Perfect Strangers (6 page)

Then again, she had to admit she was benefiting from all this surplus cash too. In the three weeks since she had met Lana, Sophie had made over fifteen hundred pounds from the woman and her wealthy friends for yoga and fitness sessions. She had quickly got over her embarrassment at being their ‘hired help’, as one client had ungraciously called her, and instead had felt empowered at bringing so much money in so swiftly. It had been enough to get her moped taxed and back on the road, to pay off the interest on her credit card bill, and to pay for a plane ticket for her mum to go and visit a friend in Denmark, which had been the first time she had seen Julia smile since the funeral.

To be honest, Sophie didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of becoming a personal trainer before. She’d spent years keeping her body in tip-top condition and had the figure and athleticism to show for it. It made total sense to turn her prime asset into a career.

Lana opened the door dressed in black cycling shorts, her long chocolate hair tumbling over the straps of a hot-pink cropped Lycra vest top.

‘Come in, come in,’ she purred. ‘Sorry I had to ask you to come to the house, but I’m mad, mad busy.’

‘Wow!’ said Sophie as she followed Lana inside. ‘This place is amazing.’

If the exterior of Lana’s house was stunning, the interior was something else. The entrance hall was double height, with a white marble staircase curling off to the right, a grand piano standing centre stage and a stunning collection of art on the walls. Sophie still hadn’t worked out what Lana did for a living, but assumed that the money came from her husband Simon, who apparently did something in the money markets.

‘I suppose,’ shrugged Lana. ‘We only bought it recently, and there’s so much I want to do. I wanted to get the renovation work done while we were away, but I think this is maybe a six-, twelve-month job. Don’t you think it’s looking tired?’

Sophie didn’t think anything of the sort. It seemed perfect to her eyes, all sparkling white paintwork, varnished wood floors and artfully arranged furniture; her idea of a dream house. It was a shame how Lana’s wealth and the ease with which she could spend her husband’s money had anesthetised her to its beauty.

‘So where do you want to do this?’ she asked.

‘There is a studio downstairs,’ said Lana, ‘but it’s a lovely day. Would it work to go for a run?’

Sophie nodded. Much as she would have liked to see the studio, she knew she was here to work. Improving Lana’s cardiovascular fitness was a good idea, and her client was right: the sun was out and the morning air not too warm yet.

They took the back streets towards Hyde Park, crossing Brompton Road, then snaked down Ennismore Gardens towards South Carriage Drive. They didn’t talk much, but when Sophie did say something, it was to praise Lana’s work rate. She knew from personal experience how women with rich partners, no matter how beautiful, tended to be insecure, and needed constant compliments and reassurance. But in Lana’s case, no false flattery was required. She was long-legged, fit and light-footed, and had no problem keeping up with Sophie’s pace. They were inside the park now, running down the shaded path between two lines of sycamores.

‘So how long are you away for?’ Sophie said it lightly, but she had been dreading the answer. She was just getting used to the income from Lana’s daily sessions, and despite getting some response from a notice for ‘Ellis Training’ she had pinned on various café notice boards around South Kensington, she knew she wouldn’t be able to charge them a quarter the rate she was getting from Lana and her friends.

‘We’ll be away all of August. The French way,’ replied Lana. ‘We can start again in September, though? I don’t want you getting so booked up you can’t fit me into your schedule.’

‘Actually, it will give me the chance to do some training myself. Take a few courses.’

‘Qualify, you mean?’ said Lana with the hint of a smile.

Sophie felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

‘Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Qualifications?’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘All I care about is if someone is good at what they do, and you’re the best trainer I’ve worked with, Sophie.’

The compliment was gratefully received. Sophie had quickly found out that the relationship between client and trainer was quite an intimate one, and had hated feeling a fraud in front of Lana over the past three weeks. Still, she was doubly determined to get certified. After all, what if Lana injured herself and complained that Sophie wasn’t qualified? No – it was best to do a personal trainer course as quickly as possible.

They stopped by the bandstand and began stretching exercises.

‘So what did you do before? Before the training, I mean?’ asked Lana.

‘A little bit of work for my father,’ replied Sophie vaguely.

