Читать книгу The Best Man And The Bridesmaid - Liz Fielding - Страница 5

WEDNESDAY, 22 March. Dress fitting. Me, in frills, as a bridesmaid. It’s my worst nightmare come true. The self-assertiveness course was a complete waste of time; it was utterly impossible to be assertive in the face of Ginny’s sweet pleading. Lunch with Robert first, though. The lovely (and very clever) Janine has dumped him and I am, as usual, the nearest shoulder available. Crocodile tears, of course … but interesting to see how he takes being on the receiving end of the boot for a change.

‘Yellow velvet? What’s wrong with yellow velvet?’

‘Nothing. Probably.’ In its place. Wherever that might be.

‘If being a bridesmaid was high on my list of ambitions.’ It came five hundred and twenty-seventh on hers: right after having her teeth extracted without anaesthetic. ‘Nothing, if I enjoyed the idea of being fitted into a dress that will display all my shortcomings in the figure department.’ She glanced down at her chest, which she suspected would be six inches short of the desired circumference. ‘Or, in my case, not display them.’ Robert’s gaze had followed hers and he was regarding her lack of curves with a thoughtful expression. ‘Nothing,’ she added quickly, to distract him, ‘if I relished the prospect of walking behind a girl who is going to be the prettiest bride this century, alongside a posse of her equally beautiful and raven-haired cousins, all of whom will look ravishing in yellow.’

Was she being petty?

Oh, yes.

‘Maybe you’ll look ravishing in yellow,’ Robert offered. He didn’t sound convinced. Well, he didn’t have to. Just so long as he stopped talking about Janine. She’d heard quite enough about how wonderful Janine was. If she was that wonderful, he should have married the girl.

Her boyish chest clenched painfully at the thought.

‘I’ll look like a duck,’ she said, more to distract herself than because it mattered very much. It was Ginny’s day and no one would be looking at her.

‘Probably.’ Robert, primed to offer at least a token contradiction, instead grinned broadly. Well, that was why he’d asked her to lunch, to cheer him up.

The best man had it so easy, she thought irritably. Robert would be in morning dress and the biggest decision he’d have to make was whether to wear a grey morning coat or a black one. Or maybe not. Ginny’s mother was stage-managing this wedding like the director of some Hollywood epic, and everything was being colour co-ordinated down to the last button, so it was unlikely he’d even have to worry about that.

No. All Robert would have to do was make sure her brother arrived in time for the wedding, produce the rings at the appropriate moment and make a short but witty speech at the reception. She’d seen it all before. Robert was very good at weddings … particularly at ensuring they weren’t his own.

He’d arrange a stupendous stag night for Michael and still deliver him immaculately dressed and sober as a judge at the church in plenty of time for the wedding. He’d produce the rings dead on cue, make the wedding guests chuckle appreciatively with his wit and probably have the prettiest bridesmaid for breakfast.

By the time they’d left the church every female heart would be aflutter and the eyelashes would be following suit. Well, not the bride’s eyelashes, perhaps. And the bride’s mother could be forgiven for being distracted. But the bride’s sister, the bride’s cousins, the bride’s aunts …

Not that Robert needed morning dress for that. Women fell for him wherever he went, whatever he was wearing. Beautiful women. Sophisticated women. Sexy women. And he didn’t have to do a damned thing except smile.

Bridesmaids, on the other hand, were at the whim of the bride’s mother. She sighed. Frills. Ribbons. Velvet. That was bad enough. But why on earth did Ginny’s mother have to choose yellow velvet? You’d have thought filling the church with daffodils would be enough yellow for anyone … ‘You aren’t supposed to agree with me, you know,’ she scolded. ‘I went to great lengths to avoid being a bridesmaid. I made Ginny swear that no matter what my mother did or said, she wouldn’t make me follow her up the aisle.’

‘The best-laid plans …’

‘The best-laid plans be blowed. I can’t believe Ginny’s mother permitted such a vital member of her cast to go skiing so close to the wedding.’

‘I don’t suppose anyone told her about it or she’d have done her best.’ He smiled. ‘Poor Daisy.’ She would do almost anything to have Robert smile at her like that. Even suffer the indignity of yellow velvet. He leaned forward and gently ruffled the springy mop of curls fighting their way out of the confines of an elastic band. ‘And actually, you’re quite wrong about looking like a duck. Ducks waddle, you don’t.’ As compliments went, it wouldn’t ring a fairground bell, but still Daisy had to work hard to stem a flush of pleasure. ‘Definitely not a duck.’

