Summer Holiday. Penny Smith

same generation, she supposed. And they were technically on a date, she supposed. So she should stop worrying about the age difference … she supposed.

      ‘What do you get up to, then, when you’re not tidying canals?’

      ‘I have endless lunches and go shopping. I have manicures, pedicures, massages and hair-dos. I do charity work with children and animals and, in my spare time, I dabble with world peace and global warming and make small soft moccasins for millipedes,’ she said gaily.

      ‘Phew,’ he said, taking a sip of the wine that had been poured. ‘I’m surprised you managed to find a hole in your busy schedule to have dinner with me.’

      ‘There’s a half-finished pile of slippers at home,’ she pronounced.

      ‘Is it a rush order?’

      ‘It’s imperative they’re finished by the weekend. There’s a hoe-down.’

      ‘Is that generally what you say when people ask you what you do?’

      Miranda thought back through the evenings with the Nigel-clones. ‘If I do, they usually say’ – she put on a Queen Mother accent – ‘“No, but, really, what do you do?’’’

      ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but, really, what do you do?’ he asked her, in an even higher voice.

      ‘Oh, you have disappointed me. I was hoping you were going to come up with something more interesting than that,’ she said, with a properly disappointed expression.

      ‘I’m genuinely interested in what Ms Miranda Blake gets up to,’ he said. ‘Like, what did you do today?’

      ‘Weeell,’ she said slowly, trying to decide whether to lie or not. ‘Actually I did go shopping, but couldn’t find what I was looking for. I organised a plumber because I’ve got a leak – that’s L-E-A-K, not L-E-E-K. Cleaned a bit at home. A rather boring day, all in all. You?’

      ‘Essentially spent the day talking to my dad and dealing with a few bits and pieces here and there.’ He was always a little cagey, having been targeted by gold-diggers for most of his life.

      ‘What a dull pair we are.’ She sighed, picking up some fried seaweed with her chopsticks. She wished it was the meat sizzling at the next table, which smelt heavenly.

      ‘Yes. It’s amazing we find anything to talk about, isn’t it?’ His smile belied the statement.

      ‘In reality, I do what many women in my position do when they suddenly find that, after years of being everyone’s skivvy, they’re beholden to no one. They run around trying to find something to do. Hence the canal. And I’m trying to sort out a job, or it’ll be out to the scullery after dinner for a spot of washing-up.’

      ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that,’ said Alex. ‘I’m sure I could sell some of your caterpillar carpet slippers. This area’s ripe for them.’

      ‘Moccasins for millipedes. They wouldn’t fit caterpillars,’ she corrected.

      As successive dishes came, the conversation flitted from one topic to another until eventually Alex asked for the bill.

      Miranda reached for her purse and took out her credit card.

      ‘Thanks, but I’ll do this,’ said Alex, handing his card to the waiter, without even checking the amount.

      ‘Tsk tsk. You should never do that,’ said Miranda. ‘They might have put somebody else’s food or drink on our bill. Or whatever.’

      The waiter handed the console back to Alex for his PIN. ‘Well, that seems very reasonable,’ he said, looking at the amount.

      Miranda had not managed to extract the information required to know whether it was all bravado on his side, and whether he would now have to live on scrumped vegetables for a month, but she accepted the comment at face value.

      ‘Would you like to have a drink at the bar?’ he asked.

      She looked doubtfully at the packed area full of skinny women, with over-inflated beaks instead of mouths, and predatory men in sharp suits. ‘No, I don’t think so. But there must be somewhere else we can have a quiet drink,’ she said.

      ‘Hmm. A friend of mine has lent me his flat just around the corner. We could go there – if that doesn’t sound too whatever-the-word-is – forward for a first date?’

      She flicked him a saucy look. ‘Oh, go on, then. And it’s certainly a better idea than the shark-infested pool over there.’

      Her high shoes tapped as she walked alongside him. Morse code for ‘Ooo-er’.

      Ten minutes later, he was letting her into an imposing building with a porter on the door, who nodded as they went past.

      ‘My God,’ she said, as they went into the first-floor flat. ‘Who is this friend? Can I have him as a friend too? This is incredible. What beautiful artwork.’

      The flat was on one level with blond-wood floorboards, white walls and big sofas in thick beige cotton. A giant painting of two swimmers hung over one, while a turquoise and green statue loomed over the other.

      ‘He likes to support up-and-coming young artists,’ said Alex, standing behind her as she admired the painting. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

      ‘Vodka tonic, please, if you have it.’

      ‘Coming right up,’ he said, and went through to the kitchen. ‘Ice and lemon or olives?’

      ‘He keeps a very well-appointed kitchen. Olives, please.’

      She could hear cupboards being opened, and continued to admire the art on show.

      ‘There you go,’ Alex said, handing her a heavy tumbler.

      She sat down on one of the enormous sofas and kicked off her shoes, then tucked her feet underneath her. ‘Lovely,’ she exclaimed, taking a bigger gulp than she’d meant to, and coughing. ‘Sorry,’ she spluttered, eyes watering.