So Now You're Back (8 page)

‘You're joking? But we signed off on that design weeks ago. And isn't the event this Saturday evening?' In two days' time.

The studio took on only about eight hundred cakes a year now. All bespoke designs mostly for celebrity parties or huge corporate events and all handmade by the fabulous team she'd assembled. But even so, each cake had to have the unique Halle Best stamp on it. That's what her clients were paying thousands of pounds per cake for. With her TV and publishing commitments, she no longer had the time to spend hours painstakingly moulding Mexican modelling paste or baking sponges or mixing crumb coating, so her job mostly involved
fronting the studio's PR initiatives, creating the basic designs, instructing the team and schmoozing the clients.

Right from the start, the Kane Corporation's cake had been a hard sell, and an even harder schmooze. Carlton Foster, the CEO, who had insisted on consulting with Halle personally, had been adamant about showcasing the company's product range on the cake because the party would be getting lots of exposure on their social media platforms. Unfortunately, it was next to impossible to make a cake topped with syringes, surgical gloves, catheters and bedpans look edible, let alone appetising. After much negotiation, and some extracurricular schmoozing, Halle had managed to satisfy Foster's marketing zeal while also hopefully preventing his guests' gag reflexes from engaging by suggesting a five-tiered dark chocolate sponge iced with a raspberry and tangerine white chocolate ganache—black, red and orange being the colours of the Kane Corporation logo—decorated with a tasteful montage of 3D illustrations from the company's iconic advertising campaigns of the past sixty years. Foster had signed off on the design two weeks ago. And the party was happening on Saturday at the Kensington Roof Gardens. The sponges would have been baked. The decorations would already be in production. They simply didn't have time for any major rethinks. Or redesigns. But even so …

‘What's the suggestion?'
Please don't let it involve the return of the bedpans.

Halle wanted to be as flexible as possible. When it came to big-occasion cakes, last-minute suggestions or panic attacks were the customers' prerogative. Especially if they were paying ten thousand pounds for the privilege.

‘Foster is really keen for us to incorporate something
to illustrate Kane's latest charitable initiative in the Third World.'

‘OK.' That didn't sound too disastrous. One new tableau should be doable. If they could persuade one of the stylists to work overtime to get a head start on the new decoration and she could work out a design for it before she left tomorrow morning. ‘What's the initiative?'

Carrie smiled, sheepishly. ‘A programme to distribute free condoms in sub-Saharan Africa.'

Halle's smile faded as she slapped ‘kill Carlton Foster' onto the top of her to-do list.

W
hat exactly is the point of online check-in?

Luke stood in the queue for the bag-drop desk in Heathrow's Terminal Two, which snaked halfway to Manchester, his boot tapping against the industrial flooring. As a person who'd been born with a serious case of wanderlust, he knew pointless queues were a necessary evil of air travel. But he'd had a six a.m. wake-up call, despite being up till two at his hotel to meet a deadline on a piece for
Time
magazine, to allow for the queue at security—which still loomed large, and no doubt even longer, in his future. So this sodding queue was above and beyond the call of duty.

Halle strode through one of the terminal's revolving doors, followed by a mini entourage that consisted of a woman talking on her smartphone and an older man pushing a trolley with far too many suitcases on it. Luke's boot stopped in mid-tap, as did the dictation in his head of his letter of complaint to the moron who thought two measly bag-drop staff was enough.

From the parade of double takes that followed Halle and her mini entourage through the terminal, it was clear several people recognised her. No one approached her, though. Not
surprising, given those bugger-off vibes she was radiating with every crisp, purposeful stride.

She looked immaculate, and invincible, her hair swept up in a style that left her face bare, but for the few teasing tendrils dangling down her neck. The intimidating light blue power suit and heels were probably some pricey designer brand, a matching set to the outfit she'd worn in Paris. The hum of attraction kicked off in his crotch, annoying him the same way it had when he'd swung round at her gasp in Café Hugo.

Ruthlessly coiffured and expertly styled dominatrix types were not his thing. He preferred a woman who didn't look as if she were about to conquer Poland. But that hadn't stopped him having to stifle all sorts of inappropriate urges while sitting opposite her in Hugo's, mostly involving plucking the pins out of her hairdo and watching the honey-blonde curls bounce off her shoulders.

Funny to think how sunny and unassuming she'd been when they were kids. Young and open and ridiculously naive. Of course, she'd been sixteen going on twenty then, and an exceptionally bad judge of character. Or she wouldn't have attempted to hand him her heart on a platter.

Halle's brows rose as she spotted him, but her gaze remained cool and impersonal.

The composed assessment should have been a welcome relief from the radioactive glare she'd lasered at him three weeks ago over croissants and millefeuille. But it felt more like an anticlimax.

