Why is it you can never find a parking meter when you want one? There must have been thousands of the beggars stretched in a line all across London, but never just where you needed one. And tonight had been no exception. Neil had parked a million miles away from the restaurant and was now dashing through the streets, battering hapless passersby with his roses, racing to The Ivy.
The sidestreet was deserted, the restaurant shrouded by a framework of rusty iron. There was no point hanging around outside, as they should have ordered and be halfway through their starters by now—shock over, loosened up, laughing, joking, talking over old times. God, he hoped so.
Neil swung the door open and was greeted by a smart black-suited man whom he assumed was the restaurant manager. He was glad he was wearing his Paul Smith suit and not his usual garb of jeans, not necessarily clean, and polo shirt.
The man armed himself with his professional greeter’s smile. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Do you have a table booked in the name of Kingston?”
The manager ran his finger down a page of bookings on his desk.
“It was for eight-thirty,” Neil offered helpfully.
The man frowned. “I’m afraid you’re rather late….”
“It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for my brother.” Neil tried to peer over his shoulder. “And his wife. I wondered if they’d arrived?”
The manager studied his bookings some more. “One moment,” he said tight-lipped, and disappeared into the restaurant. Neil tried to catch a glimpse of the interior, but it was impossible. True to his word, a moment later the man reappeared, a waiter at his side.
“Mr. Kingston left in rather a rush,” the waiter said when prompted. “About five minutes ago. I’m afraid his guest didn’t turn up.”
Neil’s heart sank to his unpolished shoes. “Was he okay?”
The waiter looked for confirmation that it was all right to breach client discretion. The other man gave a barely discernible nod. “He seemed rather…disappointed,” the waiter said.
“Disappointed, about-to-slit-his-wrists disappointed?” Neil asked.
The waiter looked for the go-ahead again. “Disappointed, about-to-slit-someone-else’s-wrists disappointed,” he said.
Neil sucked in his breath. “Thanks,” he replied earnestly.
“You’re welcome.” The waiter disappeared gratefully back to his post.
“I’m sorry,” the manager said.
Neil pursed his lips. “Me too.” And he stuffed his bunch of bloodred roses into a conveniently placed leather wastepaper bin.
Misery washed over him. Ed would batter him to a pulp with his cricket bat if he ever found out that it was Neil and Jemma who’d dreamed up this fiasco. And why the hell hadn’t Ali showed? Perhaps she was hopelessly in love with this young toy boy of hers after all. Perhaps it wasn’t just a flash in the pan. Perhaps they should never have interfered in other people’s lives. How, by all that was holy, he was going to break this news to Jemma he had no idea. And this was supposed to be his lucky, lucky suit!
He turned to go out of the door, and as he did so, a stunningly attractive woman rushed past him, causing the heavy, well-oiled door to ricochet on its hinges. She turned and stared at him. Her hair was almost black, frothy, like a feather boa piled on top of her head, and her strong, wide mouth, emphasized with a slash of red lipstick, was unhappy. Fine lines creased her soft white forehead into a frown. Her black eyes were shuttered, inscrutable, and they flicked over Neil blink-clicking like the lens of a camera. She was tall, beautiful and utterly, utterly out of his league. The strains of Rossano Brazzi singing “Some Enchanted Evening” from the film South Pacific reverberated very loudly in Neil’s head. He checked the speakers in the foyer—they were playing some twinkly classical stuff. Neil banged his ear.
“Sorry,” she said in a resonantly New York accent. “I’m in a rush.”
“Me too,” Neil said, wishing that Rossano would shut the flip up. He stood and held the door open gormlessly.
“Thanks,” the woman said, flicking her tongue across her full lips.
Neil decided that he had died and gone to heaven and that the inevitable bollocking that would come his way from Jemma would be well worth it for this moment alone.
The restaurant manager engaged his professional smile again, although Neil noted that it seemed less of an effort for this particular customer.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Ed Kingston,” she said, brushing a stray curl from her eyes.
The manager cast a nervous glance at Neil. The woman turned round and followed his gaze.
Neil felt himself flush. “So was I,” he said.
The woman’s frown deepened. “And you are?”
“His brother.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she said. The frown stayed in place. “I’m Orla.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Neil looked at her hand and back at her face. Rossano Brazzi’s exquisite rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” screeched abruptly to a halt.