‘Really?’ The flush materialised; she just couldn’t help it.

He grinned. ‘No. You’re thinking of ducklings.’

Well, that would teach her to be vain. ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Fluffy and yellow.’

‘Fluffy and yellow and—’

‘Don’t even think the word cute, Robert.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, but his eyes betrayed him. Warm, toffee-brown eyes that were quite definitely laughing at her. ‘Your nose is too big for cute.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And your mouth.’

‘Okay, I get the picture. I’d crack a mirror at twenty paces—’

‘Thirty,’ he amended kindly. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. You’ll look sweet.’

Aaargh! ‘I’m not cut out for velvet and tulle,’ she said tersely. Beautifully tailored suits, severely cut coat dresses and sleek silk shirts were more her style; they flattered her wide shoulders and disguised her lack of curves. ‘I certainly don’t want to stuff my feet into a pair of satin Mary Janes and have rosebuds entwined in my hair. I’ll look about six years old.’

‘What are Mary Janes?’

‘Those little-girl shoes with the strap over the instep. Why grown women wear them beats me; I hated them even when I was a little girl.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She waited, knowing there was more. ‘I have to agree, six does sound about right.’

‘Robert!’ Well, a girl could only take so much.

He caught her hand, held it, and Daisy decided that he could insult her all day if he just kept doing that. ‘Heavens, you’re trembling. I’ve never seen you in such a state.’ The trembling had nothing whatever to do with being a bridesmaid, but hey … ‘This isn’t compulsory, sweetheart. Just tell Ginny that you can’t do it.’ As if. ‘She can manage with three little maids, can’t she?’

Of course she could. But this wasn’t about managing. This was about having the perfect wedding, and Daisy couldn’t, wouldn’t let her future sister-in-law down. And there just wasn’t anyone else. She’d asked.

Robert, of course, could not be expected to understand. All his life people had been falling over themselves to let him do whatever he wanted. Most men with his advantages would be absolute monsters, she knew. That apart from being the most desirable man she was ever likely to meet he was also good-natured and generous and legions of his abandoned girlfriends would declare with their dying breath that he was the kindest man in the world was little short of a miracle.

‘Of course my mother is over the moon,’ she said. ‘She didn’t expect to get a second chance.’

Robert squeezed her hand sympathetically. ‘If your mother wants you to be a bridesmaid, sweetheart, you might as well surrender gracefully.’

If? That was the understatement of the year. Her mother had an agenda all her own. With one daughter married and doing her duty in the grandchildren department, and with her son about to follow suit, Margaret Galbraith already had her sights firmly fixed on her difficult youngest child. Twenty-four and not an eligible suitor in sight.

Phase one of her mother’s plan involved getting Daisy to change her image. She was thinking feminine, she was thinking pretty. She’d already spent weeks trying to involve her in a clothes-buying sortie to take advantage of a large and fancy wedding at which there would undoubtedly be a number of eligible males. Now one of the raven-haired bridesmaids had thoughtfully broken her leg, showing off on the piste, and with Daisy the only possible replacement, her mother was in seventh heaven. There was absolutely no chance of escape.

Phases two and three would undoubtedly involve a major make-up job and the services of a hairdresser with orders to get her fluffy yellow hair under control for once. Daisy sincerely pitied the poor soul who was confronted by that hopeless task.

She looked at Robert’s hand, covering her own. He had beautiful hands, with long, slender fingers; a jagged scar along the knuckles only enhanced their strength. He’d got that scar saving her from a vicious dog when she was six years old; she’d loved him even then.

For a moment she allowed herself the simple pleasure of his touch. Just for a moment. Then she withdrew her hand, picked up her glass and swirled the remaining inch of wine about the bowl. ‘Mother thinks I’m being silly, that I’m being ridiculously self-conscious,’ she admitted. ‘She thinks being centre-stage will be good for me.’

He was still smiling, but with sufficient sympathy to put him back in her good books. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, Daisy, but I’m afraid you’re just going to have to grin and bear it.’

‘Would you?’

‘Anything for a quiet life,’ he assured her. ‘But I’ll wear a yellow waistcoat to demonstrate solidarity,’ he offered, ‘if that’ll make you feel better.’

