‘Men like you never want to give up. You all say you do, but you love it too much.’
‘It’s what we work our asses off for, to retire to the country with a couple of pigs and a chicken.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re in it for the competition. I saw it with my dad, with his friends and with my ex. After a certain level of salary, money becomes meaningless. You might as well pay guys in the City in coconuts – all they care about is being the guy who has the most coconuts at the end of the year.’
Nick laughed.
‘Maybe you’re right. And what’s your ambition, Sophie?’ he asked.
‘I always wanted to live in a castle. By the water, like the sea or a lake that turns pink in the sunset,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘Maybe I have a princess syndrome,’ she laughed.
The crowd in the bar had thinned and the waiters had started putting the chairs on the tables.
‘Well, I guess that’s our cue,’ said Sophie, standing up and feeling an ache of sadness that the evening was coming to an end.
‘So where do you live?’
‘Not far. Just off Brompton Road.’
‘Well in that case, how about I walk you home?’
She was about to complain that it was too far to walk, that her shoes were too high, but she didn’t want the night to end. At the back of her mind a little voice told her to beware; that this could be just a quick fling, a holiday romance, a one-night stand with a handsome stranger who would be back in Texas by the end of the week, but she could only throw caution to the soft, balmy evening wind.
They walked up towards Belgrave Square and cut across Sloane Street, Sophie still pointing out landmarks, like the flat John Barry had shared with Michael Caine where he had kept the actor awake composing ‘Goldfinger’. She felt light-headed, and when Nick took her hand in his, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to happen. She let it stay, enjoying the warm, firm clasp of his fingers. She caught herself and realised she was happy. It wasn’t an emotion she had felt in a long time. Her grief and anxiety about the future had blocked out the light, but tonight she realised that something simple like holding hands with a man you liked was enough to make life feel good again.
‘So what’s a girl like you doing being single?’ he asked her finally.
Sophie paused for a moment.
‘Who said I’m single?’ she chided.
She caught his look of disappointment and continued.
‘Yes – I’m single,’ she grinned. ‘And what about you, oil man? You must be what, thirty-two, thirty-three?’
‘Thirty-two actually. Hard work, it’s taking its toll.’
‘So how come you haven’t settled down with those pigs?’
He stole a sideways glance at her and sighed.
‘I’m not one of those commitment-shy guys you read about in women’s magazines. I guess I’ve just spent the last ten years working my butt off to make something of my life. Besides . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, I know this sounds conceited, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I guess it’s difficult finding someone who likes me for me.’
‘You mean the money?’
‘Exactly. I mean, there’s a lot of gold-diggers out there,’ he said frankly. ‘If I hadn’t met you at a fancy ten-thousand-bucks-a-plate dinner, if we’d bumped into each other ice-skating at Somerset House, I’d have pretended I was a waiter or a struggling poet with not a bean to his name.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. My dad had four wives, count ’em. Even my own mom, she squandered the family money, parties every weekend, keeping up with the Joneses, all that crap. It’s just nice to meet someone, you know, who’s successful in her own right.’
‘Listen, Nick,’ she began, but stopped herself. She wanted to tell him that her dress was borrowed, that she lived in a tiny flat in Battersea, that she didn’t have a penny. But what good would it do? And anyway, finally there it was, Lana’s huge white house looming up in front of them like a big full stop.
‘Well,’ said Sophie. ‘This is it, then.’
‘This is yours? Hey, not bad.’
Sophie felt a sinking feeling. She wanted to blurt out that she was only house-sitting, that she wasn’t a high-flying businesswoman, but he was so nice, why ruin a perfect evening? And he would probably never call again anyway.
‘It’s been a good night, Nick. Thanks.’
‘Maybe. But it could have been better.’
Her smile faltered.
‘How?’
‘We never did this.’
