‘That sounds like Gregory.’
Williams gulps his fizz as if each mouthful isn’t worth a small fortune. ‘You know what he’s like. He’s as bad as you at switching off.’
I’d retort with a quip but I know he’s right. Gregory and I were, in some respects, cut from the same cloth. We drive past the Royal Courts of Justice, along Strand, then Fleet Street and out towards London City Airport. By the time my glass of champagne has settled on my empty stomach and tired head, I finally start to relax.
Amanda holds out her empty glass for Williams to fill with sparkling elderflower water. ‘Right, so tell me the plan.’
I lean my head back against the seat as Williams appeases her.
‘We’re flying out at ten-thirty. It’ll take about nine hours to get to St Lucia.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, at ten-thirty? We’re going to be late! If I miss this holiday, I swear I’ll?—’
‘Relax,’ says Williams. ‘You can’t really be late for a private jet.’
‘A what?’ Amanda’s jaw hangs loose, her emerald eyes wide.
Williams and I share a laugh.
‘Are we really going on a private jet?’
‘Gregory doesn’t take commercial flights,’ Williams explains.
‘Holy shit! Ha! Right, so we get to St Lucia today, late afternoon St Lucia time?’
Williams nods.
‘Girls’ night tonight, then the wedding is tomorrow and we’re all staying at the resort where Sandy and Jackson are now?’
I suspect Williams nods again but I’m resting my eyes.
‘Then we have twelve days of St Lucia beach time. Fabulous!’
‘Not exactly. We have one day on St Lucia after the wedding, then we’re taking the jet to St Maarten.’
‘Right. What’s St Maarten?’
‘Another island.’
‘Is it nice?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why are we going there?’
‘Because that’s where the yacht is.’
‘The what?’
‘Gregory’s yacht. It’s anchored at St Maarten.’
‘Holy shit! We’re going on a yacht? Ha!’
We’ve just passed Canary Wharf and I’m struggling to stay awake when Scott’s mobile rings and Gregory’s voice comes over the limo speakers.
‘Mr Ryans.’
‘Scott, I’m at the airport and you aren’t here.’