‘A yellow velvet waistcoat?’ she demanded.

‘If that’s what it takes.’ Easy to say. They both knew that unless it was part of the plan, Ginny’s mother would veto it. ‘Or you could dye your hair black to match the other girls,’ he offered. ‘Although whether a black duckling would have quite the same appeal—’

‘You’re not taking this seriously.’ But then, when did he ever take anything seriously? He might be a touch aggrieved because his latest girlfriend had worked out that he had a terminal aversion to commitment and cut her losses a full week before he’d made the decision for her, but since he would be beseiged by women eager to take her place, it wouldn’t worry him for long.

Daisy sipped her wine in a silent toast to the woman; so few of Robert’s conquests were that clever.

‘Or you could wear a wig,’ he suggested, after a moment.

She told him, in no uncertain terms, where he could stick his wig.

That made him laugh out loud. Well, she had intended it to. ‘Don’t get your feathers in a tangle, duckie,’ he said, teasing her. ‘You’re getting the whole thing out of proportion. I mean, who’ll notice? All eyes will be on the bride. Won’t they?’

For a man reputedly capable of charming a girl out of her knickers without lifting more than an eyebrow, Daisy considered that was less than gallant. But then he had always treated her like a younger sister, and what man ever felt the need to be gallant to a sister? Her own brother never had, so why would his best friend be any different? Especially since she went out of her way to keep the relationship on that level. No flirting. No sharp suits or silk shirts when she was meeting him for lunch.

She might love him to the very depths of her soul, but that was a secret shared only with her diary. Robert Furneval wasn’t a till-death-us-do-part kind of man, and when you really loved someone nothing less would do.

She downed her claret and stood up. Leaving him on the right note was always difficult; she had to take any chance that offered itself. ‘Next time you need a shoulder to cry on, Robert Furneval,’ she said, ‘try the Yellow Pages. Since you’re so fond of the colour.’

‘Oh, come on, Daisy,’ he said, picking up her boxy little beaded handbag from beneath the table and rising to his feet. ‘You’re the one female I know I can rely on to be sensible.’ She might have been placated by that. But then he spoilt it by handing her the bag and saying, ‘Except for a tendency to raid your grandmother’s wardrobe for dressing up clothes.’ She didn’t bother to correct him. Her sister had bought her the little Lulu Guinness bag for her birthday, probably egged on by their mother to improve her image. Her image was clearly beyond redemption. ‘Don’t go all girly on me about some stupid bridesmaid’s dress. It’s not as if you’ll have to show your legs.’

‘What have you heard about my legs?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing. I just happen to remember that you have knobbly knees. I assume that’s why you make such a point of keeping them covered up. Trousers, jeans, long skirts …’ He smiled down at her with that little-boy smile. His smile did for her every time. Oh, not the knickers. She would never be that stupid. But it still melted every resolve she had ever made in the solitude of her room, still reduced to mush every heart-felt promise she’d made to herself that she would break herself of the Robert Furneval habit. ‘You wouldn’t want me to lie and say that you’ll look fabulous in yellow? Would you?’ It might be nice, she thought. Just once. But they had never lied to one another. ‘We’re friends. Friends don’t have to pretend.’

Yes, they were friends. She clung to that thought. Robert might not woo her with roses, might not take her to expensive little restaurants and ply her with smoked salmon and truffles, but he didn’t dump her after a couple of months either. They were true friends. Best friends. And she knew, she had always known, that if she wanted to be a permanent part of Robert’s life, that was the way it would have to stay.

And she was part of his life. He told her everything. She knew things about Robert that she suspected even her brother didn’t know. She had cultivated the habit of listening, and she was always there for him between lovers … to meet for lunch, or as a date to take to parties. Just so long as she never fooled herself into hoping that they would be leaving the party together.

Not that he ever abandoned her. He always made sure that someone reliable was detailed to take her home. Reliable and boring and dull. Then he teased her for weeks afterwards about her new ‘boyfriend’.

‘Do they?’ he persisted.

‘What?’ She realised he was frowning. ‘Oh, pretend? No,’ she said quickly, with a reassuring smile. ‘I wouldn’t ever want you to do that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘But now I have to go and submit to the indignity of having the dress taken in.’

‘Taken in?’

‘The dresses are empire line.’ She spread her hands wide and tucked them beneath her inadequate bosom. ‘You know, straight out of Pride and Prejudice. All the other girls have the appropriate cleavage to show them to advantage.’

