Boccarinos is one of those places where silver-fox titans of industry go for breakfast, to eat two poached eggs for fourteen quid. In the evening there’s a real scene: you could be in Italy in 1985, the amount of gel that’s slathered on the men’s hair. Over there in the corner is that miniscule billionaire who’s always in Hello! with what looks like his nurse but is in fact wife four. And across the counter from me at the bar are two high-class escorts, all tits and teeth, Choos dangling off heels. Dalia loves it here – she loves Eurotrash-watching. She doesn’t love it quite enough to be punctual, and when she does arrive, twenty minutes late, she immediately announces she can only stay for fifteen minutes, as she totally got confused about her timings and thought dinner with Mark was at 9 p.m., when it’s actually at 7.30 p.m. Third time in a row she’s mucked me about because of him. Three strikes and she’s still not out … ‘I’ve bought us a bottle!’ I say, secretly cursing the fact that this wine cost thirty quid and I’ll either have to drink the whole thing alone here at the bar, or ask for a cork so I can take it home on the bus.
