‘So.’ She stirs her drink. ‘That was a waste of time.’
Waste of time, seriously? Maybe she doesn’t like being with me? Maybe I’m a waste of her time. Of course, she probably has a boyfriend stashed away at home, watching the clock.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I hope you didn’t have plans tonight.’ I start to fish. I can’t help myself. ‘Is there someone waiting up for you at home?’
Her face sours a little. ‘Is it okay if we don’t talk about home?’
So, there is someone waiting for her. Then she does this really odd thing: she rubs her hands like there’s some kind of grease on them.
‘Sure,’ I say with a degree of nonchalance an actor would be proud of. ‘Whatever.’ I pretend to glance out at the stage. I mean I do glance, but I’m not really taking anything in, it’s all just part of my act.
‘It hasn’t been a total waste, has it?’ She sounds nervous. ‘I mean, I enjoy being together.’
‘Together?’ I ask, shooting her a look.
‘Here,’ she says, her shoulders rising.
‘Sure,’ I say gruffly. ‘You’re a good worker.’ I try to go for everything being ship-shape and businesslike. ‘Pretty good in a tight situation.’ Is that a compliment? I’m not sure. Luckily, she laughs. I’ve noticed she laughs a lot. I’m not sure if she laughs at all my jokes because I’m funny or because I’m the boss. This is a thought that’s totally doing my head in. I know I’m insecure. They described me last year in the paper as a great catch. Seriously, that’s what they said. Me and some film star who did a TV series set in space, and another guy who’s a smug tech billionaire. Three of us, in the entire country, were voted the hottest males in the UK. Only, I don’t want to be a great catch. I don’t want the shadow of my father and his company walking into the room before me and colouring everyone’s expectations. I don’t want people laughing at my jokes if I’m not funny. Currently, I’m a stone’s throw away from freedom. If I can find the woman singing on the tape, I can pull the company back from the brink and make my exit, then I can just be a normal guy, someone who’s judged only for being themselves.
‘You have such a wonderful life,’ Clara says.
She’s clearly a gold digger. Of course she is, that’s what all the laughter is about.
‘All the time Nelly spent on me…’ She glances down at her outfit.
Yup, a gold digger with expensive fashion tastes. I make a mental note not to let her have the company credit card. Not even for a coffee run. ‘He owes me a favour,’ I say too sharply.
‘Yes, but…’
Why is she smiling all the time? How can anyone be that happy and look that delighted. I must be scowling because suddenly her face falls.
‘Do I look okay?’
‘No.’ I rein myself in. ‘No, sorry, yes.’ I correct myself like a tongue-tied idiot.
She laughs.
Clearly a gold digger, that last line wasn’t even trying to be funny. Although, let’s face it, I am used to people being chummy with me because of my money. It doesn’t necessarily mean that she’s a bad person.
I shoot her an appreciative glance. ‘Well, Nelly’s attention hasn’t been a waste of time. You look great.’ I’m big enough to be able to admit that.
She smiles a broad, open smile. My God, how easy it must be being inside her head. ‘Thank you,’ she says, still beaming.
In fact, she looks so much more than great. I’d like nothing more than to jump in a cab, head back home, and throw her onto my bed. Literally throw her, the whole caveman thing. Sod romance. This feeling is physical. Physical at its most basic, most immediate, most need-to-be-satisfied level. I don’t say any of that, though, of course. She works for me. I have to rein this in. So, instead, I manage to divert the dialogue to the job in hand – finding our mystery woman.
‘Hopefully, King will keep an ear out. He knows people.’
The sooner our songbird is found, the sooner I can get on with the life I want to live rather than being tied into the family company. Having people hanging off my every word, smiling at me like I’m a genius and laughing at all my jokes. If I wasn’t the boss, if she didn’t work for me, then I could ask her out, and maybe, who knows, just maybe it would work.
‘King’s quite a character,’ she says lightly.
‘He certainly is.’
‘And…’ Her eyes open wide in excitement, like some kid in a candy store. ‘These cocktails,’ she gasps. ‘They are incredible.’ She even goes on to swizzle her ice cubes with one long nail. She has lovely nails. Not just the sort for ice cube swizzling. I would love them running over my body. Running over every inch. ‘Did you get the same?’
I remind myself quickly that she (thankfully) has no idea what is going on in my poor tortured, bestial brain.
We’re talking about drinks, not bed. I shake my head. ‘King has this thing. He says he can match the cocktail to the person. He claims he knows exactly what you want before you do.’
