by Jessica Hart
‘Well, for a start, we’ll consider whether those places are romantic or not—will you feel more romantic when you’re there, and do they make you behave differently?’
‘I can tell you now that I won’t,’ he said, his mouth set in an implacable line. ‘I don’t do romance.’
‘Then that’s what you’ll say.’ Clara kept her voice calm. It was like dealing with a skittish horse. Having got this close, she didn’t want to spook him now, before she’d slipped that bridle over his head and got him to finally agree. She was almost there. Already her fingers were itching to pull out her phone and call Ted with the news.
Simon sighed and rubbed his hand over his face again. Reluctance incarnate.
‘So it would just be those three trips?’
‘Three short trips, which we would accommodate to your schedule, of course. For you it’ll mean free trips to Paris, the Indian Ocean and Scotland,’ Clara added, still in economist whisperer mode. ‘That can’t be bad, can it?’
Oops, wrong thing to say. ‘If there’s one thing people need to understand about the economy, it’s that there’s no such thing as “free”,’ said Simon quellingly. ‘Everything has to be paid for somewhere along the line.’
‘I can assure you we wouldn’t be asking you to pay anything.’
‘I’d be paying with my professional reputation. And my time.’
Personally, Clara would have thought the chance to go to the tropical island of St Bonaventure alone was worth the trade, but she bit her lip on the comment.
‘We’d make all the arrangements,’ she said, trying another tack. ‘You wouldn’t have to do anything but turn up and do your piece to the camera.’
‘And if I agree, will you shut up and leave me alone?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No more phone calls, no more emails, no more throwing yourself at muggers?’
‘Well, I’d need to get in touch with you about travel arrangements, but other than that, you won’t even know I exist,’ promised Clara.
Simon thought that was deeply unlikely. Once you knew Clara Sterne existed, it would be very hard to forget her. There weren’t that many people who would tackle a mugger to save a stranger’s bag. She sat there, shimmering with energy, brimming with colour even in the dim light, her eyes fixed expectantly on his face.
God only knew what he had got himself into! But now that she had explained the deal, perhaps it wouldn’t be quite as bad as he’d imagined. It might even be possible to salvage something from the whole mess.
‘You mentioned a follow-up programme on the micro-financed projects,’ he reminded Clara.
‘Er…yes, I did, didn’t I?’
Simon was fairly sure Clara didn’t have the authority to agree which programmes the company would make, but if MediaOchre wanted him badly enough, he might have some leverage to get the follow-ups made. It would be good for the projects and keep the issue alive in the fickle media.
‘Can you guarantee that will be your next project?’ he pressed her.
‘I can say we’ll do our very best to get it commissioned,’ she said and he could practically see her crossing her fingers.
‘All right,’ he said, resigned, ‘in that case, you can tell your boss I’ll do it and you get to keep your job.’
Her face lit up with a smile, and for the strangest moment Simon had the dazzling sensation that the car had filled with sunshine. ‘Oh, thank you!’ she said. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you! You won’t regret it, I promise you. It’s going to be fantastic!’
Simon doubted that too, but he got out to open her door, take her bag and help her out. It wasn’t that easy one-armed, and he saw her wince as she knocked the plaster on the door frame. A real wince, not that fake remember-what-your-mother-promised wince she had done earlier.
A slight frown touched his eyes. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ she said buoyantly, glancing along at the house, where lamps were lit in the window of what was obviously an upstairs flat. ‘It looks like Allegra is home, so she can let me in.’
She hoisted her bag onto her good shoulder and beamed at him. ‘Thank you again, Simon. I’ll be in touch.’
One hand on the open door of the car, Simon watched her literally dancing down the pavement. She had her phone to her ear already. ‘Ted!’ he heard her say joyfully. ‘He’s agreed! It’s going to be all right! Everything’s perfect.’
* * *
The concourse at St Pancras was crowded. Simon checked his watch, and then the name of the coffee bar behind him again. He had agreed to meet Clara there ten minutes ago.
He was in no mood for a so-called romantic trip to Paris. His last hope, that the CEO of Stanhope Harding would refuse permission for him to take the time off had been quashed when the board had decided that in the current economic climate it would be politic to show the ‘friendly face’ of financial services.
One more disaster to chalk up to the banking crisis, in fact.
And as if it wasn’t bad enough being roped into this charade—a programme about romance, for God’s sake!—a signal failure on the Circle line had meant that he was five minutes late, and Simon hated unpunctuality. It smacked too much of a lack of control.
He hadn’t been looking forward to apologising to Clara, but there had been no sign of her when he’d arrived, and that made him even crosser.
