Imogen left her mum’s house to walk to the train station. She took in a deep breath of the damp, cold mid-March air, the month still in lion mode not lamb. She’d stayed over last night and it was a relief to be out of there.
If she was honest, she felt trapped at her mum’s – the green carpet everywhere, the tired décor, the carriage clock on the mantelpiece loudly ticking the hours away. It was claustrophobic. Last night she’d retreated to her old bedroom at 9p.m. when Mum retired, and had read lying on her stomach on the bed with her feet dangling off the end, like she’d always used to.
Her bedroom was exactly the same as it had always been. Peach, tiny floral print wallpaper. A scratched white desk with flaky bits of exposed wood, long before shabby chic became fashionable. A sink in the corner. She was the only one of her friends who had one and she used to have it edged in Aapri facial scrub, a tiny bar of wrapped soap, Anne French cleansing milk and an Impulse body spray: Temptation. Still there, on the wooden, wall-mounted shelves, were an ancient Pippa doll (hair cut off, of course) an old cassette machine onto which she’d tape the Top 40 (swearing if the DJ dared talk over the beginning of a record), and a 1986 annual, full of tips on how to get a boyfriend.
In that peach room she had dreamed of having a man. A Prince Charming. The person to take her way from all this. (Ha! Well, that hadn’t worked! She was right back where she started.) She saw how it affected her mum, being alone, with no man to share her life with. Imogen’s father, or the sperm donor, as she liked to put it, had not stuck around. Mum had had a wild and passionate affair with him in her late teens, then he’d moved back to Brazil. That wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded: he wasn’t Brazilian, he just lived there. He’d made little contact once he realised he had a daughter, only sending the occasional, half-hearted cheque. When Imogen was a teenager she’d dreamed of flying to Rio to build a relationship with him but now she didn’t; he’d proved himself not to be worth the effort.
Imogen, the serious schoolgirl with the A grades, was not going to end up alone. She was going to bag herself a great man. The best she could possibly get, and she’d work at it as hard as she studied. She treated having boyfriends at school like a career, trying to climb a rung up the ladder each time. Each boyfriend had to be better than the last.
She reached the end of her mum’s road and headed smartly down the next. She felt happier the nearer she got to the train station – there were shops and convenience stores and takeaway places and noise and smells and life. She was more comfortable in an urban environment; suburbia didn’t suit her. She’d loved drunks shouting outside her window at 3a.m. in Putney, all the noise and the bustle. And she loved going to London to work, despite the fact she hated her current job. Thank God it was Friday.
She had become an actors’ agent at twenty-two, after being an assistant agent for three years and an intern for one. She had been one of eight agents in a big company. It was a busy, glamorous job – sending actors for castings, negotiating contracts, dealing with actor’s egos, schmoozing casting directors and producers at lunches and dinners. She loved it.
Her glory days, she called those early years. She went to places like the Met Bar and the Titanic. She got drunk and went home to Putney in mini-cabs. She knew a lot of TV blondes and once snogged one of Supergrass’s roadies, in the VIP area of a festival. She drank red wine in fancy restaurants until her teeth were black, and she’d grin at herself in posh Philippe Starck-type toilets that had no locks on the door, and think she not only had it all, but she had it all before her. They were the good old days – apart from one small blip. Her days in the sun.
She smiled as she remembered them, as she fed her ticket through the barrier and climbed the steps to Platform One. Her glory days had lasted for a long time. Even after she’d had to move back to Essex, she’d tried to keep them going. She was still out every night, watching plays and productions with up-and-coming actors in, attending networking dinners in trendy restaurants and, before the Man Ban, dating the most eligible and unsatisfactory men in the capital.
The last train back to Chelmsford had been a good way of separating the wheat from the chaff. After ten past midnight bad decisions about men were all too easy to make. The only time she’d missed it and had to get a cab all the way home was after a fantastic night salsa dancing with an investment manager from Deloittes. Their revelry had ended drunkenly at 2a.m., the cab cost her £140 and there had been no return on her investment. Deloittes Man turned out to have a wife, five children and a house in Mayfair that he got a £15 taxi home to.
The last train to Chelmsford had also stopped her from bringing any men back to the boxy new build she was slightly ashamed of. That’s what hotels were for.
Imogen got on the train. She frowned, as the only remaining seat was next to a woman eating a very smelly ‘breakfast bagel’ that looked like it had a full B&B fry-up stuffed into it. She squeezed as close as she could to the window, got out her Kindle and wondered exactly how, last November, she had suddenly got fed up with it all. Being an agent. At the time her thought processes seemed quite clear: she was forty, she fancied a career break, a change. She’d been an agent for twenty-two years. She couldn’t climb any higher with it. She’d done it all. It was getting boring.
