Fast Friends (34 page)

‘I shall need her tomorrow, from about nine in the morning
until midnight,’ said the American voice
caressing her ear like
silk. Despite
herself, Camilla smiled and softened. He really
did sound gorgeous.

‘Is it a photographic assignment, Mr . . .?’

‘Lewis. I daresay she’ll have her photograph taken, yes.’
He
paused, then added casually, ‘But all I
really want is a com
panion, an escort if you like, for the day.’

Correction, thought Camilla, her sense
of humour fading
fast: why was it that
men with sensual telephone voices always turned out to be sex-obsessed creeps?

‘
Mr Lewis, Sheridan’s is
not that kind of agency,’ she told
him coldly. ‘Please do not call this
number again.’

When the doorbell rang forty minutes
later she cursed Zoë
for always
losing her keys – how had she ever managed before
Camilla had moved in? – and made her way gingerly towards
the
front door, splaying her bare toes and praying that the wet
nail polish she had so painstakingly just applied
wouldn’t
smudge.

Sunlight streamed through the door’s
crimson and green
stained glass, its
fruit-gum shades reflecting upon the polished wooden floorboards of the hall. Beyond
the coloured glass, however, she was able to make out the outline of a figure
which
definitely wasn’t Zoë. There appeared
to be some kind of giant
out there,
the fact that she was barefoot only accentuating his
great height.

‘Good morning,’ said Camilla, her no-thank-you-we-already
have-double-glazing expression firmly in place,
her eyes on a
level with the centre button of a Mediterranean blue Paul
Smith shirt. Her gaze shifted sharply upwards, registering dark curly chest
hair, a strong brown neck and an even more deeply tanned
face with so many quirky, intriguing features that
she couldn’t
take them all in at once. Very dark, untidily curly hair,
amused
dark blue eyes and a wry, lop-sided
smile were most immedi
ately noticeable, but as he stood there, towering
in the doorway
and saying nothing for a
second or two, she observed too that
he
had one crooked incisor, laughter lines so deep they were
almost bags, and an indentation which could have
been a scar
or a dimple high up on his left cheek.

‘
I’m really not a
pervert,’ he said at last, ‘but when you told me not to phone again, I had no
way of letting you know that.
So I
thought I’d call round in person, seeing that I was more or
less in the
neighbourhood.’

‘
Oh,’ said Camilla, stunned.

‘
Do you think you might allow me a second chance to
explain?’

Still
stunned, she nodded. Leaning towards her, his left hand propping up the
stonework beside the front door, he reached
with
the other for Camilla’s right hand – which was hanging
limply at her
side – and solemnly shook it.

‘Delighted
to make your acquaintance. Matt Lewis.’

‘
The golfer,’ said Camilla, who hadn’t been married to Jack
and his
sixteen handicap for ten years without picking up some knowledge of the game.

He nodded. ‘And
I do still need a woman. May I come in?’

‘
Of course,’
said Camilla hastily, pulling herself together and
wondering where on earth she should put him. The living-
room carpet was awash with Zoë’s dress patterns
and half-cut
out material, as far as
she could remember the kitchen was also
a mess, and the spare bedroom
which she and Zoë had converted
into an
office still looked far too much like a bedroom to
consider inviting a
stranger inside it. Particularly a stranger as obviously virile and attractive
as Matt Lewis.

‘You’ll have to watch out for pins,’ she told him with a
shrug,
leading the way towards the
living-room. ‘Almost all our
business is conducted over the phone so we
don’t have a proper office, I’m afraid. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Lewis?
Or coffee?’

‘Tea’s fine.’ He stood back, admiring the smooth twin
curves of Camilla’s shoulder blades as she bent to retrieve the crackling
tissue-paper patterns and bright scarlet satiny
material strewn
over the floor. As she
moved, one of the thin straps of her
amethyst silk top slipped from her
beautifully rounded shoulder
and he glimpsed
the even more tantalizing curve of her breast.
He smiled at the speed with which she pulled the strap up
again, rosy colour touching her cheeks. Throwing
the heap of paper and material behind a chair, she came towards him and
this
time held out her hand.

‘
I’m Camilla Stewart, Zoë Sheridan’s business
partner. Sorry
I
was a bit abrupt on the phone, but—’

‘
I have a way with
words,’ he supplied, his blue eyes betraying
hidden laughter. ‘Well, I
can tell you, Miss Stewart, it isn’t that
often
I get the phone slammed down on me. I daresay it taught
me a lesson. But
I asked one of the receptionists at the hotel to give me the name of a
modelling agency and she told me that Sheridan’s was the very best in London,
so I thought you were probably worth pursuing.’

‘It’s Mrs Stewart,’ said Camilla automatically. Surprise
and
delight shone in her eyes. "The
hotel receptionist really said
that?’

‘Well,’ admitted Matt, ‘it did just happen to turn out
that her
sister’s boyfriend’s cousin’s wife
is one of your models, so maybe
she was biased.’

‘Oh.’ She looked momentarily downcast, then: ‘But we’re
the
best
new
agency, anyway. Why don’t
you sit down and I’ll
make some tea.’

