‘Don’t look now, but there is somebody very yummy staring at you just over there,’ whispered Candy Woodall, tipping back her Chardonnay spritzer.
‘Where?’ giggled Erin, trying to look around the wine bar without making it too obvious. Erin and Candy – Marcus Blackwell’s PA – had come out for a rare girls’ night out after work and the wine and gossiping had gone straight to Erin’s head.
‘There. The one who looks like Jude Law,’ said Candy a bit too loudly, pointing a discreet finger in the direction of the bar. Erin’s eyes scanned the bar. It was hard to see in the dim light; this bar was trying very hard to be French brasserie, with sea-green mosaic walls, a long walnut and bronze bar and too much candlelight. Her eyes followed Candy’s now frantic pointing and she finally saw him, sitting on a bar stool. He was very handsome, with nut-brown hair, green eyes and a smart white shirt.
‘Crikey,’ Erin gulped, ‘I think I know him.’
‘Well go over there and talk to him!’ said Candy, making ‘shoo-ing’ gestures with her hands. ‘He’s been looking over at you for the last five minutes.’
Erin felt herself blush. She wasn’t exactly on first-name terms with him; they had met for about three seconds earlier that week when he had come in to see Adam with some colleagues from Dennon Associates, a firm of architects. But she remembered him: the smile he’d given her when she’d handed him a coffee had kept her on a high all week.
Candy pushed a ten-pound note in her hand and gave Erin a gentle shove in the direction of the bar. ‘It’s my round, but you’re buying,’ she smiled. ‘I want another spritzer and you want his phone number.’
Still blushing furiously, Erin made her way to the bar, wishing she had taken more care dressing that morning. Rushing for the tube, she had resorted to cast-offs from her Cornwall days: a white shirt and a black cheesecloth skirt, saved from falling off her now-narrow hips by a wide leather belt. Taking a deep breath, she found a space at the bar next to him but pretended not to notice him, instead waving her tenner at the barmaid to get her attention.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ said a voice to her left. Turning, she saw the man from Dennon was smiling at her. His eyes were the clearest green she had ever seen.
‘I think you had a meeting at Midas this week, didn’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m Julian Sewell. You’re Adam Gold’s assistant, right?’
‘Um, yes, I am. I mean, that’s where you probably know me from and yes, I’m Adam’s assistant. Erin Devereux,’ she gabbled. It was so long since Erin had had any male attention, she had forgotten how to flirt. It wasn’t as if Chris took her seriously and, much to her daily disappointment, Adam didn’t even seem to notice she was female. Erin stood there awkwardly as the handsome stranger looked her up and down. Why wasn’t she wearing one of the sexy little numbers she’d spent a bloody fortune on over the last couple of months, she scolded herself.
‘Devereux. That’s an unusual name.’
‘I think some distant relatives were Huguenots,’ she smiled.
‘A sexy French name. I like it.’
Erin blushed furiously. ‘So. How did your meeting go?’
Julian laughed. It was a lopsided smile and, as the corners of his eyes crinkled, Erin’s heart did a somersault. ‘Don’t expect much will come of it. We’re only a boutique practice and the Midas Corp tend to use the starchitects.’
‘Starchitects? What are they?’
‘You know. The biggies. Architects as famous as their buildings. Richard Rogers, Norman Foster, Frank Gehry.’
‘As you can tell, I’ve not been in the business long,’ she said with an embarrassed smile. ‘I don’t know the lingo.’
‘Well, then,’ he said pulling up a bar stool for her. ‘I appear to have been stood up by my friend. How about I buy you a drink and you can tell me what you’ve been doing all your life.’