Page 110 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Very.’ I nod. Finally.

‘Awesome. Let’s jump in a cab.’ He smiles, sticking out his hand.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to drive? I’ve got my car on a meter and—’ I begin, but he’s already flagging down a passing cab.

‘No, this is the only way I travel when I’m in London. They’re so cool.’ He beams as the cab pulls up at the kerbside. ‘I’m thinking about getting one shipped over to the States. I can drive around Beverly Hills in it, instead of the Porsche. What do you reckon?’

I reckon you’ll look like a complete idiot, I think, while enthusing, ‘Wow, yeah, that sounds like a great idea,’ as he holds open the door for me. ‘So, tell me, where are we going?’ I ask, climbing inside.

‘Now that would be telling,’ he says, looking very pleased with himself as he slides in next to me on the seat. Like really next to me. Like our thighs are pressed up against each other.

All at once I get the same feeling I got in that restaurant the first time we met. I can’t be sure, but something feels off. A nagging air of discomfort. Am I imagining it or is he squashing his leg right up against mine?

I go for imagining it. Nevertheless I cross my legs, in a manoeuvre intended to move my thigh as far away from his as possible.

‘Just straight ahead, mate,’ hollers Larry to the driver, in a faux cockney accent.

I can see the cabbie grimace in the rear-view mirror. Probably the only thing worse to a black-cab driver than pretending to be a cockney is giving them directions. ‘American, are you?’ he asks gruffly.

‘Is my accent that bad?’ laughs Larry Thompson jovially.

‘Worse,’ growls the cabbie.

‘Jeez, I love these guys,’ confides Larry, flashing a smile.

I nod wordlessly. I’m not sure if Larry even understands the concept of sarcasm. It’s as if those teeth of his are a super-hero’s deflector shield, which no irony can penetrate.

I wonder where we’re going. Beatrice mentioned something about how I’d approve, so I wonder if he’s taken my advice and gone for a hipper location. Then again, he’s really in love with the whole English-tradition thing, so he might have plumped for one of the grand suites in Harley Street, along with all his peers.

‘Right here.’

The cab driver suddenly slams on his brakes and we lurch to a juddering halt. I glance sharply out of the window to see we’ve only gone about a hundred yards.

‘How much will that be?’ says Larry Thompson to the driver.

I look at him in puzzlement. I know everyone says people from LA don’t like to walk, but this is ridiculous. We’ve only driven round the corner. I turn to Larry Thompson, but he’s already climbing out of the cab to pay the driver and, totally confused, I climb out after him. ‘But I don’t understand.’

‘It was your idea – it’s all credit to you,’ he’s saying, as the cab drives off and we’re left on the pavement. ‘You gave me the idea at dinner, telling me I needed to be in a more fashionable area, somewhere a lot more hip, cooler …’

I take in my surroundings. We’re standing near the junction with Portobello.

‘… somewhere that’s filled with celebrities, the place to be seen …’

How funny. I was just here on Saturday at the market.

Larry starts walking slowly along the pavement, making sweeping movements with his arm, like a pioneer looking at the vista. ‘… and I thought back to our first meeting, and how we met in Notting Hill at your suggestion, and how cool the location was. So I put in a few calls to my people straight away and they managed to find this place. Of course, it wasn’t without its problems – there’s someone in there right now – but if you throw money at a problem, it goes away.’ He gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. ‘We just offered the landlord three times the rent. They couldn’t refuse.’

‘But what about the person who was renting already?’

‘Business is business,’ he says, his voice steely.

‘You mean, they’ve just had to pack up and move out?’

As I’m speaking, I’m having this really, really horrible feeling; it’s creeping over me, and my blood is running cold. I’m wrong. I have to be wrong.

‘What kind of shop was it?’

We’re still walking along, but my legs suddenly feel like dead weights.