Matt glanced at his watch. ‘It’s
almost lunchtime; why don’t
we go and have something to eat instead? We golfers have to
keep our strength up, and maybe by
buying you lunch I can
make up for
my earlier
faux pas.’

‘
Oh, that would have been lovely,’ said Camilla with
genuine regret, biting her lower lip
and looking so adorable
that Matt felt a sudden desperate longing to put his arms
around her. ‘But I really can’t – I
have a thousand things to do
and Zoë won’t be back for hours. I’m sorry,’ she said, her
smile only increasing his
determination. ‘But if you’re
absolutely starving I could make you some peanut butter
sandwiches. Sit down,’ she urged
again, turning away and
heading
towards the kitchen.

The sight
of those irresistible shoulder blades was simply
too much for Matt Lewis. ‘No,’ he said, dead-pan. ‘I certainly
will
not.’

The Red Rose in Covent Garden was dark, dramatic and
decadent, and Matt almost died. To her amazement Camilla
realized
that he was genuinely embarrassed by the provocative mirrored ceiling, crimson
damask drapes and walls hung with distinctly erotic paintings.

‘
We can’t stay here,’ he protested, ‘it looks like a whore
house!’

Camilla smiled and stood her ground,
resisting Matt’s
attempts to move her
out, amused and touched by his obvious discomfort. She still didn’t have the
faintest idea what she was
doing, dropping
everything and dashing out to have lunch with
a tall, persistent
stranger, but now that she was here she wasn’t going to leave.

‘They have a very pretty walled garden behind the
restaurant – we can sit outside and eat. They do wonderful food here.’

‘Strange place,’ murmured Matt, his dark eyebrows still
fixed
with doubt. ‘I had the idea that a
restaurant called The Red
Rose would be kind of cosy and Shakespearian,
you know?’

‘
Well, you were right
the first time when you said it looked
like
a whorehouse. It was going to be called The Brothel, but
there were complaints from outraged residents, so
they changed
it before the police
closed them down and arrested all the
waitresses
for soliciting.’ Explaining all this to Matt, and
realizing that he had
been more taken aback by the restaurant’s
interior
than she had on her first visit here two months ago
made Camilla feel terrifically worldly – something
she was still unfamiliar with. And to feel worldly in the company of
Matt
Lewis, this overwhelming American with the curly dark
hair and big shoulders, was surely even more incredible.
Whoever
would think, looking at her now, that this impromptu
lunch date – forced upon her against her better judgement –
was the first social occasion she had experienced
for almost
three months?

Although it was mid-September the weather was still
incredibly good; the Indian summer predicted by the weathermen had
actually materialized and in the sheltered
high-walled garden
of The Brothel –
for it was still known by its original name –
the temperature was up in
the high seventies, golden sunlight
bathing
the terracotta and bleached cream flagstones and the
tubs of bright
flowers dotted between the tables.

Reminded of al fresco lunches in Greece
with Jack, when
she
had sweltered in voluminous blouses and long skirts, afraid
to reveal her pale bulk to the world,
Camilla slipped off her
pink and
white blazer and welcomed the sun’s warmth upon her bare, lightly tanned
shoulders.

‘A year ago I couldn’t have sat here like this,’ she
confided, leaning forward with her elbows on the table and touching her
upper arms. ‘I was grotesquely fat. Sometimes I
forget for a
few minutes and think I still am.’

Her candidness – how many women, after
all, would admit
to such a thing? –
charmed Matt completely.

When their drinks had been served and the meal ordered,
Camilla reached into the vast haversack she had
brought with her and drew out two photograph albums, clearing a place for
them
on the table.

‘You want to show me your family snaps?’ said Matt,
sitting
back in his chair and looking
alarmed. ‘If you’re planning to
show me pictures of your devoted husband
. .

Camilla
smiled. ‘I’m divorced. Would I be sitting here withyou now if I were married,
Mr Lewis?’ she added playfully.

His tone altered, became serious.
"There’s no reason why
you shouldn’t.
It is only a business lunch, after all. Isn’t it?’

Two spots of colour appeared in
Camilla’s cheeks. ‘Oh, yes
. . . of course it is. How stupid of me . . .’ She faltered, covered
in confusion and Matt burst out laughing. Her innocence
was absolutely enchanting. No wonder he found himself so strongly
attracted to her, when all he ever seemed to meet
these days
were all-knowing, highly
lacquered, sharply calculating girls
who never missed a trick.

‘You’re teasing me,’ Camilla reproached him, sagging with
relief.

He tapped her left hand, bare of rings, with his fork. ‘I
knew you weren’t married.’

‘I might have been one of those women who don’t wear a
wedding-ring,’ she countered, pretending to be
affronted, and
the expression in Matt’s eyes sent a shiver down her
legs.

‘
Ah,’ he said with slow
deliberation, ‘but you’re not. I’ve
figured that much out already.’

To cover the awkward moment that
followed, during which
she couldn’t
think of a single thing to say, Camilla busied herself opening the photograph
albums and pushing them across the tablecloth towards Matt. Business, this is a
business
lunch, she
told herself,
knowing that it really wasn’t. Matt Lewis was
looking at her in a very
unbusinesslike way indeed.