Pear Shaped

In poker that would be a tell. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ he laughs, but his fingers pause briefly near his mouth.

‘Ever been engaged?’

He picks up his beer and takes a long sip, then nods slowly.

‘Who to?’

‘A girl called Lacey Macbride.’

Ironic. ‘How long ago was that?’

‘I was nineteen. She grew up round the corner from me in Wanstead. My first true love. Broke my heart, the Jezebel,’ he laughs.

‘What happened?’

He shrugs and picks up his glass again. I imagine classic childhood sweetheart territory.

‘Any other ex-fiancées knocking about?’

A tiny flicker of discomfort passes through his expression. He nods very slowly. ‘Celine.’

‘Engaged to her as well? How many ex-fiancées do you have?’

‘Just the pair, don’t need a hat-trick,’ he says.

Better than two ex-wives, I suppose.

‘Long relationship?’

‘Three years. Can you pass the spinach?’ He smiles softly, trying to change the subject.

‘How long ago did you split up?’

‘Four years.’

Okay. Definitely beyond statute of limitations for a rebound.

‘Are you on good terms?’ Are you still in love with her?

He pours us both more beer, filling his glass almost to the rim. ‘She went back to Paris, married an Argie. She’s a Wolford model….’ He turns to the waiter, ‘Could we get two more beers, please?’

‘Wolford tights?’

‘And stockings …’

The news that his long-term ex is a French hosiery model has put me right off my chicken balti. I put my fork down.

‘Why do girls always have a problem with that?’ he says, his face crinkling in confusion. I don’t like that word ‘always’.

‘I don’t. It’s just … a man who dates models is … a certain type.’ The type who likes women with abnormally tall, slim bodies. Not my type. Mind you, he’s the type taking me out to dinner.

‘Celine was lovely but totally insecure. Anyway, I’m over beautiful women, they’re all mad.’ He grins, but I do not like those sentences at all. ‘I’m looking for a soul mate. A woman I can talk to.’ That’s a bit better. ‘A wife,’ he says, fixing me with an intense look. His pale blue shirt is making his eyes a deeper blue than usual tonight. I catch myself staring.

‘Tell me something else,’ I say, picking up my fork.

‘What do you want to know?’

Why you’d mention that your ex is a leg model? Was that information strictly necessary?

And how a sock-seller procures that type of trophy girlfriend anyway?

Maybe her legs were perfect but she had a face like a monkfish. I make a note to google her.

‘His ex is a leg model,’ I say to Laura. I’m treating her to an Ottolenghi brunch near her flat in Islington to celebrate my forthcoming end-of-fiscal £100 bonus. When I say treating her, I mean I have already eaten my egg and bacon pie, and have started on her blueberry ricotta pancakes before she’s even halfway through.

‘So?’

‘Well … her figure must be perfect.’

She tuts. ‘You are one of the best women I have ever met, and I don’t give a flying fuck who’s got a perfect body and who hasn’t. It’s not like he’s perfect looking …’

I know Laura didn’t warm to him the night we met him – she thought he was overly confident and slightly shifty. She has some random psychological theory that this actually masks some deep fear within himself.

I do trust her instincts, she is invariably on the nail; however, in this instance, she is being overly protective of me. She spoke to James for all of ten minutes. I know if she spent any time with him, she’d like him.

‘I suppose models are usually quite vain, aren’t they …’ I say, pondering whether to order the pecan praline Danish, then imagining Celine’s thighs, and ordering a sparkling water instead.

‘Are you kidding? Do you not remember Washington Avenue, New Year’s Eve, 1993? Ladies and gentleman, we bring you Ericc and Thor …’

I throw my head back with laughter. How could I ever forget? Laura and I had spent the night with two male models we’d met in a bar Mickey Rourke used to own. We were so overexcitable, having been introduced to Mickey Rourke by some ageing gallery owner who was lusting after our 18-year-old flesh, that we’d been swept like a wave into The Miami Beach Fashion Awards.

‘Ericc with two ‘c’s. God, he was so ridiculously chiselled. That was the most boring eight minutes of my life,’ I say, remembering his pillow talk, detailing his awesome nutritional supplements: chromium picolinate – super-awesome, apparently.

‘I rest my case,’ says Laura.

At the end of our last date James said ‘I’ll be in touch.’

That was six days ago: no call, no text. I’m scared it’s because I kissed him for a full twenty minutes outside the curry house, and maybe he thought that was tacky or overly eager. Or perhaps it’s because I made that silly comment about him dating models, which made me look insecure and jealous.

Hmm, time to make myself feel more insecure and jealous. Excellent idea.

I google image search for ‘Celine’ ‘Wolford’ ‘model’ ‘French’ ‘leg’ and immediately come up with over 700 photos of her. In none of them does she remotely resemble a monkfish.

I know I should stop myself right now. She’s married. What difference if she’s beautiful or not anyway? He is dating me.

Okay, I click on the first image. Relief. Dark blond hair, brown eyes, generic Disney features, looks like she eats a lot of yoghurt and apples. Swiss looking. Maybe she’s from the Alps. Second photo, a close up. Even though she’s smiling, she looks fearful, like she’s just found out her currency’s in free fall. Third photo, taken last year at the Cannes Film Festival. That must be the Argie husband. He’s corpulent. Mid-fifties. Oligarch-y. She is Botoxed to the hilt, skeletal, clutching his arm with a jewelled hand.