At the head of the table, Vale (of Vale, Vale, Valerius and Associates) attacks a roast duck with a gusto that seems almost violent.
He forgoes the silverware and eats with his hands, his amber eyes close in bliss with each bite of cherry-port reduction, his goat tail swishing a happy, metronomic beat against the chair leg. He moans and groans to the flavours, much happier to be here than I am.
I push creamy pasta around my plate. The smell of lemon and thyme is perfect and suddenly unappetising to me. My stomach is a knot of cold dread and swirling, ugly thoughts. There's nothing to be worried about, this is not the time for second guessing. Yet, I can't bring my mind to settle.