He'd been expecting fireworks. Had prepared for them, ready to offer her a quick apology for what had happened sixteen years ago, thus knocking the hefty chip she still appeared to be carrying around off her shoulder.

The blank look wrong-footed him.

‘Hi, Hal.' The tension in his shoulders relaxed despite his disappointment. At least she'd shown up. ‘You made it.'

‘I made you a promise. And I keep my promises.'

Right.
‘Good thing I saved you a place in the queue, then,' he said, deflecting the deliberate dig with a certain amount of gratification.

Maybe not fireworks, then, but definitely a sparkler or two. Sparklers he could work with.

‘Aren't we in business class?'

Her proprietary question lit a few sparklers of his own. ‘This
is
the business queue. The economy one stretches all the way to Madagascar. I guess they didn't get the memo that business people don't queue.' Or celebrities, apparently.

‘Mel, could you go over to the first-class check-in and see if we can arrange an upgrade?' she instructed the woman beside her.

The perky assistant nodded and headed for the empty first-class desk. The old guy followed suit with Halle's bags, leaving them alone—if you didn't count the ten thousand people in the queue.

‘You sure you want to waste an extra five grand just to avoid a queue?' he asked, even though he guessed she probably never travelled anything but first now.

The thought lit another sparkler.

‘I was up last night until one trying to design a cake decoration inspired by free condoms that didn't actually involve making little foil packets out of modelling paste. So yes, the five grand is well worth it. I need to sleep on this flight.'

They did beds in business. The business class flights he'd paid for out of his own pocket so he could get his apology over and done with. But he refused to let her snotty attitude
or the juvenile reaction in his groin triggered by the word ‘condoms' get to him. ‘Sounds tasteful, what's the cake for, a stag do?'

‘You'd think, but no,' she said cryptically.

The assistant returned looking pleased with herself. ‘I've got you an upgrade to first. Derek's loading the bags.'

‘Wonderful, thanks, Mel.' Halle turned back to him, her relief palpable for a second, before she covered it with a polite smile. ‘I guess I'll see you in Atlanta.'

He frowned after her as she marched off to the first-class check-in.

OK, what was that about? Because the hairs on the back of his neck were going haywire, a sure sign he'd been played.

He did what he always did when his journalistic radar was telling him a source wasn't being entirely truthful. He examined the evidence.

Halle had always been super frugal when they had been together. Pinching every penny—especially the ones they didn't have. And while she had money now, probably more money than she knew what to do with, Lizzie frequently moaned about her mum's penny-pinching ways. So splashing the cash still wasn't her style. Why, then, had she bumped herself up to first, when she could sleep just as easily in business without paying five grand for the privilege?

He watched Halle say goodbye to her crew and head towards the departure gates. She didn't look back at him. His journalistic radar went into meltdown.

Son of a bitch.
In business she'd be next to him.

Was that it? She was still trying to stonewall him?

Bugger that.
He swung his leather holdall over his shoulder and crossed to the first-class desk. He wasn't into unnecessary expenditure, either, but she'd spent sixteen years
not talking to him. Five grand didn't seem like too much to pay to stop her buying him off for another ten hours.

Here endeth the silent treatment.

Ushered through the boarding gate, Halle clutched her carry-on luggage, stocked with anti-nausea medication, antacids and the Xanax—which she'd dosed up on in the car on her way to the airport.

She was over Luke. She just wasn't over him enough to spend nine hours and forty minutes in a plane freaking out while he sat beside her being composed and competent and annoyingly buff.

The quest for closure could wait until she was good and ready to deal with it.

And after the hours she'd put in last night finishing off the Kane redesign, the five grand it had cost her for ten extra hours of karma was a totally justifiable expense.

Especially as the Xanax didn't appear to be working yet. Which had to explain why spotting Luke standing in the bag-drop queue in battered jeans and a leather jacket, with his hair dishevelled and his jaw covered in stubble, had made her body hum as if she'd been plugged into an electric socket.

‘May I take your bag, Ms Best?' A flight attendant with immaculate make-up and a chignon that could withstand a nuclear holocaust beamed at her as she stepped aboard the plane.

Halle tightened her grip on the bag. ‘No, thank you.'

The attendant led her past the galley and the functional luxury of business class and up a spiral staircase into a section way too reminiscent of a vintage
Star Trek
set. Eerie blue-toned lighting illuminated a series of pods, each furnished with a reclining seat, a mirrored wall, a control panel
of knobs that would confuse Lieutenant Uhura and enough leather to fit out an S&M boutique.

Halle tucked her bag into her assigned pod and tried not to think of all the other much more useful and tangible things she could have done with the five grand her flight aboard the Starship
Enterprise
was costing. She was a celebrity. She worked superhard. She had a very healthy bank balance these days. She was entitled to splurge on herself occasionally.

