Confessions of a Shopaholic (36 page)

“I know, then,” says Suze. “You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.”

“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 suddenly 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.