Christmas at Claridge's

by Karen Swan

  Chapter Fourteen

  The taxi pulled up outside Claridge’s, and Clem hopped out with the daintiness of a ballerina on pointe, even though she was in 5-inch heeled suede ankle boots. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her leather trousers and fluffed her hair in the window’s reflection, pleased with the new Pucci jacket she’d bought off eBay: it was buttonless, with clashing ikat and zebra prints, and needed no further accessories than a plain white linen tee and mirrored aviators.

  Tom pulled the enormous leather-bound swatch books out of the back of the cab and rested them on the pavement to fiddle with his non-Hermès tie. In spite of yesterday’s swagger about being Mr Charisma, he looked flustered and harried. Clem thought he looked nearer forty than thirty today.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked, sweeping the shoulders of his jacket, mainly to soothe rather than remove lint or dandruff.

  ‘‘Course,’ he replied gruffly, but as his brown eyes met hers momentarily, she saw everything in them that he didn’t want to show. She knew him far too well for secrets.

  ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said quietly, squeezing his biceps. ‘This is going to be great. They’ll love you. Everybody does. They’ll take one look at your portfolio and be begging to secure your services. Remember, they don’t know we’re on the ropes. Just play it cool, OK?’

  ‘Cool,’ he echoed, his eyes ever so slightly watery before he swallowed hard and blinked them dry. Then he jutted his chin in the air and picked up the portfolios.

  The doorman held the glass door open for them, tipping his hat as they passed, and they walked through into the glossy black-and-white floored lobby.

  ‘Reservation in the name of Alderton, eleven o’clock.’

  The receptionist smiled. ‘Your guests haven’t arrived yet, sir. Can I take your bags for you?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Tom replied, gripping the cases more tightly. ‘We’ll go straight through.’

  ‘Of course. Follow me, please.’

  They walked through to a lounge which, even at mid-morning, had a darkly sensuous, opulent feel about it. Clem was aware of eyes swivelling in their direction as they passed. They made a dazzling couple, and she knew that if her T-shirt was printed with the words, ‘Duh! He’s my brother!’ there’d be an audible sigh of relief throughout the room: women were as attracted to Tom’s boyish good looks and demeanour as men were to Clem’s spirited defiance.

  The receptionist seated them in a pocketed-leather alcove at the far end of the room. ‘Can I get you any drinks?’ she asked.

  ‘Just some water for now. A bottle of each please,’ Tom said authoritatively, before she could ask ‘still or sparkling’. ‘Clem, sit opposite me here,’ he said, just as bossily to her, ordering her to sit with her back to the room. ‘That way I can see when they walk in.’

  Clem slid reluctantly into the pillar-box-red leather club chair. ‘They’re wearing well,’ she murmured.

  ‘As they should do. Aniline lambskin,’ Tom replied, stroking the arms with a critical eye. It was no coincidence that they’d arranged to hold the meeting here: refurb’ing this bar had been one of Alderton Hide’s first big commissions. ‘It took sixteen treatments to get the colour right. Christ, I thought Simon was going to resign on me.’

  Clem looked down at the mention of Simon’s name – he’d managed to get through the entire day yesterday without once looking at, or talking to her, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before Tom noticed and started asking questions.

  Tom shifted position and cleared his throat, switching his phone to silent, and then shifted position again, his eyes flitting constantly towards the door. He was utterly oblivious to the women staring at him around the room.

  ‘Feeling OK?’ she murmured, her crossed leg swinging slightly.

  He nodded abruptly, jerking his chin in the air again, and she felt her heart lurch at the sight of his barely concealed vulnerability. They had to land this commission; she didn’t know how he’d take it if they didn’t. He seemed dangerously on edge. She had to be at her best in this, for his sake.

  ‘OK, this is it. He’s coming,’ he murmured, fiddling with his tie again and getting up, stepping forward with his hand outstretched before she’d even got out of her seat. ‘Mr Beaulieu?’ Tom said behind her. ‘Tom Alderton, a pleasure.’

