes, I think you like to look back too,’ I said as I glanced meaningfully around the room.
    ‘Don’t you like it?’
    ‘It is delightful, for a change. I couldn’t live in such a traditional space, though.’
    ‘I find it very restful,’ he said.
    ‘You are a bit of a traditionalist,’ I said in a teasing tone.
    His dark brown eyes gazed at me seriously. ‘I appreciate very fine things. Are you free on Saturday? There’s a Bette Davis classic showing in Hampstead.’
    ‘Which one?’
    ‘ Dark Victory. ’
    ‘I don’t know it.’
    ‘Bette Davis is a rich, spoiled heiress who falls for her doctor. He discovers she has an incurable brain tumour.’
    ‘Sounds cheerful! I thought doctors were not supposed to date their patients?’ I said.
    ‘Suspension of disbelief, if you please... They get engaged and she goes to meet him at the surgery. He’s already gone ahead to the restaurant. She takes a peek at her file and sees the words “Prognosis negative” written there.’
    I wondered whether to tip my glass of wine on to the tablecloth. It would be nice to see the plum red seep into the thick white linen and the other diners would look over surreptitiously and then look away. Robert would be all solicitude.
    ‘So she meets him at the restaurant. And when the waiter asks her what she’d like to drink she spits out at him: “ I’ll have a