“Like what? A Filofax?”
“Like …” Suze pauses thoughtfully. “OK. Wait there—”
I arrive at the Ritz that evening five minutes after our agreed time of seventy-thirty, and as I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I see Luke there already, sitting back looking relaxed and sipping something that looks like a gin and tonic. He’s wearing a different suit from the one he was wearing this morning, I can’t help noticing, and he’s put on a fresh, dark green shirt. He actually looks … Well. Quite nice. Quite good-looking.
Not that businessy, in fact.
And, come to think of it, this restaurant isn’t very businessy, either. It’s all chandeliers and gold garlands and soft pink chairs, and the most beautiful painted ceiling, all clouds and flowers. The whole place is sparkling with light, and it looks …
Well, actually, the word that springs to mind is romantic.
Oh God. My heart starts thumping with nerves, and I glance quickly at my reflection in a gilded mirror. I’m wearing the black Jigsaw suit and white T-shirt and black suede boots as originally planned. But now I also have a crisp copy of the Financial Times under one arm, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses (with clear glass) perched on my head, my clunky executive briefcase in one hand and—Suze’s pièce de résistance—an AppleMac laptop in the other.
Maybe I overdid it.
I’m about to back away and see if I can quickly deposit the briefcase in the cloakroom (or, to be honest, just put it down on a chair and walk away), when Luke looks up, sees me, and smiles. Damn. So I’m forced to go forward over the plushy carpet, trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though one arm is clamped tightly to my side, to stop the FT from falling on the floor.
“Hello,” says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can’t shake his hand, because I’m holding the laptop. Flustered, I plunk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side—nearly dropping the FT as I do so—and, with as much poise as possible, hold out my hand.
A flicker of amusement passes over Luke’s face and he solemnly shakes it. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth, all ready for use.
“That’s an impressive machine,” he says. “Very … high tech.”
“Yes,” I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. “I often use it to take notes at business meetings.”
“Ah,” says Luke, nodding. “Very organized of you.”
He’s obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimentally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.
Casually I press the key again—and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident—and still nothing. Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?
“Is there a problem?” says Luke.
“No!” I say at once, and snap the lid shut. “No, I’ve just—On second thought, I won’t use it today.” I reach into my bag for a notebook. “I’ll jot my notes down in here.”
“Good idea,” says Luke mildly. “Would you like some champagne?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly thrown. “Well … OK.”
“Excellent,” says Luke. “I hoped you would.”
He glances up, and a beaming waiter scurries forward with a bottle. Gosh, Krug.
But I’m not going to smile, or look pleased or anything. I’m going to stay thoroughly cool and professional. In fact, I’m only going to have one glass, before moving on to still water. I need to keep a clear head, after all.
While the waiter fills my champagne flute, I write down “Meeting between Rebecca Bloomwood and Luke Brandon” in my notebook. I look at it appraisingly, then underline it twice. There. That looks very efficient.
“So,” I say, looking up, and raise my glass. “To business.”
“To business,” echoes Luke, and gives a wry smile. “Assuming I’m still in business, that is …”
“Really?” I say anxiously. “You mean—after what you said on Morning Coffee? Has it gotten you into trouble?”
He nods and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
I mean, Suze is right—Luke is pretty arrogant. But I actually thought it was really good of him to stick out his neck like that and say publicly what he really thought about Flagstaff Life. And now, if he’s going to be ruined as a result … well, it just seems all wrong.
“Have you lost … everything?” I say quietly, and Luke laughs.
“I wouldn’t go that far. But we’ve had to do an awful lot of explaining to our other clients this afternoon.” He grimaces. “It has to be said, insulting one of your major clients on live television isn’t exactly normal PR practice.”
“Well, I think they should respect you!” I retort. “For actually saying what you think! I mean, so few people do that these days. It could be like … your company motto: ‘We tell the truth.’”
I take a gulp of champagne and look up into silence. Luke’s gazing at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Rebecca, you have the uncanniest knack of hitting the nail right on the head,” he says at last. “That’s exactly what some of our clients have said. It’s as though we’ve given ourselves a seal of integrity.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Well, that’s good. So you’re not ruined.”
“I’m not ruined,” agrees Luke, and gives a little smile. “Just slightly dented.”
A waiter appears from nowhere and replenishes my glass, and I take a sip. When I look up, Luke’s staring at me again.
“You know, Rebecca, you’re an extremely perceptive person,” he says. “You see what other people don’t.”
“Oh well.” I wave my champagne glass airily. “Didn’t you hear Zelda? I’m ‘finance guru meets girl next door.’” I meet his eye and we both start to laugh.
“You’re informative meets approachable.”
“Knowledgeable meets down-to-earth.”
“You’re intelligent meets charming, meets bright, meets …” Luke tails off, staring down into his drink, then looks up.
“Rebecca, I want to apologize,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to apologize for a while. That lunch in Harvey Nichols … you were right. I didn’t treat you with the respect you deserved. The respect you deserve.”
He breaks off into silence and I stare down at the tablecloth, feeling hot with indignation. It’s all very well for him to say this now, I’m thinking furiously. It’s all very well for him to book a table at the Ritz and order champagne and expect me to smile and say “Oh, that’s OK.” But underneath all the bright banter, I still feel wounded by that whole episode.
