Fire After Dark (11 page)

That doesn’t mean anything, you idiot.

Even so . . . a girl can dream, can’t she?

I type out a quick message to Laura, saying how much fun she must be having and how I can’t wait to see her and tell her everything that’s been going on. As I’m writing, I see another message slip into my inbox, and when I’ve sent Laura’s on its way, I click to see what it is. It’s from [email protected].
Who?
For an instant I’m confused and then it all comes back.
Oh my God, my interview at the gallery.

I open the email.

Dear Beth

It was a real pleasure to meet you yesterday. I saw some other candidates after you, and I have to admit that none of them had your enthusiasm or the certain something that makes me think we’d enjoy working together. If you’re still interested, I’d love to talk about you taking the gallery assistant job over the summer. Let me know when it’s a good time to chat and I’ll give you a call.

I’ll look forward to hearing from you,

Best wishes, James McAndrew

I stare at the message and read it three times over before it sinks in. James is offering me the job.
Oh wow! How fantastic.
I’m delighted, triumphant. So yesterday wasn’t a total disaster – my new look paid off in one respect. I know I’ve fallen on my feet, finding a job in a proper gallery just like that.

Who knows where it might lead?

Quickly I send back a reply saying that I’m definitely still interested, and very keen to work for him. He can call me any time on my mobile. I’ve hardly sent it off when my phone, sitting on the table next to me, rings.

I sweep it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Beth, it’s James.’

‘Hi!’

‘So, are you going to be my new assistant?’ I can hear a smile in his voice.

‘Yes, please!’ I’m smiling broadly back.

‘When can you start?’

‘How about Monday?’

He laughs. ‘You’re certainly enthusiastic. Monday is great.’ He tells me a little about the job and the salary – which is hardly more than I earn as a waitress but I suppose that’s the reality of foot-on-the-rung jobs – and says he’s looking forward to seeing me on Monday. After thanking him profusely for the opportunity, I ring off feeling buoyed up and positive. Is London really starting to open its doors to me? I dash off a quick email to my parents telling them the good news and reassuring them that all is going well. Beyond the coffee shop window, golden sunlight is blazing down on the city.

My last days of freedom before I start working – I’d better go out and take advantage of it.

I finish my coffee, pack up my laptop and head back to the flat. After dumping my stuff, I head out to visit the National Gallery and some of the other must-sees on my list. Everything seems radiant and exciting.
It’s amazing how a change of mood can affect everything
. The gallery is far too big to take in on one visit, so I go and see the twentieth-century European rooms to prepare for my new job, and then take in some magnificent Renaissance masterpieces to finish everything off with a huge dollop of dramatic scale and vivid richness.

Venturing back into Trafalgar Square, with its black lions sitting guard over the fountains, I think it’s a crime to spend the rest of this summer day inside. I thread my way through the groups of tourists and visitors, and make my way back to the flat, where I collect my rug, sunglasses, a book, a bottle of water and some fruit. Then I head to the garden at the back of the building, and take my old place near the tennis courts. Dominic isn’t there, the courts are empty, and I’m obscurely disappointed even though I told myself he’ll be at work. I wonder what work he does. He was playing tennis during the day earlier in the week, so perhaps he has flexible hours. Who knows?

I lie down with my book and start to read, relishing the warmth of the sun on my limbs. No matter how I try to concentrate on my book, my thoughts keep drifting back to Dominic and that moment we shared last night. He must have felt it too, I’m sure of it. I recall the way he looked confused, baffled by the strength of the connection between us, as though he was thinking
this girl? But . . . that’s not supposed to happen . . .

I sigh luxuriously, putting my book down, my eyes closed, giving in to the recollection of his face, his eyes, his touch on my bare skin and the way it sent a juddering electric current flashing through me.

Beth.

I can hear his voice as clearly as if he’s standing right beside me. It’s hard not to thrill to the sound of it, deep, low and musical. I sigh and brush my hand over my chest, wishing he were really here.

‘Beth?’

It’s louder now, more questioning. I open my eyes and gasp. Dominic is right there, standing beside me, smiling down. ‘Sorry to surprise you,’ he says.

