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He glances sideways at me. ‘The Rubik’s Cube.’
The lift doors open and we step in. The smell of piss hits me hard. ‘The Rubik’s Cube? It’s not one of yours, is it?’
He looks at me sardonically. ‘Take you to one of mine and have you accuse me of enjoying untaxed perks?’
‘Right,’ I say, as the lift slowly and jerkily bears us down.
His car, a model I recognize immediately as it’s my father’s dream car, is a brand new Maserati GranCabrio Sport bearing a price ticket of over a hundred thousand pounds. It’s parked on double yellow lines right outside the building entrance.
‘This road’s notorious for parking tickets,’ I warn, my eyes skimming the muscular lines of the sleek black machine.
‘I know,’ he says carelessly.
He unlocks the car remotely and opens the passenger door for me. I slip in and he shuts it. Alone in the luxurious space, I inhale deeply the smell of leather and immerse myself in the high-tech beauty and fabulous comfort of the interior. I stroke the door handle. Wow! I’ve never been in such a car. The dashboard, door and seats are all in soft burgundy leather with stitching in a matching color.
He slides into the driver’s seat, retracts the roof, pushes a little button next to the column marked ‘Sport’, and what must be the loudest car in the world snarls, roars and with a sonic boom comes to life.
He turns to me. ‘Ready?’
‘Should I be scared?’
‘Nah, you’ll love it.’
I’d planned to play it cool, but a wild, unintended whoop escapes my thick wall of disapproval of him and ill-gotten wealth of all kinds when he hits the gas pedal, and the car takes off so suddenly it throws me back against the seat.
When I first saw the roof disappearing from above my head, I did worry about what kind of mess my hair would be in by the time we arrived at the restaurant, but the car has been built in such a way that my hair remains impressively unruffled. And the V8 engine is so brilliantly noisy with pops and bangs on the overrun that there’s no need for conversation at all as we speed down empty back roads.
The noise also means that we’re constantly the center of attention everywhere we go. It’s a lovely summer evening and people are sitting outside restaurants, pubs and bars eating and drinking—so that makes for a lot of attention. And when we make a traffic light stop, excited tourists lift their phones and film the car.
He drives up to the Rubik’s Cube’s pillared entrance, gets out, and opens my door. Putting his hand lightly on the small of my back, he throws the keys to the parking jockey who catches them neatly. Even though his hand is barely touching me, I’m conscious of it as he guides me up the glossy granite steps. The imposing entrance has an air of intimidation about it, as if one runs the risk of being challenged by the staff with the question, ‘Are you rich enough to be here?’ The answer to which in my case is clearly no.
But apparently Dom is.
The doormen are impressively enthusiastic in their welcome, and it’s instantly obvious that not only is he a regular here, but he must also be a tipper of massive proportions.
The restaurant is on the first floor, and we climb a sweeping, black-carpeted staircase. Upstairs, the interior of the restaurant is breathtakingly sumptuous with über-classy black and white velvet walls and huge arrangements of lush, exotic flowers at the front desk and in the middle of the restaurant. All the chair frames are made of some matt silver metal and the thickly padded seats and backs are covered in multicolored velour: orange, gold, red, green, blue, brown.
We’re shown to what seems to be the best table in the place: an elevated platform next to a super-modern cascade fountain piece. Waiters swarm around our table pulling out chairs, bowing, scraping, smiling, nodding. Next to me, a waiter lifts the napkin from the charger plate, gently unfolds it, and courteously lays it across my lap. Bemused, I thank him. He nods solemnly in acknowledgment.
Another jacketed man flourishes menus at us. A complimentary, pink-tinged champagne cocktail appears magically on my right, but I notice that a glass of amber liquid is being offered to Dom. A young man of Middle Eastern descent smiles sweetly when I thank him.
A man oozing obsequiousness in a black suit materializes at Dom’s elbow. The display of excessive servitude is quite frankly startling, but Dom seems accustomed to it.
‘Would you like me to choose the wines to complement the dishes, Mr. Eden?’ the man asks ingratiatingly. Ah, a sommelier. Well, well, I’ve never been to a restaurant that was swanky enough to hire a sommelier!
‘Pair them with the lady’s meal,’ Dom says. ‘And just my usual.’
‘Very good, sir,’ he says with a nod and a quick glance in my direction, and exits the scene.
I turn my attention to the menu. The combinations of ingredients are unusual and fascinating. I look up once and Dom is watching me. For a moment we stare at each other then I feel myself start to color and have to drop my eyes back to the menu. When Dom lays his menu down I do the same. Almost instantly the headwaiter is at my side. We place our orders and he diplomatically compliments us on our excellent choices.
A small plate of beautifully colorful miniature amuse-bouches is placed in the middle of the table. The waiter who brought it explains what the little titbits are, but his French accent is so thick I catch only the words ‘black radish’, ‘fromage frais’ and ‘steamed mussels with pickle and Guinness’. He disappears as silently as he had arrived.
I pick up one of the ceramic tasting spoons holding a little cube made from three brightly colored, unrecognizable ingredients, sitting in a pool of soy sauce, and slip it into my mouth. There’s a delicate burst from the green base of avocado, the rich meaty taste of tuna tartare and a complete texture and taste change with the rice crispies and deep fried shallots on the top.
‘Good?’ Dom asks.
‘Very,’ I reply sincerely.
