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George puts on the hazard lights right outside a place called Peggy Porschen and I log that in the annals of my mind.Once got dropped off on the King’s Road by a driver cocky enough to stop traffic.
Aidan’s suddenly there, opening the door by the kerb. I get out, then he thanks George and off his chauffeur goes, probably to have a smoke on a backstreet somewhere.
“Shall we go in?” he asks, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
“Yes.”
Peggy Porschen’s is like The Ivy… but cakes, not food. I know he didn’t choose this for himself and that tells me he is a detail man, for sure.
The exterior of Peggy’s is pastel pink with voluminous floral garlands telling people to only eat here if they’re prepared to lose their sanity. It’s Cake Heaven, I realise, as we walk indoors and pass refrigerators filled with the most delightful artisan cakes and patisserie I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Mr Linklater, back so soon?” asks the lady manning the tables.
“Yes, but not for a staff birthday cake this time, just coffee and a bite.”
“Ah, but of course. This way.” She leads us to a window seat and I can see why. He’s dressed today in a thicker coat given it’s colder and drizzling out there. Beneath the coat are fitted jeans, brogues and a sexier-than-sexy black polo sweater. Yum. Customers will be coming in here in their droves once they notice him sitting inside.
I’m regretting my stonewash denim, black double-breasted military coat, oversized men’s shirt (plain white) and oddly, Oxford shoes that sort of match his. Except his are tan, mine black patent.
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he tells me, once we’re seated and alone.
“Stop it.”
He leans back and blinks a few times, then reiterates, “You’ve not managed to put any makeup on either.”
“I know, I wasn’t feeling in the mood.”
“Better, if you ask me. Fresher and younger. Really beautiful.”
I look away because he’s making me feel self-conscious. “You look handsome today, Aidan. Very handsome.”
“I highly regard your compliment, thank you.”
I giggle and the waitress comes to collect our orders.
“What do you drink, Mira?” he says.
“Oh, coffee please. What have you got in the way of patisserie? I didn’t get breakfast yet.”
The waitress looks at Aidan for approval and he nods. “Two cappuccinos and the patisserie selection, thank you.”
“Right away.”
Once she’s gone, I wink across the table. “You’ve ordered that before.”
“Might have,” he chuckles. “It’s for two… I could eat as well, as it happens.”
“So, you live here?”
“Just around the corner,” he says, “on Carlyle Square, so… yeah, I bring Mum in here when she visits.”
This is not a cheap postcode. It is intimidating. A man like him could swallow a woman whole, make her believe she needs nothing else in the world. It could become all-too stereotypical if it were to end badly: the ex-Mrs Linklater would have to be a kept woman forever, because she wouldn’t be fit to look after herself anymore. She’d have to live off some special kind of stipend designed for the useless ex-wives of billionaires for the rest of my/her life.
Wouldn’t be so bad…
“What does your mother think of how well you’ve done?” I query, grateful when our drinks arrive. Mine’s dusted with chocolate sprinkles in the shape of a cat. How sweet. He’s been given a moustache. Way macho.
“She’s got no interest in any of it,” he laughs. “Typical brain in a jar. She’s a total academic through and through, couldn’t care less.”
