‘Another?’
He looked up, momentarily thrown. The maître d’ smiled, nodding at the glass in front of him.
‘Another beer?’
‘Sure. No, actually I’d better . . . Maybe later.’
‘No probs,’ she said with a coquettish smile. ‘I can wait.’
I can’t, he thought, glancing at his watch and realising that if he slipped out of here now, he might be able to squeeze in a run and still be back in time for Homeland.
He was just about to summon the bill when an attractive redhead came in from the cold. She loosened the scarf around her neck and looked around, meeting his gaze. Since his entanglement with Jennifer all those years ago, he had come to realise that his new type was not quite so obviously beautiful women, his reasoning being that they were less likely to leave him, but there was no denying that Sarah Huxley was an absolute knockout.
He put his wallet back in his pocket and looked at her hopefully.
‘Jim?’ she asked with a broad red-lipped smile.
He nodded gratefully. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Google takes out the guesswork. I’m Sarah, by the way,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Sorry I’m late. Bloody subway’s useless. What are we drinking?’
Jim laughed, holding up his beer bottle. ‘Well I’ve just had—’
‘Great, two more of those,’ she said to the maître d’, dumping her bag on the floor.
‘I suppose this is better than Tinder,’ she grinned, slipping her brown coat off to reveal a cherry-coloured dress.
‘I’ve not joined the digital dating age.’
‘Get with the programme, Grandad.’
He was touchy these days about age jibes, but Sarah said it with such a sense of fun, he didn’t take offence.
‘So how long have you been in New York?’
‘Three weeks. What about you?’
‘Three years.’
‘And you’re a reporter?’
She nodded. ‘I came over on a graduate scheme for one of the tabloids, but I liked it and stayed. Now I’m on the news desk at Whizzfeed.’
‘The website? I thought it was all lists and pictures of fluffy kittens.’
‘We’ve got a news team of thirty-five, and a bigger investigations department than Newsweek.’
‘What story are you working on this week?’
‘The top ten places to buy doughnuts in New York City.’
Jim looked at her with bemusement before she burst out laughing.
‘I’m kidding.’
‘You’ve got the filthiest laugh since Sid James, do you know that?’
‘And I can’t tell you how good it is to speak to someone who knows who Sid James actually is, even if he was about twenty years before my time.’
He made a mental calculation of her age, but didn’t do it discreetly enough.
‘I’m twenty-seven,’ she smiled playfully. ‘What about you?’
‘Older,’ he replied, swirling his beer around his bottle.
‘Are you the same age as Jennifer?’
‘More or less.’
‘Is that how you know each other? You were contemporaries?’ she asked, fishing for information.
‘We were neighbours in Savannah for one summer about twenty years ago. I hadn’t seen her for years until I moved to New York.’
‘Did you have a fling?’ she asked bluntly.
‘A fling?’
‘Back in Savannah. Was she a holiday romance?’
‘She was a friend. A good friend. What about you? How did you meet her?’ he asked, grateful to steer the conversation away from him.
‘Some swanky charity event,’ smiled Sarah. ‘I’d been sent to cover it for the parties section of the website. I was on my own, didn’t know a soul. I was loitering by the buffet wondering when I could leave when Jennifer came over and introduced herself. Turns out she organised the event and still managed to be the friendliest person in the room. You don’t often get that in New York society circles.’
Jim gave a soft smile. ‘That sounds like Jen.’
‘We kept in touch. I helped her promote the charity. Somewhere along the line we became friends. She says she likes the British sense of humour. Maybe I remind her of you.’ Sarah grinned.
Jim ordered them both another drink.
‘So do you know Connor?’ he asked, his turn to mine for information.
Sarah groaned and Jim felt a sense of satisfaction.
‘You’re a fan, then?’
‘I don’t really know him, but I don’t like to see Jen when she’s around him. She treads on eggshells. I don’t think life with him is easy.’
Jim could feel his heart beating harder.
‘His business troubles aren’t helping.’
‘Connor? I thought he was King of the Hill.’
‘Sure, that’s what he wants everyone to think. But businessmen like that . . . Well, a lot of it is just a con trick, isn’t it?’
‘You think Connor’s business is in trouble?’
Sarah hesitated as if she didn’t want to say any more.
‘I heard a rumour at work that he’s thrown all his chips in with some developer and that the project is in trouble. I broached it with Jen and she reluctantly told me how worried they were. She was even talking about using the inheritance from her dad to tide him over.’
‘But I always got the sense that Connor came from money,’ he frowned. ‘I mean, isn’t his father loaded?’
‘Not after Lehman Brothers,’ replied Sarah.
Jim had never really understood what Connor’s father had done. Something in finance as he recalled – or had he just assumed? Certainly during that hot summer Connor had made sure everyone was aware that his daddy had a yacht, a big house and a Cessna jet. But Sarah was right: often in those circumstances it was just a matter of moving paper around, keeping all the plates spinning. And when they crashed down, they could bring others with them.
‘Maybe I should speak to her,’ said Jim.
‘Don’t,’ said Sarah, shaking her head. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. Jen’s proud, I don’t think she’d appreciate me gossiping.’
