‘An excellent choice too.’ He raised a large hand into the air, instantly attracting the attention of the waiter who’d brought Romily’s drink to her.
‘Hi Danny,’ Red said to him, ‘how’re you doing?’
‘I’m very well, sir.’ The young waiter beamed, his pen and pad poised to take their order.
Red glanced at Romily and indicated her glass with his finger. ‘Another of the same?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he turned back to the waiter. ‘Make that two, I have some catching up to do.’
‘Certainly, sir. Have you chosen what to eat?’
Red rattled off their order, along with the request for a bottle of Barolo Marchesi.
If there was one thing Romily could not abide, it was a brash,self-important man treating her as though she wasn’t capable of ordering her own meal, or deciding which wine to drink with it. If this was how it was going to be, working alongside Mr Red St Clair, Gabe and Melyvn Correll would have to think again! What was more, she was going to have to make things very clear to the man himself. She drank what remained of her martini and very slowly counted to five. Then: ‘Mr St Clair,’ she began, ‘I think we need to—’
‘Hey, please, call me Red.’ He shifted his chair so that he was sitting at aninety-degree angle to the table, an elbow resting on it, his legs stretched out languidly in front of him; they seemed to go on for ever, like a pair of Red Wood trees. ‘Go on,’ he said, leaning back in his seat, causing her to wonder if it could bear his weight. He wasn’t fat, simply a colossus of a man. ‘What do we need to do?’ he asked. ‘Other than write a cracking script. Have you everco-written anything before?’
‘No, and I’m really not convinced that—’
‘That it’s a good idea?’ He laughed. ‘You may well be right.’
‘Then why are we—’
‘Sitting here at all?’
She stared at him hard. ‘Are you going to interrupt me all the time by finishing what I’m about to say?’
Drawing his thick brows together, he frowned, as though having to tease out the meaning of her question. ‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ he said, at length. ‘It means we’re tuned in to each other, that we’re on the same wavelength.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I think that highly unlikely.’
Their young waiter appeared with their martinis and after he’d placed them on the table and they were alone again, Red drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this wrong, but I suspect we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’
She gave him a pitying look. ‘Goodness, do you really think so? You delay our meeting by several hours and then can’t even be bothered to turn up for lunch on time. What kept you, a round of golf, or a game of tennis at the Racquet Club?’
‘I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?’
‘So you did. But it didn’t have the slightest ring of sincerity to it. And if that’s how it would be for our working relationship, then I’m afraid there’s little point in us continuing with this conversation.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Good day to you, Mr St Clair. I believe we’ve said all we need to say to each other.’
‘Wait,’ he called after her.
But she didn’t. She kept on walking, right out of the restaurant until she realised she was on the street and with not a taxi in sight. Damn and blast, she would have to go back inside and ask for somebody to order her a car.
She pushed open the door and found Mr St Clair blocking her way. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘would you give me the chance to explain why I was late?’
‘It won’t make any difference,’ she said, ‘I can’t imagine for one moment that we could work together.’
‘That might be true, but I’d like the opportunity to apologise properly to you.’
Reluctantly she followed him back through the restaurant and outside to the garden area. Other diners were looking at them curiously. Over on the far side of the pergola, tucked away in a discreet corner, she spotted Lucille Ball and her husband, comedian Gary Morton staring directly at her. And was that Dinah Shore on the table next to them? She suddenly felt mortified at the spectacle she had made of herself, and with such an illustrious audience. Dear God, what had got into her?
It was only when they neared their table that she noticed Red was limping. Yes, she thought cynically, he’d probably strained a muscle in bed with some young socialite.
He held her chair out for her, in spite of it already being some distance from the table. Obviously he was trying to prove he was a gentleman.
Once he was also seated, in the same way he was before, at ninety degrees to the table, he nudged her drink towards her. ‘Cool your pistons with a sip or two, and then let me apologise for making such a poor impression on you.’
Cool her pistons?Oh really, these Americans had such an absurd way of speaking! She took a sip of her martini, and then another. She unexpectedly had to force herself to suppress a smile, but failed. The truth was, she did need to cool her pistons.
‘There you go,’ he said, noticing her lips twitching, ‘I’ve always been of the belief that there’s nothing a good martini can’t cure. Now then, as to the reason I so rudely delayed our meeting, which I am genuinely sorry about, I’m afraid it was beyond my control. The thing was, I had an early call from the doc at the hospital that he couldn’t see me tomorrow as planned, only this morning.’