This was not because she'd panicked when she'd seen Luke. She could easily control any and all inappropriate reactions where he was concerned. Simply by remembering how much she despised him. This was because she deserved to pamper herself. And because the take-off alone could cause her acid reflux to go into overdrive—so why add to her stress with an audience?

There were only two other people travelling in first class: a balding, middle-aged executive seated four pods up, who was tapping industriously on his laptop, and an elderly woman three pods across, who was lying back with an eye mask on and was doing a great impression of being already dead.

I should be so lucky.

She quashed the spurt of panic. Once the take-off was over, she could let the pampering begin.

‘Would you like a beverage, Ms Best?'

She briefly entertained the idea of deadening her anxiety with champagne. ‘Some iced water would be great,' she replied. Getting legless could be her fallback position if the sedative didn't kick in soon.

Settling into her seat, she stared in dismay at the panel of buttons. Sweat collected on her upper lip and the muscles in
her neck began to twitch. If only one of those buttons could whisk her across the Atlantic at warp speed.

‘How many knobs does one person need, right?'

Her head swung round so fast at the suggestive comment it was a miracle she didn't get whiplash.

‘Luke, what the …?' She searched for the flight attendant. ‘You're not supposed to be in here. They'll throw you out.'

‘I'll risk it.' The sheepish expression on his too-handsome face instantly threw her back to their schooldays and all those times he'd done something diabolical—like spray-painting an image of Mrs Wendell going down on Mr Truer all over the sixth-form toilets—and she'd been his final line of defence against instant expulsion. Annoyance bunched in her neck muscles, but beneath it was the furtive spike of excitement. A mortifying reminder of how her sixteen-year-old self had once relished his bad behaviour.

‘Relax.' He settled into the pod next to her. ‘I got an upgrade, too.'

‘What?'

He slung his laptop bag under his console while she gaped as if he'd just spoken in Swahili. Either that or she'd gone momentarily deaf and misheard him.

What had happened to Luke Best, class warrior? The guy who thought first-class train carriages were there to be invaded? Even business class had seemed like a stretch.

‘I'm a frequent flyer. It only cost a couple of grand extra. And it's tax deductible.' He began to fiddle with the dials on his personal control panel. ‘This is actually pretty cool.' Propping his feet on the footrest, he rolled his shoulders and relaxed into the seat. Then sent her a grin that plugged her right back into the electric socket.

‘You can't stay here.' The in-flight trauma of taking off was bad enough, she did not need the one man capable of
giving her a nervous breakdown when she had both feet on terra firma as a witness to her humiliation.

‘Try me.'

‘But doesn't travelling in first go against everything you ever stood for? I distinctly remember you telling me once that the premium seats in Holloway Odeon were an exploitation of the working classes.'

‘I've mellowed.'

‘You mean you've sold out for a lie-flat bed and some complimentary champagne?' Why did it even surprise her? Luke had never had the courage of his convictions.

‘There's complimentary champagne?' He rubbed his hands together. ‘Damn, if I'd known that, I would have sold out sooner.'

The flight attendant returned with Halle's iced water.

‘Hi there, Debbie,' he said, reading the woman's name badge. ‘Is it true you get complimentary champagne in first?'

‘Certainly, sir, would you like a glass?'

‘You might as well bring the bottle. It's a ten-hour flight and I plan to get my money's worth.'

The attendant hesitated. ‘We're only allowed to serve it by the glass I'm afraid, sir.'

‘And it's ten o'clock in the morning,' Halle butted in. ‘Drinking at altitude will get you pissed. You're supposed to be driving us to the resort when we get off this flying death trap. I refuse to get in a car with you if you're over the limit.' Hadn't the man grown up at all in sixteen years?

‘I guess that's me told.' He flashed a sheepish smile at the attendant, whose cheeks shone pink beneath the ten layers of foundation. ‘I guess I'll have to pass. I'll have what she's having,' he finished, indicating Halle's glass.

The purser's amplified voice filled the cabin giving them
a rundown of the in-flight services as the stewardess headed off to do Luke's bidding.

Halle gulped down the chilled water, but it did nothing to ease the rawness in her throat.

Shit, shit, shit.

She rolled the icy glass across her forehead, then bent to retrieve her bag.

‘Why did you call it a “flying death trap”?'

She ignored Luke's question as she waged war with the child-safety lid on the Xanax bottle. Only to have the bottle whipped out of her hands.

‘What are these for?'

‘Give me those.' She made a grab for the bottle as he read the label, only to have him hike it out of reach.

‘Heavy-duty happy pills. When did you start popping these?'

‘It's not Ecstasy. It's a mild drug to help with anxiety. And it's none of your business what pills I pop.'

‘Mild, my arse. This stuff can kill you if you take too much of it.'