“My piece in The Daily World had nothing to do with that lunch,” I say without looking up. “Nothing. And for you to insinuate that it did …”
“I know,” says Luke, and sighs. “I should never have said that. It was a … a defensive, angry remark on a day when, frankly, you had us all on the hop.”
“Really?” I can’t help a pleased little smile coming to my lips. “I had you all on the hop?”
“Are you joking?” says Luke. “A whole page in The Daily World on one of our clients, completely out of the blue?”
Ha. I quite like that idea, actually. The whole of Brandon C thrown into disarray by Janice and Martin Webster.
“Was Alicia on the hop?” I can’t resist asking.
“She was hopping as fast as her Pradas would let her,” says Luke drily. “Even faster when I discovered she’d actually spoken to you the day before.”
Ha!
“Good,” I hear myself saying childishly—then wish I hadn’t. Top businesswomen don’t gloat over their enemies being told off. I should have simply nodded, or said “Ah” meaningfully.
“So, did I have you on the hop, too?” I say, giving a careless little shrug.
There’s silence, and after a while I look up. Luke’s gazing at me with an unsmiling expression, which makes me feel su
ddenly light-headed and breathless.
“You’ve had me on the hop for quite a while, Rebecca,” he says quietly. He holds my eyes for a few seconds while I stare back, unable to move—then looks down at his menu. “Shall we order?”
The meal seems to go on all night. We talk and talk and eat, and talk, and eat some more. The food is so delicious I can’t say no to anything, and the wine is so delicious I abandon my plan of drinking a businesslike single glass. By the time I’m toying listlessly with chocolate feulliantine, lavender honey ice cream, and caramelized pears, it’s about midnight, and my head is starting to droop.
“How’s the chocolate thing?” says Luke, finishing a mouthful of cheesecake.
“Nice,” I say, and push it toward him. “Not as good as the lemon mousse, though.”
That’s the other thing—I’m absolutely stuffed to the brim. I couldn’t decide between all the scrummy-sounding desserts, so Luke said we should order all the ones we liked the sound of. Which was most of them. So now my stomach feels as though it’s the size of a Christmas pudding, and just as heavy.
I honestly feel as if I’ll never ever be able to get out of this chair. It’s so comfortable, and I’m so warm and cozy, and it’s all so pretty, and my head’s spinning just enough to make me not want to stand up. Plus … I don’t want it all to stop. I don’t want the evening to end. I’ve had such a good time. The amazing thing is how much Luke makes me laugh. You’d think he’d be all serious and boring and intellectual, but really, he’s not. In fact, come to think of it, we haven’t talked about that unit trust thingy once.
A waiter comes and clears away all our pudding dishes, and brings us each a cup of coffee. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and take a few delicious sips. Oh God, I could stay here forever. I’m actually feeling really sleepy by now—partly because I was so nervous last night about Morning Coffee, I hardly slept at all.
“I should go,” I say eventually, and force myself to open my eyes. “I should go back to …” Where do I live, again? “Fulham. To Fulham.”
“Right,” says Luke after a pause, and takes a sip of coffee. He puts his cup down and reaches for the milk. And as he does so, his hand brushes against mine—and stops still. At once I feel my whole body stiffen. I can’t even blink, in case I break the spell.
OK, I’ll admit it—I kind of put my hand in his way.
Just to see what would happen. I mean, he could easily move his hand back if he wanted to, couldn’t he? Pour his milk, make a joke, say good-night.
But he doesn’t. Very slowly, he closes his hand over mine.
And now I really can’t move. His thumb starts to trace patterns on my wrist, and I can feel how warm and dry his skin is. I look up and meet his gaze, and feel a little jolt inside me. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. I can’t move my hand. I’m completely transfixed.
“That chap I saw you with in Terrazza,” he says after a while, his thumb still drawing leisurely pictures on my skin. “Was he anything—”
“Just … you know.” I try to give a careless laugh, but I’m feeling so nervous it comes out as a squeak. “Some multimillionaire or other.”
Luke stares intently at me for a second, then looks away.
“Right,” he says, as though closing the subject. “Well. Perhaps we should get you a taxi.” I feel a thud of disappointment, and try not to let it show. “Or maybe …” He stops.
There’s an endless pause. I can’t quite breathe. Maybe what?
What?
“I know them pretty well here,” says Luke at last. “If we wanted to …” He meets my eyes.
“I expect we could stay.”
I feel an electric shock go through my body.
“Would you like to?”
Unable to speak, I nod my head.
“OK, wait here,” says Luke. “I’ll go and see if I can get rooms.” He gets up and I stare after him in a daze, my hand all cold and bereft.
Rooms. Rooms, plural. So he didn’t mean—
He doesn’t want to—
Oh God. What’s wrong with me?
We travel up in the lift in silence with a smart porter. I glance a couple of times at Luke’s face, but he’s staring impassively ahead. In fact, he’s barely said a word since he went off to ask about staying. I feel a bit chilly inside—in fact, to be honest, I’m half wishing they hadn’t had any spare rooms for us after all. But it turns out there was a big cancellation tonight—and it also turns out that Luke is some big-shot client of the Ritz. When I commented on how nice they were being to us, he shrugged and said he often puts up business contacts here.
