Love to Hate You (7 page)

I snatch it out of his hand and put it down on the table, then take a couple of notes from my wallet and give them to the girl, who looks at us and laughs.

“I don't let girls pay when they're out with me,” he says, sounding annoyed.

“Yes, but I'm not a 'girl', I'm a colleague. I know all about your wild nights out and since it's still early you've got plenty of time to hook up with one of your usual bimbos. I'm sure they won't mind if you foot the bill.”

Ian looks surprised and shocked, as if he has unexpectedly found himself sucking on a slice of lemon. Maybe – just ‘maybe' – I've gone too far.

The waitress realises immediately what's going on, takes both Ian's card and my notes, and a few minutes later she's back with his receipt and my change.

We head towards the entrance, Ian still acting offended. Before going away, I turn towards him and touch his arm to get his attention.

“Listen. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said all that.” He doesn't reply. “I'm serious, what do I know about models or PR? Maybe in your world stuff like that is totally normal—”

Ian grabs my arm now, to stop me from saying any more. We must look pretty funny. “Don't make it any worse,” he says. “You're bloody awful at apologising.”

“I don't have much experience,” I confess, “I'm usually right.”

For some reason, my answer makes him smile.

“I must admit that you're actually quite funny too, in a peculiar way.”

“Of course I am. It's cutting wit, but it's still wit. Isn't it?”

Ian ponders. “Well, since we've survived an aperitif, what if we raise the stakes and go out for dinner tomorrow? I really need to eat some proper food.”

And I need to go on a diet. But I can always get a salad.

“We could try. But nowhere trendy, please. And since you don't know anywhere that isn't, I'll choose the venue.”

“Do I look like someone who likes trendy places?” he asks ironically. My expression is a clear enough answer.

“Ok, fine,” he says, raising his arms in surrender, “you choose the place, pay if you like and if that's not enough, you can choose the wine too.”

“No wine, just water. No offence, but wine has a strange effect on you. And we each pay for what we get, or we split the bill,” I grant him.

“That's quite generous, coming from you,” he says, lifting up his eyebrows.

“Right. I'm off,” I say, gesturing with my head to the nearby tube station.

“I'd offer you a lift, but you'd probably answer that you don't need a bodyguard and that you're perfectly able to reach the underground on your own, so I won't.”

“I appreciate that,” I say.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“I won't say goodnight to you – your night's still young. Bye!” I say, walking away with a wave.

*

Vera and Laura are standing by the door when I get home.

“So?” they ask in unison.

“So what? We didn't kill each other, if that's what you're wondering,” I answer, slightly defensively, and plonk myself down between them on the sofa.

“Spit it out. We've been sat here for hours imagining how bad things could have got – you pouring your drink over his head, him throwing nuts at you… You know, that type of stuff,” says Laura, laughing.

“It was a pretty…
peculiar
night,” I confess, pausing to choose the right word. “I honestly wouldn't know how else to describe it.”

“In what way, peculiar?” asks Vera immediately.

“Well, I was expecting more animosity. I mean, there was a bit, at the beginning, but then we managed to keep everything under control. And we got a lot of work done, so I'd say it was a success, really.”

“I'm glad to hear it. In that case, I'd suggest a girls' night out tomorrow, so we can celebrate your being newly single. I mean, let's be honest, you're
way
better off without Charles. And that way we can also celebrate me getting back together with David!” says Laura happily.

All the things that have happened lately have at least stopped me from thinking too much about Charles – I haven't had time to mope. Any excuse is usually good enough for me to celebrate, but not this time. “How about the day after tomorrow?” I suggest. “I have to work tomorrow night.”

“With Ian,” Vera says, not asking. She sniggers.

“Yes, with Ian. But it's not what you think—” I say threateningly.

“Who'd have thought it, our friend preferring swanning about with a count to a night out with us,” teases Laura.

“I know! And
despite
being brought up with certain values by her parents! Look how life in the City's changed her—” Vera chips in.

“Oh, give it a rest, you two!” I say indignantly, but they laugh even more.

“I have to admit it, he is quite interesting, though,” says Laura.

“Have you seen this?” asks Vera, picking up a gossip magazine from the coffee table and quickly flicking through it. “Here he is!” she exclaims with satisfaction, showing us a picture of Ian with one of the usual brainless beauties he always seems to be squiring around town.

“Yeah,” she says after a while, “the guy
definitely
has potential.”

“No, darling, the guy has already fully developed his potential, together with his arrogance and unpleasantness,” I correct her while I take a furtive look at one of the pictures. He does look good.

“Do you think it's his title that's to blame, or his money? Or is it his looks?” asks Laura seriously.

“I suppose it's a mixture of all three. You know, when you grow up in that kind of world, you think everything's owed you on a silver platter.”

“Shame,” Vera says after a little while. “Yes,” agrees Laura.

I grab the remote control and turn on the TV, though, because I've had enough of talking about Ian. It's high time I thought about something else.

I'm sitting at a table in a restaurant full of people. It's nothing trendy, just a perfectly run of the mill pizzeria in a perfectly ordinary part of town. I'm sure Ian will hate the place, and that thought alone gives me a little thrill of gratification. Just a little one, though – I don't want to blow my PC credentials altogether.

Since he's late, I decide to call my mum while I'm waiting.

She answers at the first ring.

“Hi mum,” I say.

“Jenny, darling, we were just talking about you,” she informs me solemnly.

Great.

“Oh yes?” I try to understand.

“Your father and I were just saying that we really hope we'll get a chance to see Charles this Saturday. Did he like the soup?” she asks in a caring voice.

“Of course,” I lie. “About Saturday though – I can't come this weekend.”

“Why not?” she asks with irritation.

“I'll be in Scotland for work,” I reveal. At least there's one good thing about this trip: it'll save me from my parents.