  Clem took a deep breath and pushed herself to standing. She turned with a smile, a smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘May I introduce my Press and Marketing Director, and also, in her time off, my sister – Clem Alderton.’

  The Swimmer’s hand clasped hers firmly and she almost jumped at the touch.

  ‘Ms Alderton,’ the Swimmer murmured, his head tipped slightly but his eyes boring into hers. ‘A pleasure to meet you again.’

  Tom was taken by surprise. ‘You know each other?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ the Swimmer replied, still holding her limp hand, his eyes raking over her outfit and body like fingers. ‘But we’ve been at the same events a few times.’

  Clem was silent. Not a word would come from her throat. She wondered whether he could see the flush creeping up her chest and neck, whether her deeply dilated pupils were giving her away, whether she was actually panting or if it was just the hammering of her heart that she could hear?

  ‘Oh.’ Tom shifted warily. ‘Well, please take a seat,’ he said, interrupting the interlude and motioning for them to sit down.

  The Swimmer sat at the end of the table, with brother and sister on either side of him. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a seahorse-print pink Hermès tie – lucky for him too? – his long legs crossed, his fingers pitched together into a steeple, his eyes on Tom, but his mind, Clem knew, on her.

  Clem sat back in her chair, trying to look a lot cooler than she felt. She still hadn’t uttered a word and she wasn’t sure she could. The chemistry between them was almost too much, throwing her off her stride every time, and she didn’t like it. She had been tricked into coming here and – given that at the christening he’d mysteriously known her name and address – he probably knew very well that there was too much riding on this meeting for Alderton Hide for her to walk out.

  She kept her eyes dead ahead, determined not to let her gaze wander as Tom began his pitch.

  ‘I’d like to begin by saying that in contacting Alderton Hide to discuss your requirements, you’ve already made a key decision, and that’s a commitment to collaborate not only with an elite team of craftsmen and designers but, crucially, to pursue your vision in an ethical and sustainable way Many of our competitors have a less, shall we say, “organic” approach to their businesses. Everybody operating in this niche market is working with discerning clients who want only the very best, and we do, too, but we stand alone because we believe we can marry a high-spec aesthetic with good ethical and environmental practice. We source the very best and rarest hides in the world, while insisting upon utmost transparency and integrity throughout our supply chains, from the farmers through to the abattoirs through to the tanneries. We passionately believe that beauty doesn’t need to be cruel—’

  ‘D’accord,’ the Swimmer murmured, his eyes on Tom still, but his words, Clem knew, directed for her alone. This wasn’t a meeting, it was a private game – foreplay She felt a shiver tiptoe up her skin.

  ‘That’s our company philosophy in a nutshell and, should you be interested, I can give you more detailed examples of how this works in practice.’ Tom reached for the iPad he’d put on the table and Clem noticed his hand trembling slightly. ‘But before we look further into your requirements for this project, I thought it might be useful for you to take a look at our portfolio and see in closer detail some of our past projects which, broadly speaking, dovetail with yours.’

  He pressed ‘play’ and handed over the iPad, which showed a smooth sequence of glossy images, most of which Clem had jazzed up with Instagram filters for varying moods.

  Clem allowed herself to study his reactions as he watched the presentation. His prof
ile was really quite magnificent – aquiline, smooth, his jawline close-shaven and tight, the plane of his cheekbones mitred, the slight swell of his lips, the outer edge of his eyes – those eyes, betrayed by one faint laughter line. Did he laugh? He seemed too intense to laugh, and that alone made her long to hear it, to be the one to break the perfection of his face and soften it with a single line.