She thought she’d see what was out there. Sniff around a bit. Maybe get a job in a different field, like television. Television production, maybe. She had a lot of skills. She could temp. She’d met someone who’d told her it was brilliant. You could get a foothold in the door of a new industry but at the same time enjoy a sense of freedom. You could walk out that door whenever you liked. And there was no pressure. Imogen was sold.
She left her agency, Potters, in a triumphant cloud, with a loud and boozy champagne send-off, then, within days of joining a temp agency, got a job at Yes! Productions, covering someone’s maternity leave.
She pushed open the door there now. The trendy reception area always met her with a pepper and ginger biscuit-infused room spray that made her sneeze. She’d suffered it all week and had just about had enough of it.
‘Morning, Imogen.’
‘Ach-oo! Sorry. Morning, Fred.’
She always had to show her pass, everyone did, no matter how long they’d worked there. Fred once refused to let Marge the cleaner in, because she’d forgotten hers, and she’d worked there for ten years. It was an independent production company. They made sitcoms and the occasional gardening programme for the BBC.
As she walked to her desk, a formidable figure was lurking.
‘When you’re ready, Imogen.’
‘Yes, Carolyn.’
Carolyn Boot. Tyrant was way too mild a word for her.
Carolyn disappeared into her office. Imogen would follow, in approximately one minute, once she’d taken her coat off, to have her Daily Diary Meeting with her. It was Friday the 13th, but every day was unlucky for Imogen at this job.
Imogen had had the misfortune of being Carolyn Boot’s personal assistant for the past three and a half months, and it was hell. Working for her was not so much like walking on eggshells, but tiptoeing on a tragically thin sheet of ice, where one wrong move could place you into the black, icy water that was Carolyn Boot’s disapproval. Nothing was ever good enough; nothing was ever done quickly enough or accurately enough or with enough expediency, one of Carolyn Boot’s favourite words. And it was so easy to get things wrong! Especially with that threat of utter contempt hanging over you.
It was totally mad, really; Imogen had been an agent, for goodness’ sake! But this woman could reduce anyone to a quivering wreck. Employees, especially the younger girls – well, they were all younger than Imogen – quaked when she walked in the office. She could fell a conversation with a pointed glance. She had a way of telling people off that reduced them to tears. And when Carolyn Boot laughed, someone had better laugh along with her.
Imogen picked up her pad and pen and walked into Carolyn’s office.
Carolyn Boot took her shoes off in the office and walked around in her stockinged feet. Tan tights, usually. Woe betide if anyone else did, though. Elaine Marks tried it once and got a right telling-off. The old cow also did this really bizarre thing where she would kneel on the carpet by the side of an employee’s desk – the high kneeling, where the bottom doesn’t touch the legs – stick her head right next to them and mutter earnestly. It was a misguided attempt at ‘chumminess’, Imogen suspected. Carolyn stank of cigarettes and colleagues were too scared to reel back from the smell. She also had a despised Leslie Judd from Blue Peter haircut.
‘Take a seat.’
Carolyn was propped on her desk, her legs dangling like splints and her tights bunched round her toes. Imogen sat on a low chair facing her.
‘Have you sorted the talent for next week’s dinner at Four Bridges?’ Talent didn’t mean tasty men, or anything like that – not that Imogen would currently care – it was a poncey word for actors, creative people, producers, whatever… You could use it to describe anyone with the merest sniff of the stuff. Carolyn loved the word. She used it at least six hundred times every day.
‘Yes, Carolyn.’
‘And don’t forget the electrician’s coming next Thursday.’
‘All in hand, Carolyn.’
One day a week, Imogen had to go to Carolyn Boot’s house in Oxford and sort out all her domestic arrangements. It involved things like waiting three hours for a courier delivery, tending to plants and doing the recycling. It was not really what Imogen had imagined for her new career. Even a temporary part of it. Watering some old dragon’s begonias and shuffling her husband’s junk mail into a recycling bag one day a week (yes, amazingly Carolyn Boot was married), and working under her cruel regime in the office the other four.
For twenty more minutes, Carolyn gave out orders and Imogen bitterly noted them down. What parallel universe had she made herself wander into?
Finally, she returned to her desk. But soon after, the stench of stale fags and coffee breath alerted Imogen to the fact The Kneeler was by her side.
‘I forgot something important,’ said Carolyn. ‘Could you please make sure you order three sets of duck wraps and four sets of finger rolls – turkey not ham – for tomorrow’s Acquisitions and Agendas breakfast meeting. Graham Grinch likes a light bite. Those hideous bacon things you organised last time didn’t go down at all well.’
‘Yes, Carolyn.’
