Double-checking she had all the photos and samples she needed for her meeting, Sophie made herself another coffee. As the kettle boiled she stared critically into the mirror, pawing at imperfections only she could see before standing back to allow a more soft-focus view and grimacing to tighten the skin of her neck in an attempt to exercise the muscles responsible for keeping her chin in place.
As Mark swept in to the sitting room, pinstriped from head to toe, newspaper tucked under his arm, a bunch of flowers wrapped in the usual pastel paper from the flower stall outside the tube station, Sophie gave her hair a quick flick and hoped he hadn’t noticed her moment of gurning madness. She was never going to stop men in the street with her looks, but she’d always been attractive enough. And happy enough. It was just—well, what with all the planning for the wedding she couldn’t help becoming a little more self-absorbed and self-conscious…
‘Hello, you. Happy weekend. Smells gorgeous in here.’ Mark presented Sophie with the bouquet and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek before striding over to the oven and peering in. ‘Mmm. Cottage pie. My favourite. You are clever. Lucky me. But only a small dish…’ He looked up. ‘So does this mean you’re abandoning me again this evening?’
‘Only for a few hours. And only for another woman.’
‘Excellent.’
Sophie smiled. Mark’s fantasies were as original as his taste in suits.
‘She’s just inherited four floors of Artex and woodchip in Richmond and needs serious help.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘Here’s hoping.’ Sophie walked over to her husband-to-be. His five-thirty shadow was giving him an atypically rugged appeal that she really quite liked. ‘It’s just an informal meeting—a chance for me to introduce myself and give her a few knee-jerk ideas—but at least this way I’ve still got the weekend to myself, and if she likes my recommendations it’s potentially my biggest project yet. Apparently her husband’s loaded.’
‘And hopefully devastatingly unattractive.’
‘Hideous, I believe. Anyway, there must be a good four hours of crucial sport for you to watch on cable until I get back.’
‘Well, they’re repeating the one-day cricket from India…’ Sophie pulled a face. She couldn’t understand the point of a sport in which the quick version took a whole day to play. ‘…plus there’ll be the weekend football and rugby previews, and of course essential tractor-pulling on Eurosport. But first I was planning on getting out of my uniform and having a little rest.’ Mark filled a pint glass with water from the mixer tap, liberally showering himself in the process.
‘Poor you. Have you had a horrible day?’
‘Not too bad, but it’s Friday so of course there was a large lunch to contend with.’
She should have known. His breath was far too minty for this time of the afternoon.
Mark grabbed at his love handles with a contradictory combination of pride and disgust. ‘These must be worth a fortune. Pure sirloin, frîtes and Fleurie.’ He gulped down his water, wiping his mouth on his forearm in the manner of a true nine-year-old. ‘What time are you off, then?’
‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’
‘Don’t go changing…’
It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.
Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’
Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.
Chapter Three
Ben sat himself down in a leather armchair identical to the one he had just vacated a few blocks east and, arranging the expanding collection of shopping bags at his feet, exchanged an empathetic smile with the men sitting on either side of him.
He’d done almost all his clothes-shopping in a couple of stores on Lexington straight after lunch, and yet this was their third branch of Banana Republic in two hours. Ali assured him this was their flagship, the mother ship, the Mecca, the ultimate collection, and until they opened a branch in London he’d just have to be patient. Reaching for the GQ magazine that he was using as a disguise, he settled into his seat and selected one of the most recent entries.
Wednesday March 21st
Furious. Richard turned up at hotel this morning all smiles for final meetings. Not even a call or e-mail first. Wanker. He claims he is relationship-building. Yadda-yadda-yadda. If he’s waiting for me to screw up it’s not going to happen.
Must keep calm. Home tomorrow. And, small consolation, did pick up killer DKNY trouser suit yesterday. Simple lines. Classic cut. Great fabric. Always feel unassailable in NYC. Energy levels infectious and people no ruder than in London. Need green card. Or American firm to sponsor me. Or American husband—note: George Clooney has previously shown a healthy degree of interest in English girls.
Nick still periodically chasing EJ. Am proud to report she is resisting and has no shortage of alternative offers. Own daily routine feeling bit flat by comparison. Busy enough socially, but is increasingly girlie nights and am often sole singleton at dinner parties, expected to entertain with tales of the City so they can relive their dating days vicariously. Less random new people. Need new project. Most exciting thing to happen to me last week was new series of Friends on E4. And never have time to watch whole series. Know I will end up buying DVD and filing it, unopened, along with others. Scene change would be good. And it’s not like I’m going to give it all up and make jam.
Ben shook his head. These pseudo-feminists were their own worst enemies, believing they could eat men for breakfast when all they really wanted was a man to make it for them.
Sometimes I think I’d like to spend more time outside.
Personal trainer? Landscape gardener?
Landscape gardener? He was supposed to be the creative one, yet in his regular life and career crises he only ever came up with the traditional bar owner/teacher/doctor options.
Or at least do something that feels more tangible. I have good job. Good salary. Qualifications. Prospects. But sometimes wonder if I am too sensible—own worst enemy—but then maybe grass is always greener in a landscaped garden. But haven’t met any guys with longterm potential since I’ve been at 3L. Not that this is all about a man. Far from it.
‘Yeah, right.’ Ben stabbed the diary with his finger before turning the page. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with problems. He was talking to a magazine.
Could retrain. Teaching is tempting. Salary is not. But increasingly feel would like to make a difference, however small.
Need gym session. Not sure fast walking in semi-heels to Bloomingdales and back counts as exercise. Now Richard has suggested exercising corporate Amex over cocktails with clients in Bemelmans Bar at 6.30. Could just be a little late. Woman’s prerogative. Then again, probably not quite future partner prerogative. At least have new classic cocktail dress. Makes me feel fabulous, especially now upper arms are more toned. On the whole these NY boys are more attractive than their British counterparts, but sadly they rarely have any substance, any real spirit. As if their strength has been sapped by their sand-coloured Chinos.
Ben shook his head and looked down at his black round-neck jumper and Diesel jeans, irritated by her descent into cliché. Yup, all American men were dull and without style, and all British women only had sex in the missionary position.