  He looked across at her suddenly, catching her staring directly at him, and she almost gasped at having been caught. She felt her complexion flame and she looked away. What was it with him? He made the most normal, trivial behaviour explode into something more . . . more significant. Looking at him, asking his name became somehow a weakness or, at least, a weakening, and she sensed it was all part of a possession he had of her, the power he wanted over her.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he said to Tom, handing back the iPad and nodding vaguely, thinking in silence for a few moments. ‘Let me tell you what it is I’m looking for,’ he said quietly, and Clem half-expected him to say, ‘Five foot nine brunette with aquamarine eyes and an attitude.’ The house is an eighteenth-century palazzo with eight bedroom suites, six bathrooms, three receptions, library, two kitchens and a media centre. We’re stripping everything back to the bones.’

  Clem cast a glance at Tom and could see his ankle jigging furiously beneath the table, a look of smiling calm on his face. He was the proverbial swan, she thought sadly, gliding serenely on the surface, feet paddling furiously beneath. They had to land this.

  ‘As for the boat, it’s an Azimut One Hundred Leonardo – thirty metres, two storeys, four cabins, two staff cabins. The hull has been stripped back and rebuilt, and the decks will be refitted imminently with teak. But the soft interior needs to be done from scratch.’

  ‘So the shell refurb’s almost complete?’ Tom asked in surprise. ‘I would have thought you’d have secured your designs for the interior by now then?’

  ‘I had,’ the Swimmer replied. ‘But then . . . then I heard about you.’

  Tom grew an inch, his handsome face finally beginning to relax. ‘Well, we’re immensely flattered to hear that,’ he beamed, but Clem knew the compliment had been targeted at her. If she’d thought she’d blown it after he’d walked away at the christening, she knew with absolute certainty now that he wasn’t going to stop coming after her – not if he was prepared to give Alderton Hide a commission on this scale. Most men just took her for a drink and she didn’t ever ask for more than that; she wanted nothing from them other than a short-lived good time. No strings, no rings – that was her rule. And yet this guy was the richest, most gorgeous of the bunch, and she was making him jump through hoops, giving him less than any of the others, refusing even to ask his name. It didn’t make sense, not even to her. But then she’d never been big on self-scrutiny

  Clem thought she heard a question mark and looked across abruptly at Tom, who was staring at her. ‘Huh?’

  ‘I asked whether you could pass me the book with the aniline leathers in?’ Tom said, glaring at her for flirting with the client.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ she mumbled, reaching down for the case and handing it over. The Swimmer covered his smile with his hand.

  ‘So, these leathers are produced by a tannery in Santa Croce sull’Arno in Tuscany. We’ve been working closely with them for a couple of years now, and they’ve developed a technique, which is currently being patented, whereby an aniline, top-grain leather can be made fully waterproof, but retains the suppleness and fluidity of nappa. So far, they’re only supplying Hermès and us.’ Tom made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘We may be a small and young company, but we’re already renowned for our pioneering approaches and heavy investment in driving the industry forwards.’

  The Swimmer’s expression didn’t change, but Clem detected he was amused. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said again, his soft accent giving the innocuous words a ridiculously sensuous spin.

  ‘And as you can see, the colour range is pretty impressive. Over forty—’

  A woman had stopped by their table and rested a slim hand on the Swimmer’s significant shoulder. The men immediately stood up, adjusting their ties. Clem followed, but a lot more slowly and uncertainly as she recognized the girl from the cinema.

  The Swimmer kissed her lightly on each cheek. ‘You are late.’

  ‘I am sorry. Traffic,’ she smiled back at him, her voice accented like his. Clem stiffened as the girl lightly stroked his cheek with her finger. It seemed their lovers’ tiff was long since forgotten. ‘I always forget how bad it is . . .’

  He smiled and their eyes locked, before remembering they had company.

  ‘Fleur, I want you to meet Tom and Clem Alderton of Alderton Hide.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ Fleur replied, addressing Tom first and giving Clem the lightest, briefest of handshakes.