“Are you serious, Jenny? Working at the weekend? You're not a kid any more, you know. You warned us that it would be like this for a few years, but this has been going on for ages!”

Thanks a lot for reminding me how old I am, mum, I think resignedly.

“And it almost never happens nowadays. This is an exception,” I point out, my patience starting to fray. Michael's allowed to travel the world without showing his face for months, but I can't miss even one weekly meeting.

“It's always an exception,” she says harshly.

I bite my tongue. I don't want to tell her where to go.

“Maybe Charles could come anyway,” she says.

“He's busy too—” I answer nervously. All this lying is becoming a problem.

Of course Ian chooses the perfect moment to finally turn up. He walks over to me and, once near the table, leans over as though to give me a kiss on the cheek.

What the hell is he doing? I just manage to duck away in time only to find him looking at me with a mocking expression.

“Good evening – sorry I'm late,” he mouths, as he takes a seat in front of me.

“Who's that with you?” my mother asks immediately. She must be the woman with the most sensitive, selective hearing on the planet.

“It's just the waiter,” I say, without any conviction.

“Are you out for dinner?” she asks, as though she were Hampshire's answer to Jessica Fletcher. “Who with?”

“With Vera and Laura,” I lie.

“Can I have a word with them?” she asks, as if it was absolutely normal to ask such a thing.

“Why?” I ask nervously.

“What do you mean why? I want to say hello. What a stupid question… you're acting very peculiarly today.”

I give Ian a look, ordering him to be quiet. He could blow this for me.

“So, will you put them on?”

“I can't, they're in the toilet,” I lie again, closing my eyes in despair.

“Both of them?” she screeches, incredulity in her voice.

“Yes, both of them! What is this, the third degree? I'll send them your love. Good night, mum!” and I hang up. Why did I even bother calling her?

Ian's trying not to laugh, but he can't hold back a smirk.

“Laugh away, please. I just love providing cheap entertainment,” I say, as I angrily snap a breadstick in two and ram half of it into my mouth. To hell with the diet – there's no chance of me losing a single pound at the moment, so I might as well just eat whatever takes my fancy.

“I've only got one question: why lie?” he asks, as he makes himself comfortable in his chair.

“Because I can't stand it when she starts going on about how I work too much,” I say vaguely.

“You should have said you were with me – mothers adore me,” he says smugly, giving one of his famous smiles as he does.

I give him a serious look. “Mine wouldn't.”

“Trust me, they all do. I've got thirty-one years of experience,” he insists snottily.

“Believe me, my mother would
not
like you,” I reply in the same tone.

The idea of a challenge makes those blue eyes of his sparkle. “You want to bet?” he proposes.

Oh yes, of course – as if there weren't enough disasters in my life already.

“Not interested, thanks”. Does he
really
think I'm going to let myself be the next sacrifice on the altar of his arrogance?

“I don't give up easily,” he says confidently, as though I didn't know.

“Trust me, I'm saying it for your own good,” I warn him, feeling philanthropic.

And that's where I make my mistake, since this is clearly turning into a challenge for him. I can tell by the stubborn expression that's forming on his face. I've learned to recognise it at my expense.

“Come on, let's bet on it,” he says, leaning dangerously close.

God, you are my witness in this: I did everything I could to avoid something like this happening.

You know what, Ian St John? I just might take you up on it. I find the idea so funny that I can't stop a grin spreading across my face.

“Ok, then,” I say, giving in. “One of the coming weekends you can casually show up at my parents' farm, on a Saturday, after lunch.”

“I could even show up
during
lunch. Old ladies love the old school manners.”

That's right, come on down, let my family cut you down to size.

The idea is so satisfying that I seize a second breadstick. To celebrate, I tell myself.

“Ok, if it means that much to you.” I try to keep a straight face and not let on about the nightmare he's just landed himself in. And it was all his idea.

“Perfect.”

And as he says it, he proffers his hand to seal our agreement. I grab hold of it and enjoy the sensation of warmth and strength. I feel slightly guilty, but I immediately push that aside: this man deserves everything my lovably anti-monarchic family can offer him.

The flight from London to Edinburgh goes fairly smoothly. Ian and I spend most of it studying the paperwork, so there's not much talking and even less chitchat. Exactly the way it should be.

The journey by car is more problematic, as we argue over who's going to drive (I win after exhausting negotiations), who should read the map (he wins that one), and whose fault it is that we get lost. Is that the driver's or the navigator's responsibility?

About two hours later, we are driving up towards Beverly's property – a large, slightly tasteless villa.

Despite being the son of a marquis and the daughter of a duke, neither of the Beverlys seems to have inherited any stately old piles, just modern fakes like this one.

The garden is huge and extremely well kept, with a lake in front of it that looks like something out of the BBC's latest version of Pride and Prejudice. But the villa is really quite tacky, to put it mildly.

Ian gets out of the car and shakes his head.

“Hmm—” I say, sceptically.

“I know,” he mumbles, perplexed. But we have no time to say anything else, because at least five of the staff appear out of nowhere to give us a warm greeting. Or, at least, to give
one
of us a warm greeting. Of course, there's a butler, as the best British tradition demands. The best
nineteenth-century
British tradition, that is. Somebody should point that out to Beverly. If my mother was here, she'd be having a heart attack.

“Lord Langley,” they all greet Ian with great reverence. I'm surprised they don't lay down a red carpet to protect his delicate Italian moccasins from the harsh Scottish dust.

“Miss Percy,” they say to me, with much less emphasis.

The butler even gives me sniffy look. Alright, so I'm not an aristocrat – what exactly is the problem?

A few moments later, a majestic Beverly appears by the entrance, the same old smug expression plastered over his face. It's nice not to have any surprises: my client is behaving exactly the way I would have expected.