Carolyn stood up and padded back to her office and Imogen swiftly sent an email to Teresa, who worked the other side of the partition.
If that cow kneels at my desk one more time, I’m going to bosh her over the head with my hole punch, she wrote and sent, in a matter of seconds.
Bish, bash, bosh. An email swooped straight back.
Imogen’s heart jumped up to the top of her head. It was her subject line (‘Ughh!’) but the email was from Carolyn Boot.
I beg your pardon? Come into my office.
She hastily checked her sent emails. She’d definitely sent it to Teresa. What the hell had gone wrong? She fired off another email to her colleague.
Are your emails being forwarded to Carolyn Boot?
Too late, she realised Carolyn may get that one, too.
Teresa popped her head over the partition and hissed, ‘Yes! For today. I’m being monitored – every email I send or receive, after that “sending the wrong letter” incident.’ Teresa had recently sent out a letter to some very important Talent, inviting them to a Facilitatory Brainstorm Catch-all, three years ago, as she’d used a template letter and hadn’t changed the previous date. ‘Bloody hell, Imogen!’ She’d read the email, then.
‘Bollocks,’ said Imogen, and she rose from her chair and went to the guillotine.
Carolyn was behind her desk this time. Her face was set hard. Hatchet face, hammer face, sledgehammer face, thought Imogen. A face of an old boot. She felt sick with fear. She felt like a child sent to the headmistress’s office. A foot soldier sent to be court-martialled.
Then she remembered who she was, who she had been and who she was supposed to be and almost laughed to herself. Why was she frightened of this bloody woman? Why was everyone frightened of her? She didn’t need this. She was an agent! People were supposed to suck up to her – not that she’d ever be so officious, so nasty, or so downright up her own bottom as this awful bloody woman. Plus, she was way too old for this nonsense.
Carolyn opened her mouth to speak.
‘Before you say anything,’ said Imogen, ‘and I’m sure it’s going to be just delightful, I’ve got something to say to you.’ She went and stood right in front of the desk and looked over Carolyn. She wasn’t in her stockinged feet. She was in four-inch heels and she used her height for extra power. She told Carolyn exactly what everyone around her had been longing to say – for years, probably.
‘Just because you happen to be Controller of Executive Demonstrative Facilitative Relations, it doesn’t make you a better person than everyone else. Smarter, maybe. Luckier, definitely. But not better.’ Carolyn made to protest but Imogen shut her down. ‘Let me finish. Your job does not give you the right to lord over, belittle, terrorise and frighten people. It just doesn’t.’ Carolyn tried to open her mouth again but Imogen ploughed on. ‘You’re an awful old bag. Everyone thinks so. Even you know so. You get business done by striking fear into people. There’s just no need for it, Carolyn! It is possible to be successful and nice, you know. Lots of other people manage it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll sum up, if I may. You’re an absolutely hideous, horrible old BOOT. And I’m not going to work for you a second longer. Goodbye.’
And she turned on her high heels and walked out of there, leaving a flabbergasted Carolyn sitting at the desk, her mouth hanging open like a trapdoor. Carolyn’s actual door had been open. If anyone had dared, there would have been An Officer and a Gentleman-style applause and loud whooping. As it was, Imogen quietly got her bag, gave Teresa a wink, and walked out of the office. She said goodbye to Fred, emerged from reception and got straight on the phone to her old friend Marcia Lacrosse.
‘Marcia!’
‘Imogen, darling!’
‘Are you still looking for an agent to be your number two?’
‘You bet your last shiny penny I am! Come see me?’
‘I’m on my way.’
Three Tube stops later and Imogen was at the Marcia Lacrosse Agency in Soho. When they’d met, twenty years ago, Marcia was an agent at a rival company to Imogen’s. They’d hit it off immediately at some networking art gallery schmooze-fest, bonding over some limp sushi that smelt a bit off. Marcia was fabulous fun. She was about a decade older than Imogen and had a very loud laugh, a huge, swaying bottom and a selection of very expensive handbags. She was one of those women who believe their handbags said all there was to know about them; she always held a giant one before her, in a differing rainbow of colours depending on the day, like a shield. Then she came into shot. A severe black bob, laughing hazel eyes and plum lipstick.
Together she and Imogen were a delightfully bad influence on each other. They’d had many memorable ‘think tank’ meetings in trendy London bars back in the day, which often ended with one of them being sent home drunk and disgraceful in a taxi – usually Marcia, who had once been discovered flat out on the floor of the ladies’ of the hottest venue of the moment, giggling into her Dictaphone.