I sit up, blinking. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

He’s wearing jeans, loose fitting, and a white T-shirt. He looks adorable – the casual look suits him just as much as the business one. In his eyes is a curious, unreadable expression. ‘I don’t know why I’m here to be honest,’ he says. ‘I was working upstairs when I just had the strongest feeling I should come down to the garden and that I would find you here.’ He spreads his hands out. ‘And here you are.’

We gaze at one another, smiling, a little awkward but only in a superficial way. That connection from last night still fizzes between us.

‘So, what are you doing?’

‘Just sunbathing. Enjoying the gorgeous weather. Being wickedly lazy, really.’

He stands there, looking down at me. ‘I’ve had enough of work for today. Would you like to come out with me? I know a fantastic pub near here with a garden, and they do a mean Pimms. I can’t think of anything more wickedly lazy than being there, with you.’

‘I’d love to.’

‘Good. I can show you a bit of London that you might not find on your own. I’ll just go upstairs and get a few things. Shall we meet by the door in twenty minutes?’

‘Fabulous.’ I beam up at him, feeling light and joyous.

Twenty minutes is just enough time to change from my shorts and T-shirt into my flowery summer dress, and slip off my plimsolls in favour of some sparkly flip--flops. After a moment’s hesitation, I take a lacy shawl from a hook in Celia’s cupboard and sling it around my shoulders. With my newly blonded hair gathered up in a ponytail and my sunglasses, I look a little bit sixties. I have a feeling Celia’s shawl will bring me good luck, though I have no idea why. Would she want me to form some kind of relationship with her neighbour? Actually, something tells me she’d be delighted. I can almost hear her whispering, ‘Go for it, Beth. Enjoy yourself! Why not?’

Dominic is waiting for me at the door to the building. He’s also wearing sunglasses, square black Ray-Bans, and is reading a message on his phone, when he looks up and sees me. Instantly his face brightens with a huge smile and he tucks the phone into his jeans pocket. ‘You’re here. Wonderful. Let’s get going.’

We talk easily as we stroll through the hot Mayfair streets. Dominic knows where we’re going and I put myself entirely in his hands as we walk along quiet back routes, through cool alleys and into small hidden squares. People are sitting on the pavements in front of cafes and bars, windows and doors open to the slight breeze. Bright flowering baskets hang from brackets, bringing flourishes of scarlet and magenta to the facades. I love the feeling of walking beside him, as though we belong together, some of his glamour transferring itself to me – at least, that’s what I like to think.

‘Here we are,’ Dominic says as we approach a pub. It’s a traditional building and its exterior is a riot of climbing greenery and colourful blooms. He leads the way inside where it’s clean and modern in a pared-down way, through the shady bar and out into a courtyard that’s been transformed into a beautiful garden, with potted trees, tubs of flowers and wooden tables shaded by green umbrellas. A waitress comes out and Dominic orders a jug of Pimms. It arrives almost at once, the colour of cold tea, full of ice and fruit. Sliced strawberry, apple and cucumber, and sprigs of mint float in the frothy surface.

‘It isn’t summer without Pimms,’ Dominic remarks, pouring out a tall glass for me, the ice and fruit plopping in with a satisfying sound. ‘It’s one of the things the English do best.’

‘Sometimes, from the way you talk, it sounds like you’re not English yourself,’ I say shyly. ‘Your accent is English but sometimes I think I can hear a vestige of an accent of some kind.’ I’m dying to know more about him. I take a sip of my Pimms. It’s delicious: sweet and aromatic, fresh and tangy with mint. I’ve tasted it before, but none as nice as this. It’s dangerous stuff, I can tell. There’s hardly a hint of the alcohol I know is there.

‘You’re perceptive,’ Dominic says, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘I am English, as it happens, born right here in London. But my father was in the diplomatic corps and was constantly posted abroad, so right from my youngest days, I’ve moved around. I spent a good deal of my childhood in South-East Asia. We lived in Thailand for some years and then my father was sent to Hong Kong, which was great fun. But just when I was starting to take some interest in the world around me, I got sent back to England.’ He makes a face, something like a grimace. ‘Boarding school.’