  Tom moved out of his seat and one along so that Fleur could sit beside the Swimmer. Clem returned to sitting, grateful to relieve her legs of the sudden burden of supporting her, and stared at Fleur in open astonishment and dismay. She was demurely dressed today, a socialite to Clem’s rock princess, elegant and understated, a khaki silk shirtdress, discreet Cartier tank watch and taupe patent Ferragamo pumps. Clem practically tutted and looked away at the sight of them. Ferragamo?

  She wasn’t as tall as Clem, but not much shorter, and she was certainly as slim, although probably with more effort. Her skin was lightly tanned from an olive base and she had bright brown eyes that were milk chocolate to Tom’s dark. Her mid-brown hair was expensively tinted with caramel highlights and she had a flitting, skittish way of moving, as though she was as fragile as a butterfly. Clem wanted to kick her.

  Humiliation rained down upon her and she stared at her hands in quiet fury. Was that what all this was? She’d made a fool out of him and now he was returning the compliment?

  ‘. . . would like to know what Clem thinks.’

  Clem snapped to attention. ‘What?’

  Everyone was looking at her.

  Tom’s smile was fixed and stiff. ‘Mr Beaulieu was interested in hearing your opinion on the anilines.’

  Clem looked over at him. The Swimmer was sitting back in his chair, legs outstretched, his fingers still raised in a steeple. To the rest of the room, his pose was languid and unconcerned, but the expression in his eyes told her differently. The earlier heat had gone and he knew what was running through her mind. He knew what was about to happen

  She stood up abruptly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked, her voice convincingly weak. ‘But I don’t feel well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself.’

  Tom, who’d momentarily looked furious, looked concerned in the next instant. ‘You are pale, Clem. Are you OK?’

  ‘I will be,’ she mumbled, grabbing her bag. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mumbled to Fleur, refusing to meet the Swimmer’s eyes again. He’d thought he’d trapped her here, but who was trapped now? ‘It was a pleasure meeting you.’

  She left without another word, determined not to run. She wouldn’t run. But she had to move quickly. In three meetings and less than a hundred words, he had managed something no man ever managed: to upset her.

  She saw the Ladies’ across the lobby on the right and darted inside, ignoring the women standing by the mirrors, who stared at her as she dashed into a cubicle. She leaned against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Stupid! She’d been so stupid! He’d played her for a fool; he’d been waiting for that moment to happen from the second he’d arrived and had watched every flash of surprise, shock, envy and dismay run across her face. She thought of the nights she’d lain awake thinking about him, re-running their smoke-and-mirrors conversation through her head, the look in his eyes the night of the party and again at the Electric, his candid manner at the christening when he’d put it out there that he wanted her. No bones. Just acceptance of what was inevitable between them. Anticipation.

  But she’d pushed him away, effectively laughed in his face, and this was his response. She�
��d won the battle but he’d win the war. He wasn’t going to give Tom the business. He had simply needed a forum to humiliate her, push her back, and they were both going to lose out. Tom was going to be penalized because – yet again – of something she’d done.

  Flinging open the cubicle door, she stormed to the basin, opening the taps so fully that water sprayed in the sink and the other women making up their faces had to jump away. Clem didn’t care. She splashed cold water on her face over and over, before turning off the taps and leaning heavily on her hands. She stared at herself in the mirror, willing the anger to override the upset. This was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a shock . . .

  With a deep breath, she pushed herself up and raked her wet hands through her hair. Then she flung the door open and strode out—

  Straight into him. He grabbed her by the elbow and marched her to the opposite wall.

  The concierge, alerted by their harried movements, looked up, and – seeing they were clearly lovers – discreetly looked away again.

  ‘Don’t.’ His voice was quiet and low.

  Clem’s mouth opened but she couldn’t reply. Overwhelmed by his sudden nearness again, the tears she had been so determined she’d never show him were falling, just like that, betraying her to him. She wanted to slap her own face, much less his.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, his eyes tracing the tear tracks before coming back to her gaze with sorrow.