A quiet knock sounded on the door. My butler didn’t wait for me to answer it before he opened the door and wheeled in the cart, just like room service at a hotel. He didn’t look at us on the couch before he approached the dining table near the terrace and set up our dinner, putting down the white tablecloth and placing the dishes there along with the butter and the basket of bread. Then he wheeled the cart out again and disappeared.
We sat together at the dining table and ate our dinner, a soup and salad for her and a rare steak with potatoes for me.
She seemed to like it because she was focused on her food the entire time, like she’d been hungry all night but didn’t have time to eat. Last time I saw her at Au Pied de Cochon, she barely touched her burrata. She was either that hungry or