‘Didn’t you like it? I’ve always thought that boarding sounds very romantic.’ I remember how, when I was growing up, I longed to go to a boarding school and was thrilled by the idea of midnight feasts and dorms and all the rest of it. Being an ordinary pupil at the local school and walking home every day with my bag loaded with homework always seemed so dull in comparison to what went on in storybooks.

‘It wasn’t that.’ Dominic shrugs. ‘But there’s always the distance, you see. Being put on a plane to go home for the holidays is all right. Being put on a plane to go back to school is about the most bloody thing you can imagine.’

I can see it in my mind: a small boy, trying hard not to cry, attempting to be brave, saying goodbye to his mother at the airport. He’s taken away by a stewardess as his mother, proper in a hat and gloves, waves farewell. When she’s out of sight, he can’t stop a few tears escaping but he doesn’t want the stewardess to see how much he cares. Then he’s put into his seat to begin the long, lonely journey back to England. A stern-faced, big-bosomed matron, her grey hair in a tight bun, meets him at the airport and accompanies him back to school. I picture it as a forbidding place, out on a desolate moorland with nothing and no one for miles, just boys missing their mothers. Boarding school suddenly doesn’t seem as romantic as once it did.

‘Are you all right?’

Dominic is peering at me closely.

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’

‘You’ve got the most tragic look on your face, that’s all.’

‘I’m just thinking about you having to go back to school, missing home so much, being so far away . . .’

‘It wasn’t that bad once I got there. In many ways, I had a marvellous time. I shared a room with two other boys and we had our duvets from home and posters on the walls, our favourite books on the shelves. And I loved games and there was plenty of that. Most weekends I was playing rugby, football or cricket for the school.’ He smiles with the memory. ‘One thing you can say about English boarding schools is that they tend to be well equipped with swimming pools, tennis courts and art departments and whatever, and I made the most of it.’

The Dickensian gothic castle of misery in my imagination disappears to be replaced by a kind of cheerful holiday camp. Boarding school sounds brilliant again.

He goes on. ‘But much as I loved my school, when it came to university, I decided I wanted to spread my wings. So I went abroad.’

‘Back to Hong Kong?’

He shakes his head. ‘No. I decided to go to the States. I went to Princeton.’

I’ve heard of that. It’s one of the best American universities, like our Oxford and Cambridge. The Ivy League, that’s it. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

He smiles. ‘I had an amazing time.’

As he speaks, I can hear the faintest American twang in his voice, as though the memory of Princeton has brought back some of the accent he picked up there but was rubbed away by the London years.

‘What did you study?’ I sip my Pimms again. A piece of strawberry bobs against my lips and I open my mouth and let it sit on my tongue. It’s deliciously flavoured by the drink. I eat it slowly while I imagine a younger Dominic, sexy in an American-preppy outfit, sitting in a lecture theatre taking notes as a professor talks animatedly about . . .

‘Business,’ Dominic says.

. . . business. The professor is enthusiastic about his subject and Dominic is now wearing a pair of dark-framed glasses that make him look like a particularly gorgeous version of Clark Kent. He’s concentrating hard, frowning slightly so that his glasses sit in the furrow on the bridge of his nose. While he carefully notes down his professor’s words of wisdom on the nature of large corporations and the function of regulation, a nearby girl is staring with unashamed longing, unable to concentrate because his nearness is sending her nerve ends into a shivering orbit . . .

I move unconsciously, my mouth opening slightly as I imagine what she must be feeling. Something a little like I’m feeling now maybe. One of my legs moves against the other, the warm skin tingling under its own touch.

‘Beth? What are you thinking?’

‘Uh . . .’ I spring back to the moment. He’s leaning forward, his black eyes glittering with amusement. ‘Nothing. I was just . . . thinking.’

‘I’d love to know what about.’

Heat creeps up my face. ‘Oh, nothing really.’ I curse my vivid imagination, it’s always doing that, pulling me into another universe that seems so real I can almost touch it.

He laughs gently.

‘So what did you do after Princeton?’ I ask hastily, hoping he’s not psychic.
That would be really embarrassing
.

‘I did a year’s postgraduate study at Oxford, and I made some connections there that brought me into the job I’m currently doing. I spent a couple of years in a hedge fund first, getting some practical experience of finance.’