Imogen smiled to herself as she pushed open the pale blue door of the ML Agency’s tiny Flora Street entrance. That bloody Dictaphone! Marcia had always been obsessed with it. At random, and usually in the middle of a conversation with someone, Marcia would lower her chin to it. ‘Jerome Cleaver possibility for The Dark Horse,’ she would whisper urgently. Or she would walk down the street murmuring, ‘Casting for Danger in the Manger, Tuesday next. Thinking Sam Burrows, Timothy Tampari or that guy with the navy roll-neck.’ Or she would give herself instructions. Once, in a bar, she’d been whispering in it, ‘Can you lay a finger on that, soon as,’ and a passing man had surprised her by saying, ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Imogen couldn’t wait to see her. It had been at least six months. She’d heard on the grapevine that Marcia had been looking for a co-agent, but hadn’t considered it while she blundered into her laughable new ‘career’. Now, it was just what she wanted.
Imogen headed up to the office, treading carefully on the narrow, royal-blue carpeted stairs, which still smelled like furniture polish and old curtains. Heating whacked up to oblivion was belting out of Marcia’s open door. The enormous sash windows were wide open and papers on Marcia’s huge antique desk were ruffling in the stiff March breeze. There was some music playing – ‘Tubular Bells’? – and there was Marcia, over by the filing cabinet, wearing some sort of woolly, hot pink sarong wrapped round her body like cling film, with her arms and legs stuck out of it, surprised. A huge pair of sunglasses on top of her head pushed two parts of her wiry black hair into horns.
‘Darling!’ Marcia stepped forward and embraced Imogen in a giant hug. Over her pink shoulder, Imogen could see a man in the corner of the room, sitting in a brown leather chair. He had the open-mouthed, vacant glare of an American gangster. ‘That’s Tarquin,’ said Marcia, releasing Imogen from the hug. ‘I’m marketing him as the UK’s Tony Soprano. Hoping to get him into ’Enders. Say hi to Imogen, Tarquin.’
‘Hello there, Imogen,’ said Tarquin, standing up. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ Tarquin had proper Queen’s English received pronunciation, with cut-glass vowels. He sounded terribly posh. It didn’t match his look at all. Marcia must have sensed Imogen’s surprise. She started to chuckle, her encased pink bottom jiggling as though desperate to be set free.
‘Oh, he’s a terrific actor, aren’t you, Tarquin? Give Imogen your best cockney.’
Tarquin cocked his head on one side, ground his eyebrows into a knot and curled his lips into a snarl. ‘All right, Ma?’
‘Very good,’ said Imogen.
‘They’re looking for a new landlord for the Queen Vic,’ said Marcia. ‘I reckon Tarqs will have it in the bag.’ Marcia suddenly grabbed her Dictaphone from the desk. ‘Please call Derango’s tomorrow and arrange canapés for three. Capish. Manyana,’ she muttered into it. Imogen smiled. ‘There’ll be plenty more where that came from. Actors, I mean. If you’re in?’
‘Of course, I’m in!’ said Imogen.
‘Fabbo. Can you come in Monday? I’ll get a desk all set up for you? You happy in the eaves, darling?’ she said pointing to a corner of the cramped office that had a desk crammed under a sloping roof.
‘More than happy,’ said Imogen.
‘Got potentials you can poach?’
‘Absolutely.’
Marcia walked over to a laptop on a shelf and started tapping frantically away on the keyboard, like Jerry Lee Lewis. ‘Well, duckie, see you Monday then,’ she said. And that was that: Imogen was an agent again.
Imogen decided to walk into Chinatown and get herself an early bird dim sum dinner to celebrate. This was going to be great. A boutique agency. Working with Marcia, in a team of two, where she would have so much more control… This was the change she needed. Not moonlighting in telly with a horrible boss. What had she been thinking, leaving the business?
She was walking along Grafton Street. Before she’d decided to swear off men, she’d have had her radar up, looking to see who was looking at her, sussing out the rich and available from the not so rich and available, enjoying the stares and returning them tenfold. Not any more. These days she let them look but she didn’t return the favour.
She was an attractive woman. Not anything close to beautiful, but she made the best of herself. Her hair was as straight and shiny as she could make it. Her skin was kept in tip-top condition. She bought expensive cosmetics. All that made up for her slightly roman nose. Her slightly square chin. Both from her dad, she suspected, from the grainy black and white photos she’d seen of him, at age twenty, lounging in a deck chair in Hyde Park, with shorts and flip-flops on. She did have dazzling eyes though. She got those from Mum. Emerald green and able to fell a man at thirty paces. She used to utilise them whenever she could. Now she was happy not to bother.
She received a few whistles, an idiot in a high-vis jacket blocked her path and waved a sandwich in front of her face and a good-looking guy in a smart navy suit looked her up and down. She gave him a withering look. Sod off. Who needed men? She certainly didn’t. She’d loved her year of being single, so far.
