Perfect Strangers (9 page)

‘Oh no. Is he okay?’

Francesca nodded and bit her lip.

‘Yes, he’s fine, but he’s shaken up, I can tell.’

Sophie pulled her into a hug.

‘It’s okay honey, as long as he’s not hurt, that’s the main thing.’

Her friend pulled back.

‘No, you don’t get it,’ she snapped. ‘That’s not the bad part – he wants me to go and give him my set of house keys.’ Sophie immediately saw that what she had assumed was teary concern for her fiancé was in fact fury at Charlie’s poor timing.

‘You’re not leaving?’

‘I
have
to, apparently,’ said Francesca, throwing her hands in the air. ‘He’s with clients from Hong Kong and he doesn’t know what time he’s finishing.’

‘Why doesn’t he just come to yours when he’s finished?’

Fran pulled a face and shook her head. Sophie had always thought her friend wore the trousers in her relationship with Charles, but it was clear now who was in control.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Francesca, turning towards the exit.

Just then, Sophie spotted Nick weaving back through the crowd holding two drinks in the air, and she caught Francesca’s arm.

‘Listen, Fran, do you mind if I stay? I can come out and find a cab with you . . .’

Francesca frowned. ‘I can’t
leave
you here.’

‘Why not? I’ll be fine.’

Over Sophie’s shoulder, Francesca spotted Nick approaching and her face twisted.

‘Oh, I see, it’s like that, is it?’ she said tartly. ‘It’s all right for some, isn’t it?’

Sophie knew she forgave her friend for too many tantrums, too many sarcastic remarks – at the end of the day, she was grateful that Fran did not abandon her when she moved out of Chelsea, and with it her old lifestyle. But this time she was going to put her foot down.

‘Come on, Fran. Don’t be like that. We’ve just got here.’

‘Fine. You stay and have all the fun,’ said Francesca bitterly before striding off.

‘Fran!’ called Sophie. ‘Don’t . . .’

‘Is there a problem?’ said Nick, handing her a drink.

‘I hope not,’ she said, running to follow her friend, but Fran had got lost in the crowd. Sighing, Sophie returned to Nick.

‘Who was the blonde?’

‘Fran? An old school friend.’

‘She seemed pretty pissed off.’

Sophie laughed wearily.

‘She can get like that,’ she replied diplomatically.

‘Do you need friends like that?’

His honesty disarmed her.

‘That’s the thing about boarding school, you get thrown together. I guess she’s like the sister I never had. Maybe we don’t have as much in common as we used to, we’ve grown apart, but I couldn’t imagine her not being around.’

She looked at Nick and shrugged. She couldn’t believe she was telling this complete stranger things she hadn’t even really admitted to herself.

‘Well, I’m glad you stayed,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.

‘What’s the toast?’

‘To old friends. And new ones,’ he said playfully.

They were disturbed by a voice behind them.

‘Nicky boy, I don’t believe it.’

There was a man standing there with his arms open. He was tall, muscular, with dark tousled hair and a scrub of stubble that made him rough around the edges. But his black suit fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, although he wore it with white sneakers. New money, definitely, thought Sophie. She had met his type many times before in the Chelsea clubs. He probably had a yellow convertible Ferrari double-parked outside, cocaine in his pocket and a model waiting for him in the loos.

Nick looked as pleased about the interruption as she was.

‘Hey, Josh,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

‘How come?’ said Josh, his voice cocky, with a soft Scottish burr. ‘Everyone’s here tonight, aren’t they? If there’s a better place to do business, then I want to hear about it.’

He turned his attention to Sophie, his intense grey eyes disarming her.

‘I’m sorry. We’ve not been introduced. Josh McCormack. I’m an old friend of Nick’s, aren’t I, Nick?’

‘Sophie Ellis. Hello.’

He turned and ignored her, which irritated her more than it should have.

‘So how long are you in town for?’ he asked Nick.

‘Just another few days. Then back to Houston.’

‘So how was Paris? How long were you there for in the end?’

‘Four months. On and off.’

‘That’s right,’ said Josh, nodding. ‘You said you might stay a while when I saw you. Was it fun?’

‘Well, it was business, not a holiday.’

Nick took a sip of his drink and let the silence hang between them.

‘Well, I’ll leave you two love birds alone,’ said Josh finally. ‘Nice to meet you, Sophia.’ He pulled out a card and handed it to her.