‘Wear one of those lift ‘em up and push ‘em together bras,’ he suggested.

‘You have to have something to lift and push.’

He didn’t argue about that, but rubbed his hand absently down the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Don’t worry about it, Daisy. Everything will be fine. And the wedding will be fun, you’ll see.’

She gave him the benefit of a wry smile. ‘For you maybe. Best man gets the pick of the bridesmaids, doesn’t he?’

He gazed down at her. ‘I’ve never been able to fool you, have I?’

‘Never,’ she agreed.

‘Better cut along to this fitting, then, so that you can give me the low-down on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?’

‘There’s a party at Monty’s. I’ll pick you up at eight and we’ll have dinner first.’

It never seemed to occur to him that she might have something else planned, and for just a moment it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was busy on Saturday night. There was only one problem with that. In all her life, since she was old enough to toddle after her brother and his best friend, she had never been too busy for Robert. ‘Make it nine-thirty,’ she said, forcing herself to be a little difficult. Just to prove to herself that she could be.

‘Nine-thirty?’ His dark brows twitched together in gratifying surprise.

‘Actually ten o’clock would be better,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to give dinner a miss, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh? Are you sure you can manage the party?’ The edge in his voice gave Daisy rather more satisfaction than was quite kind. After all, she’d chosen the path she was treading. ‘You haven’t gone and got yourself a boyfriend, have you? You’re my girl, you know.’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said, putting on her sweetest smile. ‘I’m your friend. Big difference.’ His girls lasted two, three months tops, before they started hearing wedding bells and he, with every appearance of reluctance, let them go. ‘But I was going to Monty’s bash anyway and I’ll be glad of the lift.’ Just occasionally he needed to be reminded that she wasn’t simply there at his beck and call. Just occasionally she needed to remind herself, even if it did mean passing on dinner at some fashionable restaurant and dining alone on a sandwich.

Then, having made a stand, having started a tiny ripple in his smoothly ordered world, she held up her cheek to be kissed, punishing herself with the brief excitement of his lips brushing her cheek, the scrape of his midday beard against her skin that did things to her insides that would rate an X-certificate.

It would be so easy to prolong the hug, just as it would have been easy to indulge herself and stretch out lunch over coffee and dessert. But Daisy’s little-sister act had its limitations; too much close contact and she’d be climbing the office walls all afternoon.

Besides, keeping him at a distance was probably the only reason he didn’t get bored with her.

‘Thanks for lunch, Robert. I’ll see you on Saturday,’ she said briskly, making for the restaurant door and not looking back once. It had been harder today. Much harder. Today he was unattached, momentarily vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. Maybe that was why she had made such a fuss about the bridesmaid dress. Not to amuse Robert, but to distract herself.

It would have been far too easy to forget all about the fitting, to suggest he walk her across the park, linking her arm through his, inviting him up to her flat with the excuse that she wanted to show him her new computer, plying him with coffee and brandy.

The trouble was she knew Robert too well. All his little weaknesses. Today, dumped by a girl with the wit to see through him, with his self-esteem needing a stroke, he might have been tempted to see what Daisy Galbraith was really made of beneath the trousers, the long skirts, the carefully neutral, sexless clothes she wore whenever she met him.

The trouble with that inviting scenario was tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or maybe it would be a month or two before someone else, someone elegant and beautiful, someone more his style, caught his roving eye. And after that nothing. No more precious lunches. No more of those early Sunday mornings at home when he dropped by with his rods to suggest they might go fishing, or take the dogs for a run. No more anything but awkwardness when they met by chance.

Worse, she would have to pretend she didn’t care, because her brother would never forgive his best friend for breaking his little sister’s heart.

While a treacherous part of her mind sometimes suggested that an affair with Robert might be all it took to cure her of his fatal attraction, Daisy had no difficulty in ignoring it. She might be foolish, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d been in love with him since she had gazed from her high chair at this seven-year-old god who had come home with her brother for tea. The very last thing on earth she wanted was to be cured.

‘More coffee, sir?’ Robert shook his head, retrieving his credit card from the plate and, on an impulse, heading quickly for the door, hoping to catch Daisy so that they could walk across the park together. She always walked, but then she always wore good sensible shoes, or, like today, well-fitted laced ankle-boots, even in London. She was so easy to be with. Always had been, even when she was a knobbly kneed kid trailing after him and Michael.