Nick stepped towards her, his hand touching the curve of her cheek, his lips on hers, soft and warm. Hers eyes closed as she savoured the taste of him, then all too soon it was over. She knew he was waiting for her to invite him inside. But she couldn’t. He would know in an instant that the house was not hers. The photographs of Lana and Simon. Her bedroom, still with that temporary vibe of a holidaymaker. Don’t break the spell, said a voice in her head. Keep it as a perfect memory.
‘Good night, Nick,’ she said.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, his disappointment evident.
‘Well, I thought you were going back to the desert.’
‘Not straight away.’ He smiled, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a red pigskin diary.
‘Here,’ he said, opening it and showing her the page for the next day. ‘You see that?’ He pointed to the blank space. ‘That’s for you. And the next day and the next.’ He looked at her, suddenly anxious. ‘If you want it, that is.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie, and she stepped forward and kissed him again. ‘Yes I do. Very much.’
9
The sun was leaking through the curtains in the Wellington Suite of the Riverton Hotel. Sophie kept her eyes closed, wanting to savour the feeling for a few seconds more. Still pleasantly fuggy from sleep, she felt the crisp sheets on her skin and the soft pillow under her bed-head hair. Most of all, she wanted to relish the feeling of Nick’s naked body next to hers, his arm casually thrown around her, his leg hooked over hers, their bodies still entwined even in sleep.
I think, she smiled to herself, this is what they call a whirlwind romance. Nick had called her that night; in fact he’d called her moments after he’d left her on Lana’s doorstep – ‘just to wish you good night’ – then first thing in the morning to tell her that the sun was out and that it was a perfect morning for croissants and coffee. He came to collect her in his silver sports car, casual and sexy in a navy polo shirt, and drove her to a café with checked red tablecloths hidden away down by the river, which he said reminded him of his time in Paris where his apartment had had a view of the Seine.
Neither of them had wanted the date to end. When Sophie had suggested that she had clients to see, Nick had insisted that she cancel them all. They got back in the car and followed the river all the way out to Eton, where they drank Pimm’s and lemonade watching the sunlight glint off the Thames.
The next few days had followed a similar pattern. Nick was attentive and fun, calling or texting throughout the day, sending her flowers or arranging a lunch date. And they had spent every evening together at the sumptuous suite he kept at the Riverton. Sophie smiled to herself again, remembering the fourth night, the previous evening, when she had finally succumbed and allowed him to seduce her, slowly, gently, sensuously. She could feel herself becoming turned on at the memory of him undressing her. He was obviously a practised and skilful lover, taking his time to explore her body, kissing every inch of her, every secret place, making every nerve ending pulse with pleasure, making her come with such a fierce intensity she had felt faint and dizzy afterwards. At some point they had called room service. They had made love again and then taken a long, sudsy bath together, and in the early hours of the morning had fallen asleep, their limbs tangled beneath the starched white hotel sheets, their bodies tired, depleted and happy from sex.
And yet, still she felt a t
ightness in her stomach. It had been perfect, this whirlwind romance, apart from one thing. She still hadn’t told him the truth about Lana’s house, how it wasn’t really hers, how she was only house-sitting, or the fact she was actually a personal trainer – an unqualified personal trainer at that.
I’ll tell him, she said to herself. I’ll tell him tonight.
‘What time is it?’ said Nick sleepily, stirring at her side.
‘Six forty,’ she said, kissing his shoulder. ‘I have to go.’
‘You’re kidding me. What’s so important?’
‘I’ve got a client to see and I have to go back to the house and prepare. You’ve been distracting me too much.’
‘Who’s the client? Can’t they wait?’
‘Some hedge-funder. I have to take the meeting.’
Stop it, she scolded herself. Stop lying.
Then again, Olivia Isaacs was a hedge-funder. One who was getting married and who wanted to get into top shape so desperately she was prepared to pay Sophie £200 an hour for the privilege. This was their first session, and she was potentially a big money-spinner for Sophie; she still hadn’t taken her personal trainer’s course, but she couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, could she?