Joshua McCormack, Bespoke Horologist
.

‘Bespoke horology?’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’

The corners of his mouth curled upwards.

‘Watches. I source them, buy them, sell them to a very select and demanding client list.’

‘I thought the richest men in the world wore Timex these days,’ said Nick.

‘Not everyone, my friend,’ said Josh, patting him on the shoulder. ‘I see Sophia here with a Patek Philippe Gondolo. Rose gold. Alligator strap. Sexy. Stylish. Call me if you need anything sorting out.’

He winked at her and she felt herself bristle. He couldn’t even get her name right, and he was clearly trying to sell her something.

‘Enjoy the evening,’ said Nick, raising his glass.

Josh grinned and disappeared.

‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ smiled Sophie as he went.

Nick shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose, a bit of a bullshitter. I wouldn’t buy a watch off him, put it that way. What was it you said about your friend? I think we’ve grown apart.’

Sophie smiled.

‘So what do you do that takes you to Paris?’

She’d been trying to avoid the question, as ‘What do you do?’ was the classic cocktail party way of sussing people’s worth; she had learnt that particular lesson at her mother’s knee. Whether you were a surgeon, hedge-funder or astronaut, your occupation was an instant, silent indicator of how much money you made and, in her mother’s case, whether you were worth talking to. But still, Sophie was curious.

‘I’m in investments.’

Sophie waited for him to say something else. When he didn’t, she burst out laughing.

‘What wrong?’ he frowned.

‘Why is everyone who works with money so guarded? Is it perhaps because you don’t want us to see that what you do isn’t actually very glamorous?’

‘Ouch. You wound me,’ said Nick, mock-hurt. ‘For your information, my work is pretty interesting.’

‘Yeah,
right
,’ said Sophie. ‘My last boyfriend worked in the City. Listening to him talk about work was about as exciting as watching croquet.’

‘I thought the British loved croquet.’ Nick smiled.

Sophie grinned.

‘Okay, then,’ he sighed. ‘I buy and sell companies. Mainly in the oil and gas sector. Also oil and gas royalties, mineral rights. Hence I live in Houston, rather than New York.’

‘And what’s that like? You’re living in the desert, right?’

‘The desert!’ he laughed, almost choking on his drink.

‘I’ve seen pictures of Texas,’ replied Sophie. ‘The orange soil. Scrub, cactus, blue skies, all that?’

‘Not Houston,’ said Nick, shaking his head. ‘It’s pretty green,’ he smiled. ‘Real hot, but green; we got a subtropical climate, it’s on the banks of a bayou.’

‘I guess I’m not as well travelled as I thought.’

‘Travel’s overrated,’ said Nick. ‘When you do what I do, you see a lot of identical minibars and not much else.’

He led Sophie over to a table and they sat down. Everyone else seemed to be up on the dance floor now throwing shapes to Michael Bublé, but all Sophie wanted to do was listen to Nick. He told her how he’d been to India, the Australian outback, Afghanistan; he’d even been fishing in the Faroe Islands: ‘An amazing place, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless you really like eating baked puffin or whale meat.’

In return, she told him about her six months in Florence, the tiny apartment overlooking the Ponte Vecchio, the family Christmases at the Sandy Lane hotel in Barbados, a ski trip to Jackson Hole with Will and his friends the New Year before. She told him only the good stuff, obviously. It was such a magical evening, she didn’t want to ruin the mood with tales of her dad’s death and her money problems. She had spent so long feeling sorry for herself lately, it was fun to just imagine herself in Lana’s life for real, pretend that everything was wonderful and effortless and sparkling. There was no harm in that, was there? And she loved the way Nick listened to her stories –
really
listened to them. Every other boy she’d dated in the last ten years only seemed to want to talk about themselves: who their friends were, what kind of car they were driving, what japes they’d got up to at university. She supposed that was the difference: Nick was a man, not a boy. And damn, he was sexy.

‘And what do you do, Sophie Ellis?’

She paused.

‘I’m just setting up my own business, actually. Personal health and fitness.’

It was economical with the truth. But it was still the truth.

‘That’s a growing market.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘And how’s it going?’

He looked into her eyes, and for a moment Sophie wondered if he was really asking about the business or about himself.

‘It’s early days yet,’ she grinned. ‘But I think it has potential.’