Surely she could have made an effort to be there on time after all the fuss she had made about getting him to agree to take part in her ridiculous programme? Simon was bitterly regretting having succumbed to that martyred little wince.
This was all his mother’s fault! If she hadn’t carried a ridiculous handbag just begging to be snatched by a mugger, Clara would never have broken her wrist and he would have felt under no obligation whatsoever.
Simon eyed the passing crowd morosely. It was coming up for Valentine’s Day. February was never a good time to be burdened with his surname. Why couldn’t his ancestors have chosen a decent Anglo-Saxon name like Smith or Brown? The shop windows were plastered with red hearts, and the concourse was full of loved-up couples wandering hand in hand. They were probably all going to Paris for a romantic weekend too, as if this trip wasn’t going to be excruciating enough.
Where was Clara? Frowning, he looked at his watch again. True to her word, she had restricted herself to contacting him about practical arrangements, and had proved surprisingly efficient. Until now, anyway. Offered the choice between flying and taking the train, Simon had opted for Eurostar, which was quicker and more convenient than hanging around airports. He had his laptop with him and could work more effectively on the train.
If Clara ever turned up with the tickets.
A few yards away a crowd had gathered. They were all watching something, and laughing and cheering. Simon took a few steps closer to see what they were all so damned happy about.
Craning his neck, he was able to see round two women talking volubly in French, and his astonished gaze fell on Clara. Dressed in a denim jacket, a red jumper and a short skirt, with the same vividly striped scarf wound carelessly several times around her throat, she was performing a tap dance routine to much encouragement and applause from her audience. From the elbo
w downwards, her arm was encased in a lime-green cast, but it didn’t seem to be bothering her at all. Her cheeks were pink and her hair swung wildly around her face, while her skirt swished, revealing long legs clad in diamond-patterned tights.
She was laughing, responding to the crowd, but when her gaze met his with an almost audible clash, her feet faltered and she stopped in dismay.
‘Omigod!’ she said, clapping a hand to her forehead. ‘What time is it?’
As one, the crowd turned to stare at Simon, making him feel like a monster for interrupting their entertainment.
‘Twenty past,’ he said.
‘I am so sorry.’ Clara grabbed her bag, waved a general farewell with her lime-green cast, and pushed through her admirers towards him. ‘I was here on time, honestly I was, but there was this little girl who was so miserable,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘Her mother said she had a bad ear and they were going home without seeing Cats, which they’d come specially to London to see, so I just did a little routine from the show to entertain her, and suddenly there were all these people watching, and I forgot the time, I’m afraid. I always wanted to be Ginger Rogers…’
She trailed off at the unresponsive look on Simon’s face. ‘Sorry, I get a bit carried away when I dance, and it’s not often I get an audience.’ She was digging around in her bag for the tickets with her good hand. ‘I don’t suppose you dance?’
‘Do I look like Fred Astaire to you?’
Clara stopped, her hand still buried in her bag, and studied him. Simon Valentine had dressed for a romantic weekend in Paris in a suit, with a pale blue shirt and a darker blue tie with some kind of crest on it. He had a laptop case in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, both black and no-nonsense, and his expression was distant.
No, not a man about to burst into song or twirl her around the concourse.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But I’m always ready to be surprised.’
‘I’m afraid what you see is what you get,’ said Simon, and she sighed.
‘I thought that might be the case.’
Clara had arranged a Business Premier ticket for Simon, and Roland had grudgingly agreed that she could travel in the same class. Which was big of him, given that she had spent the past three weeks setting up deals with airlines and hotels and saving him thousands of pounds on the budget.
It had been a frantic time to get it all organised, and Clara was looking forward to travelling in comfort. She accepted the glass of champagne that was offered as soon as they boarded with the aplomb of one born to travel first class, as opposed to one who spent most of her time on buses or battling the rush hour on the underground. This was the life! Settling into her seat, she looked around appreciatively.
‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’
She beamed at Simon, who had taken a glass of water instead of champagne and was opening his computer.
‘Thrilling.’
Clara tutted at his deadpan tone. ‘Can you really say you don’t feel even a tiny frisson at the idea of going to Paris for a weekend?’ she asked as she attempted to unwind her scarf one-handed.
‘I don’t even know what a frisson is,’ said Simon as his laptop whirred and bleeped into life.
‘And then you wonder that your girlfriend dumped you for an Italian hottie!’ Clara grimaced as her scarf got caught behind her, and she tugged at it fruitlessly until Simon sucked in an exasperated breath and got up to help her.
‘Stand up,’ he ordered, and Clara wriggled obediently out of her seat. She stood very still as he disentangled her briskly. Her eyes were fixed above his collar where his throat met his jaw, and for some reason her heart started to thud against her ribs. All at once he seemed very solid and very male.
