CHAPTER FOUR

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London Zoo, formally known as Zoological Gardens, is the last place on the planet I wanted to visit on a cold, wintry afternoon, but Alexa Warren, ever so tenacious and inflexibly austere, demanded only the best for Dominic's first birthday

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London Zoo, formally known as Zoological Gardens, is the last place on the planet I wanted to visit on a cold, wintry afternoon, but Alexa Warren, ever so tenacious and inflexibly austere, demanded only the best for Dominic's first birthday.

On my behalf, Alexa took celebrations to the extreme, with an overabundance of carefully wrapped presents, an insane amount of designer clothes, an ostentatious cake with fulsome layers of dense sponge, butter icing, creme Chantilly and fondant creatures and a well-planned day trip for the vast majority of the syndicate.

It started with private dining at The Ritz restaurant, continental breakfast and overpriced specialities. Then, as if overrated food was not nearly enough torture for one day, the little minx dragged everyone to the Sealife Centre to explore aquarium zones, ocean invaders, rainforest adventures and coral reef inhabitants.

I will see venomous jellyfish and bastard sea anemones in my sleep. If gawking at aquatic plants is Alexa's idea of fun, I needed to get her out of the house more. And I know Dominic is on the same page. The little toe rag fell asleep in the pushchair before we even made it to the destination of gentoo penguins.

That's boredom in a nutshell.

Alexa is not afraid to vaunt her pregnant bump. In a grey long-sleeved dress that stretched to accommodate Bean, black knee-high boots and a classic trench coat, she walked alongside me, one hand on her stomach protectively, the other hand gesticulating to an array of exotic animals.

The zoo—the glorification of wilderness in a cage—is hardly anosmic. It reeked of wet fur and shit, exotic manure, whatever zookeepers wished to call animal excrement. Trees fringed the concrete footpath, knobbed bamboo, thick shrubbery, and fenced enclosures took an indirect course to the designated picnic tables. People talked. Children whined. Birds tweeted. Mufasa roared from somewhere. I almost fainted from sheer fright.

Dead leaves braced the weight of my footsteps. Fingers rolling a two-pound coin in my trouser pocket, I curled an arm around Alexa's waist, leaning down to whisper in her ear, the sweet smell of her perfume delicate to her soft skin. "You look good enough to eat."

"I think we are a bit overdressed." Her eyes, a storm of green, brown and gold, glittered impishly. "People stare."

My eyes jerked up, and, sure enough, park visitors locked the syndicate in careful observation.

"What can I say? I am sensational," I said with a godlike smirk as she linked our arms to huddle close. "Let them stare. It makes their day all that more interesting."

In all fairness, if I stretched out, relaxed on picnic blankets, wearing casual clothes akin to other tourists whilst admiring the Land of the Lions, and a group of sartorially tailored individuals strolled past, I'd probably stare, too. After all, the zoo is not a place for discreetly armed glamour or conceited prestigiousness. It is safe to assume that people more than likely questioned our rationale.

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