Then he frowned. Yellow? What was wrong with yellow? What was wrong with ‘cute’? What was wrong with ducklings, come to that?

From the pavement outside the restaurant he could see her bright froth of hair bobbing along in the distance as she strode across the park, and he realised that he’d left it too late to catch her. Oh, well. He’d see her on Saturday. And as he hailed a cruising cab, he frowned. Ten o’clock? What on earth could she be doing until ten o’clock?

Being stripped to her underwear, with her reflection coming back at her from a terrifying array of mirrors, was doing nothing for Daisy’s self-confidence, and she was almost grateful for the covering of yellow velvet despite the fact that it emphasised her own lack of curves.

The seamstress attacked the spare material with a mouthful of pins, tucking it back to fit Daisy’s less generous curves. Once satisfied, she nodded. ‘All done. Can you come back early next week?’

‘I couldn’t bribe you to spill something indelible on it, could I? A pot of coffee? A squirt of ink?’

‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?’ The woman seemed surprised.

‘With my colouring? Yellow would not be my first choice.’

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’

‘Yes. And a last.’

‘It’s just different, that’s all. With the right make-up you’ll make a really pretty bridesmaid.’

Oh, Lord, that, if anything, was worse. Prettiness was her mother’s fantasy; she had known better than to attempt it. She certainly didn’t want to look as if she were competing with the other bridesmaids.

‘Daisy!’ Ginny burst through the door with the rest of her adult attendants in tow. Dark, glossy and gorgeous to a girl. Robert was going to have a ball, she thought with that detached part of her brain that dealt with everything Robert did when he was not with her. It was just so much easier when she wasn’t part of the show. ‘You’re early!’

‘No, darling, you’re late.’

‘Are we? Oh, Lord, so we are. We’ve been having facials,’ she giggled. ‘You should have come.’

There was more than one way to take that remark, Daisy decided, but was sure that Ginny hadn’t meant it unkindly. Ginny didn’t have an unkind bone in her body and, while her figure might leave something to be desired, Daisy knew there was nothing wrong with her skin. There was, unfortunately, precious little that a facial could do about an over-large nose or mouth.

She arrived back at her office, breathless and feeling just a bit low. ‘Ah, Daisy, there you are.’

Yes, here she was. And here she’d probably be for the rest of her days; Robert’s best friend and standby date. She pulled herself together; feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help. ‘I’m sorry, George, I did warn you I might be late.’

‘Did you?’ George Latimer was nearing seventy, and while few could challenge his knowledge of oriental artefacts, his short-term memory was not quite what it might be.

‘I had to be pinned into the bridesmaid dress,’ she reminded him.

‘Ah, yes. And you had lunch with Robert Furneval,’ he added thoughtfully. In the act of hanging up her jacket, Daisy turned. She’d said she was lunching with a friend; she hadn’t mentioned Robert. ‘Your clothes give you away, my dear.’

‘Do they?’

‘You’re covered from neck to ankle in the most unattractive brown tailoring. Tell me, are you afraid that he’ll get carried away and seduce you in the restaurant if you wear something even moderately appealing when you meet him? I only ask because I get the impression that most young women would enjoy the experience.’

Her feigned surprise had not fooled him for a minute. His short-term memory might be a touch unreliable, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. And noticing things was what made him so good at what he did.

‘I didn’t realise you knew Robert,’ she said, avoiding his question.

‘We’ve met in passing. I know his mother. Charming woman. She’s something of an authority on netsuke, as I’m sure you know. When she heard I was looking for an assistant she called me and suggested I take you on.’

Daisy sat down rather quickly. ‘I had no idea.’ Jennifer Furneval had always been kind to her, taking pity on the skinny teenager who had hung around hoping to be noticed by her son. Not that she’d so much as hinted that she knew the reason why Daisy had developed such a fervent interest in her collection of oriental treasures. On the contrary, she had loaned her books that had been a blissful excuse to return to the house, to hang around, ask questions. And she had eventually pointed her in the direction of a Fine Arts degree.

Of course, she’d stopped hanging around for a glimpse of Robert long before then. She stopped doing that the day she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers.

She’d been sixteen, all knees and elbows, an awkward teenager whose curves had refused to develop and with an unruly mop of hair that had repulsed every attempt to straighten it—assaults with her mother’s curling tongs leaving her with nothing but frizz and the scent of singed hair to show for her efforts.

