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the most stunning woman I’d ever met – and I’d met quite a few, I can tell you! In fact, you remind me of her in some ways – the same fair hair and dark eyes, which I’ve always thought the perfect combination. And the same English-rose complexion. She was called Rose, actually – Rose Anastasia Louise.’
    Lucky to have three names and one of them so long. His first name was Lionel. While they were having tea, in the teapot, he’d kept saying ‘Call me Lionel’. But he was so old and rich she didn’t feel she should, and she hadn’t known his surname until now. He looked nothing like a lion, because he had just a few wisps of white, straggly hair, instead of a thick, brown mane. But he had seen real lions, he said – many times, and not in zoos. He had even shot a lion, although he didn’t seem to mind about it dying. There’d been a lot of lions today: stone lions, real lions, dead lions….
    The waiter had come back now, with their dinners on a silver tray. The man had ordered duck, but she fed them every Sunday, so she wouldn’t want to eat one. She had found it very difficult to choose, so, in the end, he had ordered her a steak. It didn’t look like steak, because it was covered with thick yellow sauce, like custard. She scraped off all the custard and cut into the meat, but a trickle of red blood oozed out. They must have forgotten to cook it, so she ate the chips instead. They weren’t called chips, he said, which she couldn’t understand, because they tasted just the same as the chips in McDonald’s. She wished they’d gone to McDonald’s, instead of to his club.
    While he ate, he kept pulling at his nose, which was red and sort of squashed and had little, bristly hairs sticking out of the end of it. And he drank the rest of the wine, although he didn’t pour it himself. The waiter did that for him and, every time he came over, he and the man had another little chat. She was glad about the little chats, because then she didn’t have to talk. Even at Sunnyhill, she preferred to sit in silence, so that the others didn’t laugh when she muddled up her words. Except there was never really silence. Everybody shouted and there were always fights and quarrels.
    ‘But, to return to the subject of retirement, a chap like me is bound to feel a little spare when he’s thrown on the scrapheap, so to speak. I’ve dealt with really weighty matters, in my time, and had people’s actual lives in my hands, so it’s something of a comedown to be reduced to deadheading roses and pottering round the garden.’
    Roses were her favourite flowers. She even liked the thorns. It wasn’t just plants that had thorns; people had them, too. She could feel her own thorns, sometimes, growing sharp inside her.
    ‘Well, my dear, I can see you’re not much of an eater! I’ve polished off my duck and all these delicious vegetables, yet you’ve barely eaten a mouthful of your steak. Never mind – just leave it, if you want, and we’ll have a look at the puddings, shall we? Perhaps you have a sweet tooth?’
    At Sunnyhill, you weren’t allowed pudding unless you’d finished your meat, so he must be very kind. And the puddings were dished out, straight onto your plate, but here you had to choose one from a big silver trolley-thing. The waiter wheeled it over, like a pram.
    ‘Anything there you fancy, Jo?’ the man asked.
    Her favourites were jam tart and Arctic Roll, but he said they didn’t have those here and she didn’t know the names of the puddings on the pram-thing, so she just stared down at her hands. He must have taken pity on her, because he asked the waiter what he’d recommend.
    ‘Well, the sherry trifle always seems to be a favourite with the ladies.’
    ‘Hear that, my dear? How about some trifle?’
    Trifle was wet, with too much soggy sponge. The waiter was pointing to the trifle on the trolley, but she couldn’t really see it, because of all the cream on top. She didn’t want more cream.