‘Go on – who is she? She’s buff.’
‘I don’t know.’
I can’t disguise the wave of visceral loathing that takes me over when Trixietots rocks up at the bar with her, though. I suck my teeth and stab at my pan-fried salmon fillet.
‘This is bogus, man,’ moans Anton, pushing his plate away. ‘You don’t talk to me no more. I’m going outside for a smoke, innit. Let me know when you want to be my friend again.’
I sigh. He has a point. I’ve been lousy company all week. Anton’s only crime is his outright failure at being Dimitri, but I can’t seem to stop blaming him for it.
In the meantime, I can’t stop thinking about my Muscovite partner-in-sin. Wherever I am, I hold imaginary conversations with him. I picture us living a comparatively normal life, going on dates, sitting side by side on sofas, wheeling a trolley around Sainsbury’s. What’s wrong with me? That’s stuff I have never fantasised about in my life. Now I’m getting the whips and chains for real, it’s as if my fantasy life has gone into a kind of vanilla switch-over. And besides, I can’t even imagine Dimitri sitting still on a sofa for longer than two minutes. He’s in a state of perpetual motion, a ball of hairy, bangly energy bouncing around the tennis court of life. Nobody will stop him, least of all me.
If only we could meet more than once a week, though. And if only those meetings could be longer and include other things than experimental kinky sex. Is that a lot to ask? Probably.
I look up from my spring onion and poppy seed mash directly into the fascinated eyes of O and Trixietots.
They pick up their drinks and head over.
Oh God, go away.
At least they are clothed, and respectably so, in office wear and discreet make-up.
‘Rosie!’ O’s cultivated, husky tones sound wrong in the middle of this buzzing, noisy pub. ‘Do you mind if we come over? Are you on your own?’
‘My friend’s having a cigarette. He’ll be back in a moment.’ I try to sound unwelcoming without sounding actually unwelcoming, which isn’t easy.
‘Oh, we’ll move on when he comes back. It’s not Dimitri, is it?’ Trixietots’ eyes gleam with sudden hope.
‘No, just a colleague.’
‘Is Rosie your real name?’ asks O.
‘Bit unoriginal.’ Trixietots wrinkles her nose. ‘We’ve already got a Rosie Cheeks. And a Rosie Bottom.’
‘It’s my real name.’
‘Oh, right. So where’s Dimitri?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So you don’t live together?’
‘I guess he’s sleeping, or working, or hustling theatrical agents. Or playing football. Or something.’
‘Theatrical agents? Is he an actor? How did you two meet? If you don’t mind my asking.’
Actually, I do. I don’t want to assuage your obvious greed for information about the man I love.
‘We met in the street,’ I tell her. ‘It was instant mutual attraction. Eyes meeting across a crowded room and all that. We both felt that fate had thrown us together.’
‘How romantic,’ says O, after a pause that seems to contain some scepticism. ‘And how long have you been together?’
‘About three months. Ish.’ I try to calculate how long we have actually known each other, then add it to the six weeks Dimitri claimed at our ‘interview’.
‘Oh?’ O looks puzzled. ‘Dimitri said four when we spoke at the room booking.’
‘Yeah, well, the attraction was instant, but we didn’t act on it instantly. There was a gap between our eyes meeting and other parts meeting.’
Trixietots grins. ‘You’re exclusive?’