Pierre. Primula Bond

just so before you go out on stage.’

      As I twist the necklace round and fiddle with the clasp I notice that the programme on the TV, which I’ve turned down so we can talk, is panning round a state-of-the-art industrial kitchen, not dissimilar to the one my sister operates from to test recipes for her restaurant in midtown Manhattan.

      ‘Well, you look great. I bet you knocked their monocles off!’

      ‘Thanks, Frannie! Hey, there’s a new cooking show just come on. Wonder if the chef’s anyone you know?’

      ‘Don’t go there, hon. You should know by now that, despite what they do for a living, most chefs are poison.’

      I snort. ‘Says the chef who married a chef. And introduced me to one.’

      ‘So it takes one to know one! And going back to Daniele, it’s been a year now. This born-again virgin vibe doesn’t suit you. It’s obvious how you’re going to get him out of your system for good. Get laid.’ My sister leans towards the screen, her eyes gleaming like a she-devil. ‘Go after Pierre Levi.’

      When we were kids people thought we were two peas in a pod. Same dark-brown eyes, same black hair and olive skin inherited from our late Italian mother, usually covered in mud or chocolate, whichever we happened to be eating at the time. At thirty Francesca is five years older than me, but I’m taller than her. We were always more like twins, and like twins we were inseparable. This boathouse doesn’t feel the same without her.

      ‘I don’t want to make a fool of myself over some guy.’ I sigh when there’s a break in her list of suggestions. ‘Again.’

      Slumped alone on this faded tartan banquette with its mismatched scatter cushions while London still sparkles and hustles around me, I feel like Cinderella, deposited by the carriage after my glamorous night out.

      Not that Francesca is an ugly sister, though we’ve often called each other that, and worse. Quite the reverse. She’s beautiful, glossy, successful and sweet. But she’s so far away from me now. Not just geographically. She’s removed socially and financially, too. Since she met Carlo at a cooking school in Rome, left our shared flat, married him and moved to New York, they have spent the last ten years opening restaurants, having babies, being feted across the globe.

      Finally my big sister draws breath.

      ‘Don’t let me down, Rosa. By the next time we speak I will expect you to have made progress with this guy, by fair means or foul. I expect you to fight for him. You still there?’ Francesca waits for me to grunt in response. ‘And if this Pierre Levi’s not up for it, how about tickling the fancy of another patient? Or a visitor? Then there’s no moral quandary. Or one of those bow-tie-wearing plonkers in your gentleman’s club. You’re only twenty-five, sis. Too early to shrivel up. Deal?’

      ‘Oh, bloody hell, if it’ll get you off my case. Deal.’

      ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you till the end of October. If you’re still lovelorn and celibate then, I’ll send you a free ticket over here. There’s plenty of hunky New Yorkers we can introduce you to.’

      ‘Thanks, sis, but I don’t need –’

      ‘Come down off your high horse. You need all the help you can get. I want you to report back that you’ve got that little prick Daniele out of your hair and got someone totally hot, rich and deserving.’

      ‘Copy that, captain.’

      I blow her a kiss, close the laptop, turn to the TV and nearly jump out of my skin.

      Because the chef who has stepped up to the televised workstation wielding a rolling pin and kneading dough, fixing those Italian charmer eyes on the viewers under his corkscrew black curls, fixing those eyes on me, grinning like he’s been listening all this time, is none other than my ex-boyfriend. Daniele. And standing next to him, dicing and chopping, is the bitch who stole him away. The woman Pierre Levi called the screamer.

      I go to turn up the volume and hear what he’s saying in that velvety accent of his, but decide against it. It will only remind me of what he used to whisper to me when we were in bed together.

      Daniele rolls out the pastry and scatters ceramic beans to blind-bake a pie. He shoves it into the oven while the camera focuses on his companion mixing apple, cinnamon and raisin before spreading it on to delicate sheets of filo pastry and brushing it with egg. They exchange some kind of lascivious joke as she rolls it all into a strudel and he taps a sieve over it to sift the icing sugar.

      I used to love watching him cook. Only at work. He never cooked at home. He always expected me to do that, which is why we lived on spaghetti carbonara occasionally alternated with schnitzel, my two specialities.

      But at work he was the masterful, bad-tempered chef that all TV shows love. And yes, he made you want to get close to him, to tame him. Until we got together I was just one of a group of waitresses at the restaurant who had the hots for him. Those hands, cutting and slicing and gutting and stuffing, you couldn’t help fantasising about them moulding, feeling, slapping and stroking.

      And then one night Carlo and Francesca, mini-celebrities by then, swept into the trattoria to check out my new job and it turned out Carlo knew Daniele from catering college. My status elevated me instantly. It’s obvious now that Daniele thought I was a good way to hitch his wagon to Carlo.

      Francesca and Carlo have obviously dissected my situation, even if I haven’t.

      Well, they can diagnose away. The good news is I no longer miss Daniele. The sadness has gone through the permutations of anger, grief, weary acceptance and, since sharing that story with Pierre, something approaching disdain.

      But I miss having a man in my life, in my little wooden double bed. If I’m going to take up Francesca’s challenge, the next man to lie next to me is going to be better than Daniele.

      What am I waiting for? I’m in the middle of this vibrant capital city juggling two exhausting but unusual jobs. Apart from when I’m on this boat I’m never alone. My sister’s right. There are men in the clinic, men at the club. I could get them all to want me.

      I’m not a nun. I’m a horny young woman with lips made for kissing and a body ripe for someone new. According to our prime patient, a stupendous chest and sexy contours.

      Yep. There’s only one man I want.

       Someone totally hot, rich and deserving.

      * * *

      The appointments chart indicates that Pierre Levi’s free. I’m about to knock at his door when Dr Venska comes clacking down the corridor in a spindly pair of strappy white sandals. Not exactly regulation footwear. Nor is her white wrap skirt, which flaps open at the front as she hurries along and I catch a glimpse of a tiny white lace thong slicing up between her thighs.

      ‘What are you doing hanging around here?’ she asks, coming to a halt and looking down her nose at me. ‘Haven’t you got some commodes to empty?’

      ‘I need to speak to Mr Levi,’ I mutter, standing my ground as she reaches past me to grasp the door handle. ‘I don’t think he’s expecting you this morning?’

      ‘Therapy works far better with the element of surprise,’ she replies, opening the door. ‘And I can assure you Mr Levi is always delighted to see me at any time. Day or night. Don’t you worry about that.’

      An overpowering waft of perfume hits me as she passes.

      ‘How about I get your notes for you, then, doctor? I see you haven’t got your file with you.’

      ‘What’s that?’ She is widening her eyes and pouting in the round mirror of her powder compact. ‘Oh, yes. Sure. If you must.’

      She edges through and shuts the door in my face. I find the file in the cabinet, go back to the door and knock. There’s no answer. I knock more loudly. Still no answer. When I try the door handle I realise it’s locked from the inside.

      I