A large black car was half blocking the pavement. A grey-haired man, late fifties, early sixties, was standing in front of a cashpoint machine in a grey suit, getting some money out. There was a half-person width gap between him and the car. Idiot, she thought. She could have gone out into the road and walked around the car, but she couldn’t be bothered, on principle. And the road was teeming with people and bikes and traffic.
‘Bad form,’ said Imogen, as she turned her back to him and squeezed between him and the car. She flattened her bag against her flat stomach. Her bottom brushed his. Ugh. She didn’t particularly enjoy bumping bums with strangers. Not even at nights in salsa clubs.
‘Apologies,’ said a low, distinctly American voice. It didn’t come from the man standing at the cashpoint; it came from the half-open, tinted window in front of her. Imogen stopped and peered in. A whiff of expensive leather upholstery went up her nose. It was the first thing she noticed. She was attuned to luxury; the leather was a very expensive-looking soft honey beige. The second thing she noticed was a man leaning confidentially against the honey leather. Dark suit and royal blue tie. Salt and pepper hair. Large nose. Twinkling blue eyes that over-rode it. Dazzling, sexy eyes, in fact. Overall effect: bloody handsome.
At the sight of Imogen’s face, he grinned. She restrained a grin at the sight of his, although other parts of her body were simultaneously breaking into smiles.
‘Tosser,’ she said. And she averted her eyes and strode forward, releasing her body from the unwelcome compress of the older man’s bum.
As she reached the boot of the car (it was a quite a long car – very flash), the man’s voice came through the window again. Louder this time.
‘I’m Richard. Pleased to meet you.’
She stopped, turned and stuck her head back through the window. It had now been wound down almost to the bottom.
‘You’re a Dick?’
‘Ha, you’re quick. No, I’m Richard.’
‘Dick,’ said Imogen, choosing to ignore him. ‘There’s quite a few famous dicks. Dick Turpin… Dick Emery… Dick for Brains,’ she said. ‘Actually, I couldn’t care less what your name is. You shouldn’t park here. You’re causing an obstruction.’
He grinned again, and shrugged. Nice tie, she thought. He really was very well groomed and smart. His shirt so white, his suit so immaculate. He would have been just her type, before the Man Ban. ‘London’s rammed today,’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere to park. I just took my chance. I won’t be here long.’
‘I hope that’s true.’ She gave him her best withering look. ‘Then you can bugger off back to America. I’m sure New York is desperate to have you back.’
‘How do you know I’m from New York?’
‘I know the type.’
‘Oh, really?’ He raised his eyebrows and gave a slow smile.
‘Yeah, really. Right, well I’m buggering off now. See you.’ But it was hard to tear her eyes off his. They were amused, mocking, enticing. Above that big old nose. It was a strange but highly sexy juxtaposition. She felt rooted to the spot. She didn’t want to go.
‘Have dinner with me.’
‘Do what?’
‘Dinner. I heard there’s a joint called Nobu. I’d like to go.’
‘Oh, I’ve already been, thanks. Loads of times.’
‘Come again? With me?’
How bloody forward! Typical American. What a cheek. Still. Despite the pact with Frankie and Grace, despite the fact she was supposed to be single for a year – and had been enjoying it – she was tempted. She loved the food at Nobu, this man looked hot and sexy and she was celebrating a new job, wasn’t she? A few months ago she would have jumped at the chance of this irresistible combination. A few months ago even just one of these things would have had her jumping up and down and saying ‘yes’.
Resist, resist, she told herself sternly. Just say no. You’re off men. They’re useless, hopeless wastes of space. The road to nowhere. The road to ruin. Damn. If only they weren’t. If only there was still the slightest glimmer of hope that one, just one of them, would be perfect. What if this man was that man? What if she let him go and he was someone worth hanging on to?
There wouldn’t be any harm in going for dinner with him, would there? It was just a little dinner. And a girl’s got to eat. She’d gone out with men on less of a pretext: because the guy had Gucci shoes; because she’d stalked the bloke on LinkedIn then hung around the pub in the city nearest his work for an hour, until he’d come in; because it was a Tuesday… Okay, no pretexts at all; she’d just wanted to date them. Yet, none of those guys had worked out well at all. They never did. Actually, maybe this man could serve as a reinforcement of her new ideology, a final underlining of what she now believed…
Damn him and his sexy big nose and sexy blue eyes!
She didn’t have to tell anyone.
‘You know there are actually two Nobus?’
‘Yes. Park Lane and Mayfair. I’m thinking Park Lane.’
