‘Maybe go with a different vibe tomorrow,’ I offer. ‘I’m off to a meeting. I won’t be back this afternoon so I’ll meet you at Iron Monger’s Row in the morning, Amanda. Six thirty.’
‘Urgh, fine. Fitness freak.’
Neil is already waiting in the executive chauffeur car when I make it out of the office. He’s wearing a black, hard-hitting, pinstripe three-piece suit that tells me two things. First, the stakes are high. Second, he’s going to flaunt his Head of Corporate title.
‘Good morning, Neil,’ I say, settling into the cold, black leather of the car.
‘Scarlett, how are you?’ He shifts his upper body to face me, his lanky legs trapped by the passenger seat in front of him.
‘I’m well, thank you. And you?’
‘Good, good. We’re going to meet with Mr Ghurair. He’s the CEO of his family’s construction business. Extremely wealthy. His family owns the most profitable construction company in the UAE. Demand is high and they’re taking advantage. They’re looking to acquire in the UAEandthey want to break into more western markets.’
‘Are they big enough to float?’ I ask, hoping for an initial public offering.
‘Undoubtedly, but they tend to keep things in the family in the Middle East so I don’t foresee an IPO any time soon.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I say, genuinely disappointed.
‘Right. Are you ready to bring your A-game, Scarlett?’
My brows rise unintentionally.Neil Wallace is asking me if I have‘A-game’?
‘All right, all right, I’m just trying to be up with the kids and all that.’
I snort a too-loud laugh as Neil holds open the door to the kerb outside the Savoy. ‘Down with the kids.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’sdownwith the kids, Neil.’
‘Perhaps I’ll keep my colloquials on the down-low over brunch.’
I laugh again. ‘Colloquials? Down-low?’
‘It’s my son; I’m trying to fit in with him but I really haven’t the slightest idea how to mesh with a teenager.’
‘Neil, stick to archaic; it suits you.’
‘Tell my son that.’
I stop laughing and replace my upturned lips with an expressionless line then straighten my coat.
‘Ready?’ Neil asks.
‘Ready.’
The concierge dips his top hat as we approach the Savoy, one of London’s oldest and finest hotels. We walk through grand mahogany doors onto a black-and-white tiled floor. The Savoy never fails to impress me with its sheer grandeur and elegance. A butler makes a beeline for us: grey, button-up coat, top hat, leather gloves and a regal accent.
‘Can I help you with your files, madam?’
‘Please. We have a brunch reservation but I’d like to leave these. They’re confidential so I’ll need to?—’
‘I understand entirely, madam. We’ll store them in a locker for you and I’ll bring the key to your table.’
‘Wonderful, thank you.’
‘And your coat?’ he asks, taking the ring binders from my arms.