‘It’s not gossip when it’s your friends.’
She looked meaningfully at him. ‘Please?’
He thought about it for a moment.
‘Sure. I won’t say anything. I owe her a favour anyway.’
‘What for?’
Jim gave her a crooked smile.
‘For you, of course.’
The air was cold when Jim and Sarah stepped out into the street. They had been talking for two hours – more, in fact – laughing for most of it. Jim couldn’t remember having enjoyed a night out so much for ages. Sarah was funny, clever, mischievous. Her eyes danced everywhere, as if she were always looking for the next adventure, and as their conversation progressed and the more they revealed of themselves to each other, the less Jim found himself thinking about work, how he should be home catching up on his emails. The less he found himself thinking about Jennifer.
‘So are you going to walk me to the subway?’ asked Sarah, pulling up her collar.
‘You’re not getting a cab?’
‘Sitting in traffic drives me nuts. Besides, I’ve got to keep in shape for Barry’s.’
‘Barry’s?’ he said, feeling a spike of jealousy about another man.
‘Barry’s bootcamp. It’s a class I go to. It’s hard-core.’
‘So you’re keeping fit to keep up with keep-fit.’
‘Why don’t you come?’
‘When is it?’
‘Six a.m.’
‘Welcome to New York.’
His stomach rumbled and he realised he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch.
‘How about we get something to eat?’ he suggested.
‘I’ve got a better idea. My friend is DJ-ing tonight.’
‘It’s Tuesday,’ he said, struggling to remember the last time he’d gone clubbing, let alone on a week night.
> ‘So? Come on. You’ll love it. It’s a load of retro stuff.’
They got a cab to a dive bar in Brooklyn. The place was full of men with beards and plaid shirts. Jim checked his suit jacket in at the cloakroom and ordered a double vodka. Sarah seemed to know everyone. Within half an hour, so did he.
A couple called Justin and Ashley invited them to their cabin in the Adirondacks for the weekend. A travel blogger called Cara offered to do a piece on the Omari group, which Jim politely said he’d think about, until Sarah pointed out that her site had more traffic than Condé Nast Traveller.
Sarah dragged him up to dance, and after the amount he’d had to drink, he was happy to oblige, singing along to everything the DJ threw at them, from Snoop Dogg to Sonic Youth. If he noticed that Sarah didn’t know the words, he tried not to register it.
‘I love this old stuff,’ she said, throwing her head back and laughing out loud. Her hair tossed back like a matador’s cape, and when she settled her arms around the back of Jim’s neck, it seemed like the most natural place for them to be.
‘Are you going to kiss me, then, or am I going to have to make the first move?’ she whispered into his ear.
Her lips were only inches away from his now. Jim felt his skin tingle as they moved closer together until they were kissing; soft and sensual at first, becoming firmer and more passionate. Finally, they came up for air, both grinning like schoolchildren caught behind the bike sheds.
‘People are going to start staring,’ he smiled as they pulled apart. ‘The British are supposed to have such a stiff upper lip after all.’
‘Then we’d better find somewhere more private,’ she smiled as she took his hand and led him out of the club and back to her apartment in Brooklyn.
Chapter Fourteen
Jim had never liked the Hamptons. Or rather, he disliked the idea of it: a glittering enclave created exclusively for the use of the rich. Before today, admittedly, he had never visited Long Island, but he had mixed with plenty of people who had houses there. As a rule, they were the sort of people who boasted about their Upper East Side lateral conversion or their ‘cottage’ in Mustique.
‘Isn’t it pretty, though?’ said Sarah, peering out of the window of the car. ‘It’s like Walt Disney created a perfect version of what America should look like.’
She was certainly right about that. The houses passing on either side were perfect: sweeping lawns, picket fences, the Stars and Stripes hanging from the porches of beautifully rendered colonial cottages. Scaled-up versions, of course: hidden at the rear of these cute white clapboard fantasies would be pools and tennis courts and glass extensions filled with art and angular furniture. But from the front they were all nodding blue and pink hydrangeas and Americana shining in the sun.
‘I just wish you didn’t have to be a millionaire to live here. That’s why I love hotels so much: the places we build might be expensive, but at least everyone can go and stay there.’
Sarah raised an eyebrow. ‘I had no idea the Omari luxury hotel group was so socialist.’
He laughed. Sarah had a way of managing to cut through his defences. He needed something to calm his nerves, as he was dreading reaching their destination. They were heading to White Dune, the East Hampton estate owned by Connor Gilbert, Jennifer’s husband. Apparently the couple held a swish party at their house every Memorial Day, and Jim knew that that in itself was going to be difficult. He didn’t like Connor, never had, but meeting him for the first time in twenty years at his thirty-million-dollar estate wasn’t going to make him any more humble.
‘You OK?’
‘Sure, just trying to find my way through all this bling.’
They were passing through Bridgehampton, a small village with a cute ice cream parlour, a pizza shop, even a thrift store, which made the mind boggle. The rest of the single main street seemed to be taken up with art galleries, flash interiors outlets and fashion boutiques. Sarah reached over and squeezed his knee.
‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ she said in a fair impression of Katharine Hepburn’s clipped vowels. ‘One day, all this will be yours.’
Jim smiled across at her. He was glad she was here; it would certainly make the coming ordeal more bearable. But the truth was, he was also feeling tense because this was their first official outing as a couple. They had been seeing each other now for close to two months. After that electric first date, they had spent almost all their spare time together, much to Jim’s surprise. His plan, of course, had been to start seeing Sarah as a way of seeing more of Jennifer. In that regard, it had been an abject failure. He had seen Jennifer only once in the past six or seven weeks, and only then briefly for a drink before he and Sarah headed off to the movies. The truth was, there just hadn’t been enough time. The Casa D’Or project was well under way, the marketing people already circulating a glossy press release to build interest and excitement, and he was settling into his new life in Manhattan. But it was also that he liked Sarah. They had settled into an easy relationship that was refreshing in its lack of complexity. They went out. They had fun. The sex was great and Jim even found himself calling when he said he would.
He glanced over at her and she winked. He liked her. A lot.
‘Christ, is this where they live?’
They had turned off the Montauk Highway – a rather grand name for what was really just a two-lane road cutting through wineries and dunes, with the occasional large house – and on to an unmarked stretch of blacktop punctuated here and there by a hump of white wind-blown sand. Neither of them, however, was paying much attention to the road.
If the houses in Southampton and Water Mill had looked like overgrown cottages, the houses out here looked like full-blown mansions. The architecture paid lip service to the colonial style, yes, but there was no mistaking the grandeur of these dwellings: long drives, landscaped gardens and extensive outbuildings to house the spa or the stables or the ‘playroom’.
‘To think I’ve got a degree from sodding Cambridge and I live in a rent-controlled flat in Brooklyn. What do you think all these people do for a living?’ said Sarah, with a trace of bitterness. ‘They’re twenty mil minimum; even if you’re a banker, how do you scrape together the cash for that? I mean, these are second homes – they don’t even come here most of the year.’
‘Money begets money,’ said Jim. ‘If you start with Grandad’s oil millions, Daddy turns it into stock-market billions and then you sit around waiting for the dot-com wave to mature. Unless it’s all just paper,’ he added.
Sarah nodded. ‘Unless it’s all just paper. But don’t go throwing that into conversation with Connor, OK? I wasn’t supposed to tell you about it; Jennifer told me in confidence.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning on talking to Connor at all if I can help it.’
‘Good idea.’
There was a security guard waiting at the end of the drive holding a clipboard. They gave their names and were waved through. At the end of the drive, a uniformed parking attendant took Jim’s keys: you couldn’t be expected to have to park your own Mercedes, even if it did come from Hertz for the weekend.
Jim looked up at the house. It was a huge two-storey building with tall windows, and honeysuckle climbing up the immaculate whitewashed siding.
‘I’m sure he has a really small penis,’ whispered Sarah, and they both started to laugh.
A butler opened the door and they were immediately presented with a drink that looked like fruit punch.
The hall was cavernous, with tasteful modern art on the expansive white walls. Jim looked around, working out which architect and interior designer they were likely to have used; the immaculately tasteful use of distressed white oak, copper and mirrors had the hallmark of one particularly exclusive company he had worked with.
‘This way, I think,’ said Sarah, following the noise of the laughter, the rumble of voices and the chink of glassware.
Jim took a swallow of his cocktail. This whole scenario reminded him vividly
of the first time the Johnsons had visited Casa D’Or for a drinks party. Forced into a shirt and one of his father’s ties, he had skulked behind his mother and father, scowling and sullen, but had been secretly overawed by the wealth and privilege he’d been surrounded by. Blue bloods who could trace their line back to the Mayflower; rich in oil and stocks and communications, they dressed for dinner and for each other. Jim hated everything it stood for, connections and snobbery, but had secretly been impressed by it.
They stepped out from the shadow of the house on to the deck. Directly in front of them was an infinity pool that connected with its neat visual trick to the ocean. There were at least two dozen people standing around in small groups, chatting and drinking. Jim was used to mixing in these circles. He thought of himself with Simon Desai on New Year’s Eve, the conversation that had brought him here, and knew he could keep up. In these circumstances, he would usually seek out the person who had invited him, wait for them to connect him with a handful of others, and then let his charm and banter do the rest.
He saw her face almost immediately, and she had seen him. The crowd seemed to melt away as she moved towards them.
‘Sarah, Jim.’ She was wearing a floaty blue dress that fell almost to the floor; her dark hair had been pinned up on her head. In a sea of blow-dries, Botox and expensive gowns, she looked more natural and lovely than ever. ‘So glad you could make it out.’
She and Sarah embraced. ‘Jen, this place is amazing! I want to live here for ever.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you had to mow the lawns.’ Jennifer grinned back.
Jim smiled, trying to imagine the spectacle of Jennifer Wyatt-Gilbert pushing an old-fashioned rotary mower back and forth across the grass.
‘And what are you chuckling about?’
‘Oh, just happy to be here,’ said Jim, leaning in for a brief kiss. ‘Sarah’s right, this place . . . whoa!’
The House on Sunset Lake Page 12
