seen the Freud exhibition. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I thought it was spectacular, and I’m planning to see it again before it closes.’
‘I was thinking of popping in tomorrow morning,’ she said, touching my hand. ‘Why don’t you join me?’ I happily agreed, and when I dropped her off in Pimlico she gave me the sort of hug that suggests ‘I would like to get to know you better.’ Now, I am not an expert on many things, but I consider myself to be a world authority when it comes to hugs, as I have experienced every one - from a squeeze to a bearhug. I can interpret any message from ‘I can’t wait to get your clothes off’ to ‘Get lost.’
I arrived at the Tate early the following morning, anticipating that there would be a long queue for the exhibition, and giving myself time to pick up the tickets before Susie arrived. I had been waiting on the steps for only a few minutes when she appeared. She was wearing a short yellow dress that emphasised her slim figure, and as she climbed the steps I noticed men glance across to follow her progress. The moment she saw me, she began to run up the steps, and she greeted me with a long hug. An ‘I feel I know you better already’ hug.
I enjoyed the exhibition even more the second time, not least because of Susie’s knowledge of Lucian Freud’s work, as she took me through the different phases of his career. When we reached the last picture in the show, Fat Women Looking Out of the Window, I remarked a little feebly, ‘Well, one thing’s for certain, you’ll never end up looking like that.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,’ she said. ‘But if I did, I’d never let you find out.’ She took my hand. ‘Do you have time for lunch?’
‘Of course, but I haven’t booked anywhere.’
‘I have,’ said Susie with a smile. ‘The Tate has a super restaurant, and I booked a table for two, just in case …’ She smiled again.
I don’t recall much about lunch, except that when the bill came we were the last two left in the restaurant.
‘If you could do anything in the world right now,’ I said - a chat-up line I’ve used many times in the past - ‘what would it be?’
Susie remained silent for some time before replying, ‘Take the shuttle to Paris, spend the weekend with you and visit the Picasso exhibition “His Early Days”, which is on at the Musee d’Orsay right now. How about you?’
‘Take the shuttle to Paris, spend the weekend with you, and visit the Picasso exhibition “His Early Days”, which …’
She burst out laughing, took my hand and said, ‘Let’s do it!’
I arrived at Waterloo some twenty minutes before the train was due to depart. I had already booked a suite in my favourite hotel, and a table at a restaurant that prides itself on not being in the tourist guides. I bought two first-class tickets and stood under the clock, as we’d agreed. Susie was only a couple of minutes late, and gave me a hug that was a definite step towards ‘I can’t wait to get your clothes off.’
She held my hand as we sped through the English countryside. Once we were in France - it always makes me angry that the trains speed up on the French side - I leaned over and kissed her for the first time.
She chatted about her work in New York, the exhibitions that were a ‘must’, and gave me a taste of what I might expect when we visited the Picasso exhibition. ‘The pencil portrait of his father sitting in a chair, which he drew when he was only sixteen, was the harbinger of all that was to come.’ She continued to talk about Picasso and his work with a passion one could never gain from merely reading a book on the subject. When the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, I grabbed both our cases and jumped off to make sure we would be among the first in the taxi queue.
Susie spent most of the journey to the hotel staring out of the taxi’s window, like a schoolgirl on her first visit abroad. I remember thinking how strange this was for someone who had so obviously travelled extensively.
When the taxi swung into the entrance of the Hotel du Coeur, I told her it was the sort of place I would love to own - comfortable but unpretentious, and offering a level of service Anglo-Saxons are rarely able to match. ‘And the owner, Albert, is a gem.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she said, as the taxi came to a halt outside the front door.
Albert was standing on the steps waiting to greet us. I knew he would be, as I would have been if he had accompanied a beautiful woman to London for the weekend.
‘We have reserved your usual room, Mr Romanelli,’ he said, looking as if he wanted to wink at me.
Susie stepped forward and, looking directly at Albert, said, ‘And where will my room be?’
Without blinking, he smiled at her and said, ‘There is an adjoining room that I’m sure you will find convenient, madame.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Albert,’ she said, ‘but I would prefer to have a room on another floor.’
This time Albert was taken by surprise, although he quickly recovered, called for the reservations book and studied the entries for a few moments before saying, ‘I see we have a room available overlooking the park, on the floor below Mr Romanelli’s room.’ He clicked his fingers and handed the two keys to a bellboy who was hovering nearby.
‘Room 574 for madame, and the Napoleon suite for monsieur.’
The bellboy held the lift open for us, and once we were inside he pressed buttons 5 and 6. When the doors opened on the fifth floor, Susie said with a smile, ‘Shall we meet in the foyer just before eight?’
I nodded, as my mother had never told me what to do in these circumstances.
Once I’d unpacked, I took a shower and slumped onto the redundant double bed. I flicked on the television and settled for a black-and-white French movie. I became so engrossed in the plot that I still wasn’t dressed at ten to eight, when I was about to discover who had drowned the woman in the bath.
I cursed, quickly threw on some clothes, not even checking my appearance in the mirror, and rushed out of the door still wondering who the murderer could possibly be. I jumped into the lift and cursed again when the doors opened at the ground floor, because there was Susie standing in the foyer waiting for me.
I had to admit that in that long black dress, with an elegant slit down the side which allowed you a glimpse of thigh with every step she took, I was almost willing to forgive her.