‘I was on my way to have dim sum, actually,’ she said. Good. Excellent. Go for dinner with him, but on your terms. Take control. ‘That’s what I fancy.’ It wasn’t the only thing.
‘I can do dim sum.’
God, that accent was intoxicating, thought Imogen. She’d had a couple of Americans. A Texan living in London who she’d dated for two weeks – it had all ended when he suggested a three way, with a blow-up doll – and a super arty Californian art dealer, who she’d thought would be super interesting, but had turned out to be super dull. He never ate after 6p.m. and didn’t drink alcohol. She’d been taken in by that accent before and it had never worked out. She feared she remained a sucker for it.
‘On the other hand,’ she pretended to hesitate, ‘I could just as easily go home to a ready meal for one and a date with MasterChef.’
‘I have no idea what either of those things are,’ said Richard, laughing. And what a laugh. Sexiest laugh she’d ever heard. ‘Look, we’ll go for dim sum. I’ll get Nigel to phone ahead.’ Nigel, the man at the cashpoint, was now back in the driver’s seat and twiddling with the radio.
‘You don’t book dim sum,’ said Imogen. ‘You just turn up.’
‘Whatever,’ said the most gorgeous man on earth. ‘Hop in.’
He swung open the door, took off his seat belt and eased along the back seat to the far side. An action that made her focus on his thighs. Lord, they looked firm under his suit trousers. She could see his shoes, too. Black and just the right kind of shiny. Shoes maketh the man, everyone knew that. She had dumped a man or two for bad taste in shoes. Had once actually fled a bar before approaching her date because his roosted position on a stool had exposed a pair of perforated lemon suede loafers.
This American’s shoes were nice. She bet he had very expensive socks, too, and that his feet never smelled. Oh bugger it, no one needed to know. And it would be rude not to, really, now he had moved across to make room for her.
She got in before she changed her mind. Nigel was suddenly at the door and shut it for her. The car smelt wonderful. That leather, and an expensive-smelling New York male cologne. Wow. She was like a fly in a very luxurious honey trap.
She had a moment of panic. She was safe, wasn’t she? Nigel was here. He looked a bit like her next-door neighbour, Mr Roper, the one who mowed his lawn at ten o’clock at night in the summer. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would suddenly and dramatically lock all the doors, wind up all the windows and speed off to some deserted industrial estate somewhere, whilst Richard’s face turned black as night and his lips twisted into a maniacal grin as he reached for a knife from the side car door pocket… She was safe; she was sure of it. Somehow.
The doors didn’t lock and they moved slowly off into the London afternoon traffic. Nigel sang softly along to Bruce Springsteen, on the radio. Richard smiled at her, his eyes all blue and sultry. She now felt panic of a different kind. What the hell was she doing? She was reverting to type again, wasn’t she? This was exactly the type of man she was supposed to be avoiding! Rich, powerful, impossibly groomed, charming, persuasive. The type of man she’d swerved when she’d lowered her sights to Dave Holgate. She was supposed to be avoiding all men, and had been, quite successfully, up until all of three minutes ago. What was she thinking, getting into a handsome stranger’s car?
She had form for it. Being reckless. There was the life insurance guy who’d come into her office for a meeting with her boss and left with an afternoon rummage; the ridiculously rich guy she’d met by email and slept with on a houseboat after a night at the opera; the blind date she’d jumped on the Orient Express with… The only men she wasn’t reckless with were actors. She never dated actors. Not after The Blip.
She was always reckless with this sort of guy. Get a grip, she thought. This wasn’t Mr Big! There weren’t balloons in the back of the car! She wasn’t going to have an on-off relationship with this man for ten years and end up married to him and living in an amazing apartment overlooking Central Park.
As the car was now in stationary traffic, she reached for the handle. She feared not for her life, but for her sanity. She didn’t want to be doing this, after all.
‘I’m not a serial killer, honest,’ said Richard. ‘I work for Universal Re.’ He reached into the silky inside pocket of his jacket, and handed her a card.
She glanced briefly at it then passed it back to him. ‘American Psycho worked for a swanky bank. You could still be a serial killer.’
‘Pierce and Pierce.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That was the name of Patrick Bateman’s company in American Psycho. It was fictitious. Made up. And his company was investment; mine is re-insurance.’
‘Re-insurance? Isn’t insurance boring enough the first time around? And I know what fictitious means. We invented the English language, remember.’
Richard nodded, smiling, his eyebrows slightly raised and teasing.
‘You seem to know a lot about American Psycho,’ she said. ‘That’s suspicious in itself. You know what suspicious means, right?’