Her friends had all been developing into embryonic beauties, young swans while she’d seemed to have got stuck in the cygnet phase. The archetypal ugly duckling. But she hadn’t minded too much, because while the swans had made eyes at Robert they’d been far too young to win more than an indulgent smile. Daisy, on the other hand, had kept her eyes to herself, and had never asked for more than to sit and watch him fishing.

Her reward, one blissful summer when Michael had been away on a foreign exchange visit, had been to have Robert give her an old rod and teach her how to use it.

That, and the Christmas kiss he’d given her beneath the mistletoe. It was the best present she’d had that year. The glow of it had lasted until June, when she’d seen him kissing Lorraine Summers and realised there was a lot more to kissing than she’d imagined.

Lorraine had definitely been a swan. Elegant curves, smooth fair hair and with all the poise that a year being ‘finished’ in France could bestow on a girl. Robert had just come up from Oxford, a first-class honours degree in his pocket, and she had gone racing around there to just say hello. Congratulations. Will you be going fishing on Sunday? But Lorraine, with her designer jeans and painted nails and lipstick, had got there first.

After that she had only gone to see Jennifer Furneval when she’d been sure that Robert was not there.

He had still dropped by, though, when he’d been home. Her brother had been in the States, doing a business course, but Robert had still called in early on a Sunday morning with his mother’s dog, or with his rods. Well, he’d always been able to rely upon Daisy to put up some decent sandwiches and bring a flask of fresh coffee, and maybe Lorraine, and the succession of girls who had followed her through the years, hadn’t cared to rise at dawn on a Sunday morning for the doubtful honour of getting their feet wet.

‘She worries about him, I think,’ George Latimer continued, after a moment’s reflection.

Daisy dragged herself back from the simple pleasure of a mist-trailed early-morning riverbank to the exotic Chinoiserie of the Latimer Gallery. ‘About Robert? Why? He’s successful by any standards.’

‘I suppose he is. Financially. But, like any mother, she’d like to see him settle down, get married, raise a family.’

‘Then she’s in for a long wait. Robert has the perfect bachelor existence. A flat in London, an Aston Martin in the garage and any girl he cares to raise an eyebrow at to keep him warm at night. He isn’t about to relinquish that for a house in the suburbs, a station wagon and sleepness nights.’ Not sleepless nights caused by a colicky baby, anyway.

He didn’t argue. ‘So that’s why you dress down when you have lunch with him?’

Yes, well, she knew George Latimer was sharp. ‘We’re friends, George. Good friends, and that’s the way I plan to keep it. I don’t want him to confuse me with one of his girls.’

‘I see.’

Daisy wasn’t entirely comfortable with the thoughtful manner in which George Latimer was regarding her, so she made a move in the direction of her office, signalling an end to the conversation. ‘Shall I organise some tea? Then we can go through that catalogue,’ she said, indicating the glossy catalogue for a large country house sale that he was holding, hoping to divert him. ‘I imagine that was why you were looking for me?’

He glanced down at it as if he couldn’t quite remember where it had come from. ‘Oh, yes! There’s a fine collection of ceramics up for auction. I’d like you to go to the viewing on Tuesday and check them out.’ She felt a rush of pleasure at this token of his trust. ‘You know what to look out for. But, since you’ll be representing the gallery, I’d be grateful if you’d avoid Robert Furneval while you’re there.’ He peered over his half-moon spectacles at her. ‘Wear that dark red suit, the one with the short skirt,’ he elaborated, in case she was in any doubt which one he meant. ‘I like that.’

‘I didn’t realise you took such an interest in what I wear, George.’

‘I’m a man. And I like beautiful things. Have you got any very high-heeled shoes to go with it?’ he continued before she could do more than retrieve her jaw from the Chinese rug that lay in front of her desk. ‘They’d do a fine job of distracting the opposition.’

‘I’m shocked, George,’ she said. ‘That’s the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard.’ Then, ‘Actually, I’ve seen a pair of Jimmy Choo’s that I would kill for. Can I charge them to expenses?’

The lenses gleamed back at her. ‘Only if you promise to wear them next time Robert Furneval asks you to lunch.’

‘Oh, well. It’ll just have to be the plain low-heeled courts I bought for comfort, then. Pity.’