He smelled nice too, and she wondered what it would be like to lean forward and press her lips to his skin.
The thought veered out of nowhere and caught Clara unawares, so much like a blow to the stomach driving all the air from her lungs that she actually flinched.
‘What?’ said Simon.
‘Nothing.’ Clara bundled the scarf up in her hands. ‘Thanks,’ she said, avoiding his eyes and slipping back into her seat. Her heart was still pattering ridiculously, and she found that she was breathing very carefully.
At least Simon didn’t appear to have noticed anything. He sat down, produced a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on before turning his attention to the computer screen.
Clara studied him covertly. It wasn’t that he was unattractive, but he was so stern, so conventional. Nothing there to make her heart hammer in her throat, or the breath leak out of her lungs.
‘Did you ever take Astrid to Paris for a romantic weekend?’ she asked the moment her breathing had settled, just to prove that it had been a momentary aberration.
Simon didn’t even look up from the screen. ‘We didn’t have that kind of relationship,’ he said stiffly.
‘What kind of relationship did you have?’
‘A good one,’ he said, but this time he did meet her gaze over the laptop. ‘It worked very well. We both had our own space. We agreed.’ A faint defensive edge had crept into his voice. ‘It was what we both wanted. No complicated emotions.’
Clara considered that. ‘It doesn’t sound like much fun.’
‘It wasn’t about fun. It was about companionship…mutual satisfaction.’
Sex, presumably. Clara chose not to examine why the idea of that should leave her feeling nettled.
‘So what happened if it was so satisfying for both of you?’
At first she thought Simon wasn’t going to answer. He pressed a key and watched something appear on the screen. ‘Paolo was at some reception we both went to. God knows how he got in! He doesn’t have a clue about finance. He’s something to do with fashion.’ Simon said it as if it were a dirty word. ‘Apparently he sent Astrid roses the next day, and begged to meet her again. She said she’d been swept off her feet.’
He looked so baffled by the idea that Clara felt quite sorry for him.
‘It sounds like she wanted some romance, and she wasn’t getting any from you.’
‘She said she didn’t want any of that nonsense!’
‘She might have said that, but when she found out what it could be like, she obviously changed her mind.’
Clara put down her champagne and leant forward. She was feeling herself again, thank goodness. ‘You know, I think making this programme will be good for you, Simon. You should be able to pick up all sorts of little hints this weekend, and then put them into action when you get home.’
Simon had been running his finger over the mouse pad, but he glanced up at that, his brows drawn together. ‘Hints?’
‘If you want Astrid back, that is. Paolo might have swept her off her feet, but you could always sweep her back now that you know that she likes some romance. You could organise a lovely weekend for her in Paris. I’m sure she’d love the hotel where we’re staying, for instance,’ said Clara, warming to her theme. ‘You could arrange for champagne and flowers in the room and then take her out to dinner. I’ve researched the perfect romantic restaurant, and the best place for dancing…’
Picking up her glass once more, she sighed a little wistfully an
d sipped her champagne. ‘I’d love it if someone did that for me!’
‘So why isn’t your boyfriend taking you to Paris this weekend?’ said Simon nastily.
There was a tiny pause. ‘Mainly because he married his childhood sweetheart and they’re expecting their first baby any day now.’
Clara smiled hard to show Simon that she was perfectly fine about it.
‘Ah,’ said Simon.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aware that the tables had turned, and that it wasn’t that comfortable to be quizzed about your failed relationship, Clara fiddled with the cast on her hand as she looked out of the window. Simon had told her about Astrid, so it was only fair that she told him her own story.
‘Matt was very romantic. He took me to Seville for my birthday two years ago. It was perfect. He was everything I’d ever wanted,’ she remembered. ‘I was sure he was The One, and that we’d be together for ever. I was so happy.’
Simon didn’t say anything but, when she glanced back, she saw that he was watching her rather than his computer screen, so she went on.
‘I thought he was going to ask me to marry him while we were in Seville, but he didn’t. So I thought maybe he would do it when we got home, and when he sat me down and said he wanted to talk to me, I was so excited I couldn’t really take in what he was saying at first.’
Her mouth twisted a little at the memory. ‘And when I did take it in, I couldn’t believe it. He told me that he’d met Sophie again a couple of weeks before, and that they’d realised that they were meant to be together. It turned out that I was just a rebound relationship.’
Simon would never have made an agony aunt. Clara could tell that she was making him uneasy. Now, if only she could talk to him about the derivatives market or public sector debt, he might be some use. Still, he was listening, even if it clearly terrified him that she was about to cry or do something equally alarming and emotional.
