Page 108 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Julian?’

‘The very same. He was coming out of the lift and we sort of collided. He was very apologetic about it all. But there was something else.’

‘What?’ I feel like a detective in a TV series.

‘He dropped his room key on the floor.’

‘Room key?’

My chest tightens. I can hear Vanessa’s voice replaying in my ears: ‘I think Julian’s having an affair.’

No, there’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe the meeting was in the room. In fact that must be it. I mean, look at me, I met with Larry Thompson in his room, didn’t I?

‘Uh-huh.’ Beatrice is nodding decisively. ‘I know because I picked it up. Actually, it wasn’t a room key at all. It was for the’ – she lowers her voice to a reverential whisper – ‘Oliver Messel Suite.’

I look at her blankly. ‘What’s that?’

‘Only the most romantic suite at The Dorchester!’ she exclaims.

OK, so now it’s a business meeting in the most romantic suite at The Dorchester. Well, I suppose it’s possible.

‘And what time did you say this was?’

‘I didn’t. But I would guess it was quite late. Probably after ten.’

But not probable. A business meeting that runs until ten o’clock at night? In the Dorchester’s most romantic suite? On a Sunday? When he told Vanessa he had to be at the office?

My stomach churns and flips over. I think about the condoms I spotted in his shopping basket and Vanessa’s admission that they haven’t slept together for ages. I have to admit, the evidence against him seems overwhelming.

‘So come on, tell me.’ I zone back in to see Beatrice looking at me, her eyes wide with curiosity. ‘Why all the questions? Didn’t your friend Vanessa tell you they were staying there?’

‘No … no, she didn’t.’ I shake my head and force a smile. ‘She must have forgotten – she’s terrible like that.’ My mind is whirling. I quickly grab hold of it. ‘Talking of which, has Larry Thompson called yet?’ I say, swiftly changing the subject.

‘First thing,’ nods Beatrice. ‘You’re meeting him at twelve noon at a nail bar in Notting Hill.’ I throw her a quizzical look. ‘He has a manicure appointment at eleven,’ she explains. ‘It must be an LA thing.’

‘Or maybe because he’s a dentist. You know, putting your fingers in other people’s mouths,’ I suggest.

‘Oh, I didn’t think of that.’ She beams. ‘And there I was wondering what colour polish he’d be choosing – you know, whether he was a pillar-box-red man or more a French manicure.’ She starts giggling, then remembers herself. ‘Anyway, afterwards he’s taking you to see the new space.’

Now she’s got my full attention. ‘Oh, so he finally made a decision on the location for the clinic?’

‘Yes, and he said he was sure you’d approve.’

‘Really?’ I feel a glow of pleasure. At least something’s going right. ‘Where is it exactly?’

‘He wouldn’t say. He said he wanted to keep it as a surprise.’ Beatrice hugs herself. ‘Gosh, how fab. I love surprises, don’t you?’

I feel a flicker of trepidation. What was that about not wanting any more surprises? First it was Julian, and now this?

Still, remember to think positive, I tell myself firmly. Everything’s going to be fine. In fact it’s going to be more than fine – it’s going to be great. And looking at Beatrice, I smile brightly. ‘Absolutely!’

Chapter Thirty-two

Larry is having his cuticles trimmed when I arrive.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’ He grins, flashing me his neon smile as I walk into the über-trendy nail bar, filled with ladies who do lunch and very little else. He’s reclining on a massage chair, being attended to by two therapists in white coats. One is doing his manicure; the other is massaging his bare feet.

‘Hi. Great, thanks,’ I reply, hovering uncertainly by some shelves, which are filled with different bottles of polish, and looking for a place to sit. This isn’t the kind of venue I’m used to for a PR meeting, but then Larry Thompson isn’t my usual kind of client.