‘Ha ha, touché!’ Richard’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. He had very attractive lines. How old was he? Late forties? How annoying it was that lines could look extremely sexy on a man’s face but never a woman’s. ‘I’ve seen the movie, that’s all. Look, I’m not a serial killer. Call one of my colleagues if you want to. I’m here in London for six months. Working at the Gherkin.’ He went to pull his card out of his pocket again.
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘Good. It’s all fine and dandy then.’ He leant back, relaxed. He was a big man. Not fat big. Broad big. She imagined serious pecs and huge ‘guns’ under that crisp white shirt. She envisaged strong, hairy legs and sexy feet and toes. She pulled her eyes away from him and tried to be interested in what was going on outside the window, which was difficult, as all she could see was a static and traffic-blackened brick wall. The car was still not moving. It would have been much quicker to walk.
‘I’m someone who takes chances,’ Richard said, behind her head. ‘And I like the look of you and hopefully you like the look of me.’ She turned back from the window. Locked her eyes onto his. Oh sod it, he was gorgeous, why not just enjoy the fact? ‘So we’ll go have a little dinner. That’s how it works, isn’t it? People who like the look of each other go out on dates. I’m sure dating in London is not so different to New York.’
‘Do women jump into the back seats of cars with strange men in New York?’ she asked. ‘Okay, don’t answer that! We’re a bit more cautious here. Have you been to London before?’
‘Nope, first time. But I know all about the well-documented British reserve,’ he said. ‘The renowned stiff upper lip. Never let your guard down, don’t show emotion and when the going gets tough drink a nice cup of tea.’
‘Stiff upper lips and cups of tea served us well through two world wars, I’ll have you know.’ I’ll have you know? Who was she, her dear departed nan? And what was she going on about? Soon she’d be prattling on about Eccles cakes and ration books. ‘Which we won,’ she couldn’t help but adding, unnecessarily.
She really didn’t want to get onto this. Did they really want to get into a discussion about GIs and Winston Churchill and all that standing shoulder to shoulder business? Although she wouldn’t mind standing shoulder to shoulder with this man, or indeed putting any part of her body against his.
She sighed. Did he have to mention tea and British reserve? He was so fabulously amazing, she hoped he didn’t turn out to be awfully disappointing – one of those Americans who laughed at all the stereotypical things that British people supposedly did, and bought Union Jack tea cosies thinking they were beanie hats and went around saying how quaint everything was. Surely, he wasn’t like that?
He was laughing. ‘I’m teasing,’ he said. ‘I know you Brits hate it when we Yanks – I’m kidding, we hate that, too – start going on about English clichés and putting on terrible accents that make us sound like Bert from Mary Poppins.’ He smirked and gave a slight wink. ‘I’ve never seen an upper lip here that was particularly stiff, and all the guys in my office drink coffee. It’s the only thing that keeps them awake for all that boring insurance.’
Now it was Imogen’s turn to laugh, but her laugh quickly faded away when she realised Richard was staring quite intently at her mouth. Was he looking at her lips, her upper lip? She had an urge to not be bloody reserved in the slightest and kiss him right there and then, in the back of his car.
She moved her head out of his laser stare and sat back, aware she’d been perched forward since she’d got into the car, like a budgerigar. She had a proper look around her. She was half expecting a drinks cabinet thing to automatically open up from somewhere, James Bond style, or a glass screen to pop up between them and Nigel, trapping her in the back seat and leaving her to the mercy of Richard. She quite liked the idea of that, to be honest, which was ridiculous, as five minutes ago she’d been terrified at the very thought.
‘So what do you do?’ he asked. Now it was her turn to study his mouth. She noticed his teeth. Super white. Nice. His lips were on the thin side, but curved upwards at the corner, like a fox’s. Tasty.
‘I’m an agent.’ Yes, she was. She was an agent, again. Hoo bloody ray.
‘CIA? Federal?’
‘Ha, funny. No we don’t have silly things like that in this country, as you probably know. We just have the police. Oh, and MI5, though I’m still not exactly sure what they do.’
‘Literary?’ He gave the word four full syllables. It sounded sexy.
‘No, acting. I’m an actors’ agent.’
‘Movies?’
‘Television. Mostly.’
‘Cool job.’
‘Yup.’
‘I bet you’re damn good at it.’
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’
‘English rose,’ he said, smoothing his tie. Oh God, don’t look at his hands, she thought: if he’s got nice hands as well, you’ll be powerless. She was a stickler for a man’s hands. And if they pleased her, she knew that they would please her. Neat clean nails, large, firm-looking hands, just the right slight smattering of hair on the backs – and she was a goner. Richard’s hands were perfect. She got tingles in parts of her body she’d rather not mention.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m afraid I’m wandering down stereotype alley here, after all, but you’re one of those English roses, aren’t you? Winslet, Thompson, Pike. Is your name Rosamund or Abigail or Imogen?’