‘How about I distract you?’ growled Nick, his nose nuzzling into her ear.
His lips moved to hers, plucking them with delicate kisses as his hands traced the curves of her body. She groaned with arousal. She was tempted, so tempted to stay, but if she could not drag herself away from him, if she let him make love to her, she would miss her appointment and lose a client.
She laughed softly and pulled away.
‘Sorry, stud, you’ll have to wait.’
He frowned.
‘You don’t think last night was a mistake, do you?’
‘Far from it,’ she said. ‘It was incredible, and there’s nothing more I’d like than to stay and finish what you just started. But I’ve got an important meeting at eight thirty. I have to go home, prepare . . .’
‘Well how about later? I could come to your house at five.’
Sophie felt a rush of panic, but she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. If he really likes you, he won’t care you don’t own the house, she thought, not exactly convincing herself.
‘Okay. There’s something I need to talk to you about before you go back to Houston anyway.’
She hoped he could not detect the hesitancy in her voice.
Nick sat up on one elbow.
‘Say, why don’t you come?’ he said.
‘To . . . Houston?’
‘Sure, why not?’
She gaped at him. What was he suggesting? A new life? With him in Texas? Don’t be silly, she told herself. He’s not proposing; this is just a mini-break for him. She bent to give him a long, lingering kiss.
‘I’ll call you to make a plan later,’ she whispered, then, catching sight of the time on the bedside alarm clock, swore and ran for the shower.
Her luck was in: she jumped into the lift just as the doors were closing. She ran through the lobby and immediately found a cab waiting just outside the door. Maybe she wouldn’t be late for Olivia after all.
‘Where to, love?’ said the driver, rolling his window down.
‘Kensington High Street,’ she said breathlessly, quickly opening the door and jumping inside. She slumped in the back, letting out a long breath, and watching gratefully as the London streets slipped by.
‘Whereabouts you want exactly, darling?’ said the cabbie into his mirror as they passed the Royal Albert Hall. ‘Only there’s roadworks up by the hotel; if you want near the church, I’ll have to go round.’
It was only then that Sophie realised she didn’t know the actual address. She dug around in her bag for her mobile phone; Olivia had texted the details to her. Where the bloody hell was it?
‘My phone,’ she groaned, picturing it on the bedside table. ‘I must have left it at the hotel.’
She banged on the glass.
‘Sorry, can you turn around? I have to go back to the hotel.’
‘You sure? We’re almost there.’ He frowned, then glanced at her in his mirror and blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s your fare, love. But I’m leaving the meter on.’
He changed lanes, swinging the cab around the Wellington Arch roundabout and back towards the Riverton. The traffic was beginning to build up on the way to Hyde Park. Stop, start. Sophie looked at her watch, mentally calculating the likelihood of arriving at Olivia’s on time. Pretty bloody slim, she thought with a grimace. And these ladies didn’t like to be kept waiting. Even those that didn’t have high-flying jobs in finance always seemed to have a packed schedule and woe betide anyone who made them late for their appointment with their nail technician.
The cab swung across Park Lane and pulled up in the forecourt of the hotel.
‘I’ll be two minutes,’ said Sophie, opening the door.
The cabbie shrugged and tapped the meter. ‘Well you’d best hurry then, aincha?’
Sophie burst through the revolving doors, startling a woman in a mink, and ran for the elevators. Sod’s law, this time, there were none waiting. She pressed the button repeatedly. ‘Come on, come on . . .’ she said through gritted teeth.
Bugger it, she thought, yanking open the door to the stairs. It’s only three flights. She took them at a run, two steps at a time, swinging round the banisters, trying to ignore the pain in her legs and lungs. You’re supposed to be a personal trainer, remember? she scolded herself.
Finally there it was: the third floor. She pushed through the fire door and turned left, dodging a housekeeping cart and sprinting to Nick’s suite. The door, of course, was closed.
‘Nick!’ she called, knocking on the door and panting. ‘Let me in, I’ve left my phone!’