Lana laughed. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. It’s not as if most of the girls in Chelsea have professional careers. I think they are just killing time waiting to find the right husband.’

Sophie gave an ironic smile.

‘That used to be me.’

Lana glanced at her.

‘So what happened?’

Sophie sighed.

‘Which bit do you want to hear about? The bit where my dad lost all his money, or the bit where he died of a heart attack?’

Lana looked sympathetic.

‘I’m so sorry. When did this happen?’

‘Just a few weeks ago. It’s all still a bit raw, to be honest, which is why it’s been good to throw myself into something like this. And you’re right, I
am
good at this and it’s been a nice feeling recognising it. I have to say, I’ve been enjoying myself for the first time in a while.’

‘I bet you’re hearing some hair-raising stories, too?’

Sophie burst out laughing. Lana was right. Most of her clients had been shockingly open about their marital problems: how they felt neglected by their husbands, how they were convinced they were all having affairs.

‘I guess I’m cheaper than a shrink.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ve only heard the tip of the iceberg,’ replied Lana. ‘You wouldn’t believe what really goes on behind closed doors. All those women in their lovely houses, with every luxury and nothing to do all day; yet they’re still miserable, aren’t they?’

They exchanged a look, and for a minute Sophie wondered if Lana was talking about herself. On the surface, Lana had exactly the sort of life most of Sophie’s friends aspired to – the big house, the 4×4, a wardrobe of Dior – but who ever really knew how happy someone was?

‘All right,’ said Sophie with purpose. ‘Enough chat. Two-hundred-metre sprint, then a circuit of the park. Let’s see what you’ve got, Lana.’

They ran for an hour, Lana impressing Sophie with her general fitness and willingness to push herself – not something she saw with other rich housewives at the gym. For them, Sophie got the feeling, personal training was just something you did, an expected activity for a certain type of rich woman along with tennis and charity lunches. Finally they jogged back to Egerton Row, where Lana handed Sophie one of the white towels she had left in the hall.

‘So I’ll see you in September,’ said Sophie, wiping her face. ‘It must be one hell of a place in France if you’re prepared to say goodbye to this.’

Lana puffed out her cheeks and looked at Sophie.

‘Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you house-sit for us?’

Sophie gazed at her in amazement.

‘Here? For you?’

Lana threw the towel over her shoulder.

‘Why not? For insurance purposes, it would be good to have someone at the house.’

‘But you hardly know me. I could run off with all that expensive art in your hallway.’

‘I see you more than some of my closest friends.’ Lana smiled slowly. ‘Besides, I have a very sensitive alarm system and a housekeeper who lives out but who can check you don’t throw any wild parties.’

‘But what if you needed to come back to London?’

Lana laughed. ‘Darling, I can’t see that happening. But if I did, I wouldn’t throw you out. It’s plenty big enough for two.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘You’re unlikely to see him. He works mostly out of Geneva these days.’

‘Lana, I couldn’t . . .’

‘Sophie, you would be helping me,’ she insisted. ‘And you can use the studio for your training.’

Sophie understood Lana’s gesture. It wasn’t pity or charity, it was generosity. From Sharif’s no-strings-attached job offer at the gym to the man in the newsagent who gave her two months’ credit for the glossy magazine habit she couldn’t relinquish, kindness had come from the most unusual places since her world had turned upside down. And now Lana was making an offer she felt certain came from the same sense of simply wanting to help.

‘Well I warn you, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can water the plants, take messages if you like . . .’

‘That’s sweet, but I have a housekeeper for all that,’ smiled Lana. ‘I fly to Nice early Thursday morning. You’re welcome to move in any time after that. Any questions?’

Sophie looked around at her dream house and couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

‘No, actually, I think I’ll be fine.’

