The Girl Before

Still, there’s plenty to work with.

Afterward I sit at the stone table in a robe, watching him cook us a stir-fry. He puts on an apron before he starts, a strangely feminine gesture for such a masculine man. But once the ingredients are prepped and he gets going it’s all concentration and precision, fire and energy, tossing the ingredients up in the air and catching them again like a big sloppy pancake. Within minutes the meal is ready. I’m ravenous.

Have you always had relationships like this? I say as we eat.

Like what?

Whatever this is. Unencumbered. Semi-detached.

For a long while, yes. It’s not that I have anything against conventional relationships, you understand. It’s just that my lifestyle doesn’t really allow for them. So I made a conscious decision to adjust to shorter ones. I’ve found when you do that, the relationships can actually be better: more intense, a sprint instead of a marathon. You appreciate the other person more, knowing it’s not going to last.

How long do they usually last?

Until one of us decides to call it off, he says without smiling. This only works if both parties want the same thing. And don’t think that by unencumbered I mean without commitment or effort. It’s just a different sort of commitment, a different sort of effort. Some of the most perfect relationships I’ve had lasted no more than a week, some several years. The duration really doesn’t matter. Only the quality.

Tell me about one that lasted several years, I say.

I never talk about my previous lovers, he says firmly. Just as I’ll never talk to others about you. Anyway, it’s my turn now. How do you organize your spices?

My spices?

Yes. It’s been bothering me ever since I tried to find the cumin just now. They’re clearly not arranged alphabetically or by use-by date. Is it by flavor profile? By continent?

You’re joking, right?

He looks at me. You mean they’re random?

Completely random.

Wow, he says. I think he’s being ironic. But sometimes with Edward it’s hard to be sure.

When he leaves, he tells me it has been a wonderful evening.

5b) Now you have a choice between donating a small sum to a local museum that’s fundraising for an important artwork, or sending it to tackle hunger in Africa. Which do you choose?

? The museum

? Hunger

NOW: JANE

“I admire how the work unfolds rigorously, with a variety of different typologies,” a man wearing a corduroy jacket announces, waving his champagne flute at the glass-and-steel roof in big, sweeping gestures.

“…a fusion of non-Cartesian infrastructure and social functionality…” a woman says earnestly.

“Lines of desire implied and then denied…”

Apart from the jargon, I decide, topping-out parties aren’t so very different from the gallery openings I went to when I worked in the art world: a lot of people in black, a lot of champagne, a lot of hipster beards and expensive Scandinavian spectacles. Tonight, the occasion is the inauguration of a new concert hall by David Chipperfield. I’m gradually becoming familiar with the names of the best-known British architects: Norman Foster, the late Zaha Hadid, John Pawson, Richard Rogers. Many will be present this evening, Edward has told me. Later there’ll be a firework-and-laser show, visible through the glass roof, that will be seen as far away as Kent.

I wander through the crowd, champagne glass in hand, eavesdropping. I’m wandering because, although Edward has invited me to accompany him, I’m determined not to be an encumbrance. In any case, it isn’t hard to fall into conversation when I want to. The crowd is mostly male, very confident, slightly drunk. More than one person has stopped me and said, “Do I know you?” or “Where do you work?” or simply, “Hello.”

Seeing Edward looking in my direction, I head back toward him. He turns away from the group he’s with. “Thank God,” he says quietly. “If I have to listen to one more speech about the importance of programmatic requirements I think I’ll go mad.” He looks at me appreciatively. “Has anyone told you you’re the most beautiful woman in this room?”

“Several people, actually.” I’m wearing a backless Helmut Lang dress, thigh-length, cut loose behind so that it moves when I do, coupled with some simple scalloped flats from Chloé. “Though not in so many words.”

He laughs. “Come over here.”

I follow him behind a low wall. He puts his champagne glass on it, then runs his hand down my hip.

“You’re wearing panties,” he observes.

“Yes.”

“I think you should take them off. They spoil the line. Don’t worry, no one will see.”

For a moment I freeze. Then I glance around. No one’s looking in our direction. As unobtrusively as I can, I slip out of my panties. When I reach down to pick them up he puts a hand on my arm.

“Wait.”

His right hand lifts the hem of the dress. “No one will see,” he repeats.