‘Actually, it is. It’s Imogen. Imogen Henderson.’
‘Bingo!’ said Richard, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. He looked like a small boy who’d found a nickel on the sidewalk. (Imogen congratulated herself on her American analogy.)
‘Very lucky,’ said Imogen. ‘Aren’t English roses supposed to be blonde, though?’
‘I think so, officially. But I’d like to expand on that. I’d like to expand that to gorgeous brunettes with sparkling green eyes and a knock-out pair of legs.’
Imogen blushed, conforming to the stereotype after all. An English rose, eh? She’d never been referred to one of those before. And she wondered if she was too old to strictly qualify for one. No matter, she could go with it.
‘You know your British actresses,’ she said, trying to deflect the attention elsewhere.
‘I’ve watched a lot of British movies.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘Let me guess. Notting Hill, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually?’ The usuals.
‘Yes, those. But quite a few others, too. I’ve seen a lot of British films. From all the eras. Ealing comedies, Powell and Pressburger, kitchen sink dramas. Kes. Even the odd Carry On. Ooh matron,’ he said, in cod Kenneth Williams. Imogen laughed. He actually made Kenneth Williams sound sexy. ‘I like British movies. My favourites are Trainspotting, Shallow Grave, The Full Monty. The 90s is my era.’
‘Oh me too,’ said Imogen. ‘Especially for music. Blur, Oasis –’
‘– James, Suede, Elastica,’ he added. He knew his stuff. ‘Sleeper, The Stone Roses, Dodgy…’
‘Dodgy! There’s a blast from the past! Fabulous.’
They grinned at each other. Wow. He liked British films and knew his Britpop. Impressive.
‘What’s your favourite Blur song?’ she asked.
‘“The Universal.”’
‘Mine too,’ she said. Now she was more than impressed.
They both paused. Looked at each other. The pause was kind of electrifying. She needed to break it as it was almost unbearable.
‘I like a lot of American movies, from the 90s,’ she said. ‘Goodfellas. That’s my favourite movie of all time. The long shot, going into the Copacabana club, just genius.’
Richard nodded. ‘Yes, I know it. Ray Liotta and Lorraine Bracco.’ Now he looked impressed. She started to show off.
‘I met Paul Sorvino, once,’ she said, ‘in the 90s. He was Paulie, in Goodfellas. I met him at a party.’
‘Cool. Cool guy. I’m in awe of you already, Imogen.’
‘Are you, Richard?’ She was flirting now and she knew it. The conversation had got…exciting. Movies, music…they were on the same wavelength. She wondered what other areas they might be in tune on.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Oh God, it was corny, and she knew he was saying it slightly tongue in cheek, but the way he said ma’am made her feel weak at the knees. Oh goodness. They were doing so well, keeping away from all the clichés. She really shouldn’t be seduced by the cliché of a charming American. Good Lord! This wasn’t Yanks (although she loved that film! Richard Gere? Hello! Who didn’t?)
She felt her face colouring, so she turned to the window again. The expensive car would have purred had it been going faster than nought. Instead, it was stop start and it had started to drizzle.
She was excited about going for dinner with this man. She hadn’t been this excited about a man in ages. The last time she’d been really excited was when she’d been convinced a hot-shot guy from the Bank of England, whom she’d dated for five months, was going to propose to her. They were in the restaurant at The Flagship Hotel. He kept looking at his dessert. Trifle. She became convinced there was a ring in the bottom of it. She was wrong. He just really liked raspberries. In hindsight, she didn’t really want him. She certainly didn’t love him – love was for mugs. She just wanted the perfect proposal and the perfect marriage.
Why was she thinking about marriage? She was sworn off men! She had to remember that! God, it was tough, though. She was really struggling at the moment, to be honest.
She felt a hand rest lightly on her leg. She nearly shot off the seat and up to the plush, quilted ceiling. Richard was looking at her with a quizzical look on his face.
Bloody hell, he really was handsome. She was slipping. The ban was rapidly wearing off. Help!
‘So,’ he said.
‘So?’ she said.
‘We’re just about here.’ The door was opening. Nigel was outside. She stepped out. Richard came round from the other side of the car doing that sexy thing where a man reaches round to his back and tucks his shirt in. He was tall. Really tall. She’d been out with a couple of tall men, but they were more of the beanpole variety. He was tall, broad… All man. Oh God, she really shouldn’t be swayed by this stuff.
She looked up and down the street before they went in to Sai Kung Palace, which was ridiculous. Frankie and Grace were hardly going to be up in London, and no one else knew about her vow to be single for a year, or the fact she was not supposed to be anywhere near a man as gorgeous as this.