Just then the lights went down and Michael Bublé was frozen in a solitary spotlight. Everyone turned to look at him, holding their breath in anticipation, then the band kicked into ‘Haven’t Met You Yet’ and the dance floor erupted. Nick grabbed Sophie’s hand.

‘Come on, I like this song,’ he said, dragging her through the crowd.

‘No, Nick,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t dance, not in these shoes anyway.’

‘That’s okay, it’s up to the man to lead, right?’

He pulled her close and she felt his strong body against hers, then he spun her round and dipped her.

‘I feel like Fred Astaire,’ she giggled.

‘I think you mean Ginger Rogers,’ he replied.

She laughed.

‘That feels good.’

‘What?’

‘Laughing.’

‘And what about this?’

He pulled her closer, resting his hand on her bare back.

‘That’s pretty good too.’

‘You know, you do have very long eyelashes,’ he said, gazing into Sophie’s eyes.

‘And no one to bat them at.’

‘Not until now.’

Was he teasing her? Or was he really enjoying their time together as much as she was?
Come on, Sophie
, she said to herself,
take it slow
. She inhaled and let herself relax, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they swayed. She hoped Nick liked her. She’d been wary of men since Will had so unceremoniously dumped her. There had been no dates. No sex. She had trusted no one to get that close, expecting more disappointment. But this one seemed different.

The song ended and Nick whispered in her ear.

‘Shall we get out of here?’

She looked up at him.

‘Yes please,’ she said.

They walked down past the clipboard mermaids and up on to the concourse. Nick began to head across towards the taxi rank, but Sophie took his arm and steered him through the station’s ornate marble main entrance.

‘Let’s walk,’ she said.

It was a clear night and still warm; it seemed a shame to let the magic go so soon. They walked arm in arm on to Waterloo Bridge; the evening air was soft against her cheeks, and the light riverside breeze ruffled her dress.

‘Look at that,’ she said, nodding upstream towards the lit-up Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. ‘Best view in London.’

‘Damn.’ Nick whistled. ‘I see what you mean.’

They stood there, breathing in the night air, Sophie feeling his warm body against hers. She felt electrified by his presence and yet it felt so comfortable.

‘Why have I never noticed this before?’ said Nick quietly.

‘Men like you probably don’t go to Waterloo station very much.’

He smiled.

‘I guess not. So where are you taking me next?’

‘What do you want to see?’

‘Something British. Best London pub?’

‘It’s way past closing time,’ she said, glancing at Big Ben, whose black arms were both pointing up at midnight. ‘Besides, I’m not exactly dressed for it.’

She looked at him for a moment. ‘You really want to see London?’

‘Sure, but not the cheesy tourist version. Things only someone who lives here could tell me about.’

‘All right, but you can pay the fare,’ she said, putting her arm up to hail a taxi. ‘I’m going to take you on a tour of my favourite London places. Now pay attention, because I’ll be asking questions later.’

She pointed out Somerset House as they crossed the bridge, ‘the most romantic place to go ice-skating at Christmas’, then the old Strand ‘ghost station’ where they filmed movies, and the National Portrait Gallery, home to Sophie’s favourite painting, Branwell Brontë’s portrait of his sisters. They took a detour along Jermyn Street so Sophie could show Nick two of her favourite shops: a cheese vendor and a hat maker within twenty yards of each other.

‘Hey I love those hats the businessmen used to wear,’ said Nick enthusiastically. ‘What are they called again?’

‘Bowler hats. You should get one, it’d turn heads in Houston,’ she said.

Then she directed the cabbie down to the Mall, past the Palace – ‘
We have
to see Buck House, you are an American,’ she teased.

As they sat back in the cab, London was looking its most magical. The stateliness of the grand houses, the dark lure of the park, then an illuminated cavalcade of gleaming shop fronts, whirling traffic and the milky light from an almost full moon.

Finally they stopped at a late-night tapas bar in Belgravia Sophie had frequented in her Chelsea days and drank slightly rough red wine at a cramped corner table. But Sophie didn’t notice the surroundings, she was having too good a time. Nick was smart and charming and unlike so many men she had met in the upper echelons of society, keen to hear her opinions and stories. In between, he told her about his life, his comfortable childhood in ‘nowheresville’ River Oaks, his growing annoyance at having to spend half his year in the air and his deadline of forty when he wanted to give it all up. Sophie laughed at that one.