6

Ruth twisted around in front of the mirror, her arms tied in knots trying to reach for the zip.
Stupid things, why do they make them so hard to put on?
Finally she got the black dress straight, smoothed down her short blond hair and gave her lips one last slick of gloss.
There
, she thought,
that’s the best you’re going to get
. Looking at herself in the mirror, she winced at the reflection. She looked like a dominatrix. Perhaps it was the knee-high boots
and
the tight black dress. If she’d have been at home, she might have changed into something else, but she had left work so late, the only option had been to get ready in the ladies’ at the restaurant; she had to go with what she’d brought. Maybe she shouldn’t have rushed. Ruth seriously doubted David was even here yet. He was at his desk at seven and rarely left before ten; that was standard working hours in the City, so a financial journalist like David had to work the same beat. At least that was what he told her. Of late Ruth had begun to have doubts about her boyfriend. They had been dating for two years, and he had yet to invite her to meet his parents, they rarely spent the entire weekend together; hell, it was the first time she had seen him this week.

Of course, Ruth would never usually complain about that. She had always tried to keep relationships at arm’s length; work always had such a habit of getting in the way of her love life that she found it easier not to bother cultivating it. But she liked David. He was smart, sexy and handsome, with dark cropped hair and the clean-cut, regular features of a talk-show host. More importantly, they understood each other. He was as devoted to his career as she was to hers – he planned on being business editor of
The Times
within two years and editor-in-chief another three years after that. What she needed to work out was whether he was just as devoted to her. She wasn’t looking for a ring on her finger, but what was it her mom always used to say? ‘You’ve got to shit or get off the potty.’

‘Just go and have fun,’ Ruth told herself, blotting her lipstick and heading for the ground-floor cloakroom. Dropping her bag off, she rode up in the lift to the dining room on the twentieth floor. It was a pretty swish restaurant they were meeting in – so maybe things were looking up in her relationship after all. Stepping off the elevator, she almost whistled at the view. Ruth never tired of the other-worldly futurescape of Canary Wharf: the chequerboard yellow lights of the offices and the clean modernist angles of the architecture. It was like a science fiction film set come to life, a strange secret city hidden away around the corner from the rest of London.

The maître d’ pointed her towards the bar area, where she saw David almost immediately. He was sitting at the bar laughing – with a pretty girl in a miniskirt.
Great
.

‘Oh, hi, Ruthie,’ he said, rising from his bar stool as he spotted her. ‘Come and meet Susie, she’s a lobbyist with Lorna Steele.’

Of course
, thought Ruth,
a PR girl. Aren’t they always?
Not a great beauty up close, but blonde and young enough to flatter David, that much was obvious. The girl clearly caught the look on Ruth’s face, because she stood up.

‘Listen, I’ve got to be going,’ she said quickly, picking up her clutch.

‘Stay for another one,’ said David.

Susie shook her head.

‘It’s late. Lovely meeting you, David. You too, Ruth,’ she added, before swaying towards the lift on five-inch heels.

Fifteen years younger and ten times as hungry. What hope is there for the rest of us?
thought Ruth, watching her leave. Her long legs, her tight ass. It didn’t help that David was three years younger than Ruth. He’d once called her his cougar and she’d sulked for three days. At least he’d laid off that line of teasing ever since.

‘So, want a drink?’ said David, slightly too eagerly. It looked as if he was on his third, at least.

‘Why don’t we eat?’

He laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? We’ll have to take out a mortgage just to get a starter.’

‘But it’s fine to buy overpriced cocktails with Susie?’

His handsome features frowned.

‘What’s got into you?’

Ruth stopped herself. After her confrontation with Jim, the last thing she needed tonight was a public row. She just wanted a nice night out, to have fun, for David tell her everything was going to be all right. And she wasn’t going to get that by screaming at him for talking to some floozy.

She waved a hand. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, capitulating. ‘Just a bad day at work.’

David raised a finger to get the barman’s attention.

‘Vodka tonic. Double. Slice of lemon.’

He turned to look at her.

‘So come on, tell me. What’s happened? Jim Keane’s been dick-swinging again?’

‘Is my working life so predictable?’

She took the vodka and sipped it slowly as she told him about the editorial meeting at the
Tribune
, about the escort story she had been working on, and how Jim had nixed it before she had time to investigate it properly. David leant forward on the bar, his eyes twinkling with the same excitement as she had felt earlier today when she’d been piecing together the story. Sometimes it was good dating a journalist – the same hunger for news.