Long before it became a gastropub for the middle classes of northwest London, or its seventies heyday as a spit and sawdust tavern for fighting Irish, the Black Lion was still a lively place. A dandy called Jellicoe drank Madeira from a conch and a Covent Garden opera singer who loved sherry sang impromptu arias. Oscar Wilde drank here and the philandering son of Victoria sat in a corner with Lily Langtree and introduced himself as Baxter. Bradley Simmonds who has never given in to an impulsive oration nor drunk fortified wine from a shell waits as the young Estonian woman behind the curved wooden bar pulls a pint of Peroni from giant copper taps. She has already poured a glass of Chardonnay for Soph and apple juices for Rosie and Zach. Salmon linguini, roast cod and a couple of children’s bologneses are on the way. The clown watches from outside. Once, a man could get killed here but as with anything true, real and good, they fucked it up. Simmonds brings the drinks over to Soph who reads the Observer while their children sit on cushions in the corner, colouring pictures on their own paper menus. Simmonds, tanned from a recent shoot in South Africa, the rolling green of the Dolphin Coast doubling as Home Counties England. Two weeks in the Oyster Box in Durban while they began post production on a commercial for a sugared breakfast cereal masquerading as health food. Simmonds calm and assured, a man who gets things done, who people trust, who Soph trusts; a lothario who removes his wedding ring as soon as he boards the plane because what happens on location stays there. Soph reads a piece about Kim Kardashian’s lavish Bel-Air baby shower, her disapproval rising, these nouveau nobodies with their ridiculously named progeny, as if she herself is a better, wiser human; a woman whose accomplishments are more earned, who has no idea of the philanderer with whom she shares a bed or the impending firestorm of their own that no charm offensive, no water cannon of apology nor contrition will ever quench. The clown looks as Simmonds brings drinks to the table with a smile as fake as his fidelity and considers taking a piss in a corner of the bar like he might have done a century or so earlier. It’s too much effort and he walks on.