Business contacts. So is that what I am? Oh, it doesn’t make any sense. I wish I’d gone home after all.
We walk along an opulent corridor in complete silence—then the porter swings open a door and ushers us into a spectacularly beautiful room, furnished with a big double bed and plushy chairs. He places my briefcase and AppleMac on the luggage rail, then Luke gives him a bill and he disappears.
There’s an awkward pause.
“Well,” says Luke. “Here you are.”
“Yes,” I say in a voice which doesn’t sound like mine. “Thanks … thank you. And for dinner.” I clear my throat. “It was delicious.”
We seem to have turned into complete strangers.
“Well,” says Luke again, and glances at his watch. “It’s late. You’ll probably be wanting to …” He stops, and there’s a sharp, waiting silence.
My hands are twisted in a nervous knot. I don’t dare look at him.
“I’ll be off, then,” says Luke at last. “I hope you have a—”
“Don’t go,” I hear myself say, and blush furiously.
“Don’t go yet. We could just …” I swallow. “Talk, or something.”
I look up and meet his eyes, and something fearful starts to pound within me. Slowly he walks toward me, until he’s standing just in front of me. I can just smell the scent of his aftershave and hear the crisp cotton rustle of his shirt as he moves. My whole body’s prickling with anticipation. Oh God, I want to touch him. But I daren’t. I daren’t move anything.
“We could just talk, or something,” he echoes, and slowly lifts his hands until they cup my face.
And then he kisses me.
His mouth is on mine, gently parting my lips, and I feel a white-hot dart of excitement. His hands are running down my back and cupping my bottom, fingering under the hem of my skirt. And then he pulls me tightly toward him, and suddenly I’m finding it hard to breathe.
It’s pretty obvious we’re not going to do much talking at all.
Twenty-four
MMM.
Bliss.
Lying in the most comfortable bed in the world, feeling all dreamy and smiley and happy, letting the morning sunlight play on my closed eyelids. Stretching my arms above my head, then collapsing contentedly onto an enormous mound of pillows. Oh, I feel good. I feel … sated. Last night was absolutely …
Well, let’s just say it was …
Oh, come on. You don’t need to know that. Anyway, can’t you use your imagination? Of course you can.
I open my eyes, sit up, and reach for my cup of room-service coffee. Luke’s in the shower, so it’s just me alone with my thoughts. And I don’t want to sound all pretentious here—but I do feel this is a pretty significant day in my life.
It’s not just Luke—although the whole thing was … well, amazing, actually. God, he really knows how to …
Anyway. Not the point. The point is, it’s not just Luke, and it’s not just my new job with Morning Coffee (even though every time I remember it, I feel a leap of disbelieving joy).
No, it’s more than that. It’s that I feel like a completely new person. I feel as though I’m moving on to a new stage in life—with a different outlook, and different priorities. When I look back at the frivolous way I used to think—well, it makes me want to laugh, really. The new Rebecca is so much more levelheaded. So much more responsible. It’s
as though the tinted glasses have fallen off—and suddenly I can see what’s really important in the world and what’s not.
I’ve even been thinking this morning that I might go into politics or something. Luke and I discussed politics a bit last night, and I have to say, I came up with lots of interesting views. I could be a young, intellectual member of parliament, and be interviewed about lots of important issues on television. I’d probably specialize in health, or education, or something like that. Maybe foreign affairs.
Casually I reach for the remote control and switch on the television, thinking I might watch the news. I flick a few times, trying to find BBC1, but the TV seems stuck on rubbish cable channels. Eventually I give up, leave it on something called QVT or something, and lean back down on my pillows.
The truth, I think, taking a sip of coffee, is that I’m quite a serious-minded person. That’s probably why Luke and I get on so well.
Mmm, Luke. Mmm, that’s a nice thought. I wonder where he is.
I sit up in bed, and am just considering going into the bathroom to surprise him, when a woman’s voice from the television attracts my attention.
“ … offering genuine NK Malone sunglasses, in tortoiseshell, black, and white, with that distinctive NKM logo in brushed chrome.”
That’s interesting, I think idly. NK Malone sunglasses. I’ve always quite wanted a pair of those.
“Buy all three pairs …” the woman pauses “ … and pay not £400. Not £300. But £200! A saving of at least 40 percent off the recommended retail price.”
I stare at the screen, riveted.
But this is incredible. Incredible. Do you know how much NK Malone sunglasses usually cost? At least 140 quid. Each! Which means you’re saving …
“Send no money now,” the woman is saying. “Simply call this number …”
Excitedly I scrabble for the notebook on my bedside table and scribble down the number. This is an absolute dream come true. NK Malone sunglasses. I can’t quite believe it. And three pairs! I’ll never have to buy sunglasses again. People will call me the Girl in the NK Malone Shades. (And those Armani ones I bought last year are all wrong now. Completely out of date.) Oh, this is such an investment. With shaking hands I reach for the phone and dial the number.
Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle Page 29