She waited, but there was no reply. Had he left already? No, he couldn’t have done; more likely he’d just gone back to sleep. ‘Nick!’ she called, knocking louder now.
Just then she noticed that the maid with the housekeeping cart was watching her.
‘Hello,’ said Sophie, slightly embarrassed. ‘Erm, my boyfriend must have popped out or something. I’ve left my phone by the bed. I don’t suppose you’ve got a pass key or anything?’
The woman looked at her warily.
‘Honestly. You can call downstairs if you like, his name’s Nick Cooper.’
The maid hesitated for a moment, then, with a shrug of resignation, slotted her key-card into the door.
‘Thank you,’ mouthed Sophie and pushed inside. There was a lamp on inside the suite and she could hear the sound of dripping water.
‘Nick?’ she called, but there was no reply. She walked through the bedroom towards the bathroom. He wasn’t in bed, although the duvet had been thrown back and the sheets looked crumpled. The drip-drip sound was louder now.
‘Nick, are you still here?’
She stopped and stepped back as she felt a squishiness under her feet. The carpet between the bedroom and the en suite was sodden.
‘What the hell?’ she whispered. The en suite door was slightly ajar and she gave it a gentle push.
For a moment she couldn’t understand what she was seeing – or perhaps her brain didn’t want to process it. It was as if she was frozen in the moment, caught in a bad dream. Nick was lying on the floor of the bathroom, naked except for a white towel that had become unfastened at the waist. His eyes were closed, his head lolled lifelessly to one side. The bath had overflowed, surrounding his body with a puddle of water stained red with blood.
‘Nick!’ she gasped sinking to her knees to cradle him.
Blood was oozing from a wound on his head. The floor was studded with shards of green glass like angry teeth glaring at her.
‘No, Nick, please, no . . .’ she sobbed, putting her hand over the wound, as if to join the two sides together again, but it was too big, too wide. Too bad.
‘Help! Somebody help me!’ she screamed, as loud as she could. ‘I need an ambulan
ce! Please, someone!’ Helpless tears were streaming down her cheeks as she looked at his lifeless face. ‘Someone. Please! He’s dying,’ she choked.
But she could tell that he was already dead. His skin was still warm, but Nick had gone, she could feel it in her heart.
Suddenly there was a blur of activity; hands were lifting her, pulling her away from him.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I can’t leave him! He needs me!’
There were people in the room, noise, raised voices. The maid was crying, a man in a suit barking orders.
‘Help him!’ screamed Sophie, her voice barely audible through the sobs.
Vaguely, she could hear words being spoken in her car. Kindly, reassuring words: ‘It will be okay’, ‘There’s nothing more you can do’, ‘The police are on their way’; the sort of things that people said in movies when someone died. Sophie sat on the bed, staring down at her trembling, red-stained hands, her whole world frozen in time, her body weighted by a dim, fearful awareness that the worst was yet to come.
10
Ruth was in Starbucks buying her first macchiato of the day when she got the call. Flinging five pounds at the barista, she ran out on to the street to hail a cab. She couldn’t have moved any faster – a trail of coffee had spilt on her white shirt – but still, by the time she she made it to the hotel, it was already a no-go area. Two white police vans were parked on the street and a uniformed officer was checking ID as guests went into the Riverton. Worse, there was a Channel Five film crew setting up on the steps. Not exactly the exclusive she had been led to believe.
Cursing, Ruth pulled out her mobile, but before she could dial the number, she heard a low whistle. Turning, she saw a familiar face: DC Dan Davis, lurking by the side door. He beckoned her over.
‘What’s that film crew doing here?’ she hissed.
‘It’s a free country, Ruth. Or hadn’t you heard?’ said Davis, a smile on his face. ‘I can’t help it if that nice bird off the telly turns up, can I?’ He craned his neck around to look at the pretty newsreader standing on the steps.
Perfect Strangers Page 8
