Page 58 of Who’s That Girl?

‘Mr Thompson’s running a little late, so he has invited you up to his room for drinks before dinner.’

My heart thuds. ‘His room?’

‘On the third floor. Number thirty-five. The lift is to your right.’

Shit. Gripping the handles of my bag, I walk nervously to the lift. My palms have begun to perspire and, as the lift doors open and I walk inside, anxiety grips me. Now come on, Charlotte, I tell myself firmly. Stop worrying. He’s just being polite and hospitable.

The doors ping open and I walk down the dimly lit corridor to his room. Nervously smoothing down my skirt, I tuck my hair behind my ears and knock tentatively on the door.

The door swings open and, bracing myself, I pin a smile on my face.

‘Hi, Dr Thompson—’

Only it’s not Dr Thompson. It’s a woman with peroxide-blonde hair wearing a bright pink tracksuit and clutching a small furry dog. At first glance she looks about twenty-five, but on closer inspection I realise she’s older. Although I’m not sure how I know this. It’s one of those weird situations when there are no visible signs of ageing – no wrinkles, no eyebags, a perfectly taut neck – and yet somehow it’s fairly obvious this is a woman nudging sixty.

‘You must be Charlene!’ she drawls, flashing an identikit smile to Larry Thompson’s.

‘Charlotte,’ I manage, trying not to stare.

‘Well, come in, come in,’ she demands, waggling her fearsome-looking acrylic nails at me.

I follow her inside, my mind racing. What’s going on? Where’s Larry Thompson? My eyes sweep across the huge room, filled with antique furniture, a large flower arrangement and dozens of bags littered everywhere embossed with designer names: Gucci, Prada, Dior …

‘I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced …’

‘Oh, I love those English manners – so formal.’ She laughs gaily, then, cradling her small furball in the crook of her arm, sticks out a diamond-encrusted hand. ‘I’m Cindy, Larry’s wife.’

Larry Thompson’s wife? Well, that explains the smile. Two for the price of one, I realise, looking at her in astonishment, not to mention a great deal of relief.

‘Twenty-five years.’ She smiles proudly.

‘Congratulations.’

‘I can see you’re surprised.’ She pats her hair, still smiling. ‘Most people are when I tell them.’

‘Oh, right, yes, because he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.’ I smile back.

‘No, because I don’t look old enough,’ she says sharply. ‘Larry doesn’t wear a ring because he’s a cosmetic dentist. His hands are his tools.’

Fortunately, before things get any more awkward, the door opens from the en-suite bathroom and Larry emerges from a cloud of steam, like a super-hero appearing from a swirl of dry ice. Primped and smelling strongly of aftershave, he’s talking loudly on the phone. ‘Yeah, Roger, I received the email. The designs look awesome …’ Seeing me, he gives a cheerful wave. ‘Yeah, my PR person’s here right now, so I’ll run those ideas by her and get her take on it. OK, later.’ He finishes the call and turns his full attention to me. ‘Hey, sorry about that.’ He smiles brightly, not looking very sorry at all. ‘So, I see the two of you have met.’

He walks up to his wife and puts his arm round her. They both smile as if someone’s taking a picture of them: Cindy, Larry and the dog. It reminds me of when you see those official-looking photos of the American President and his First Lady.

‘Cindy flew over to join me yesterday. She wanted to take in the sights, do some shopping.’

‘Oh, I do love that Bond Street of yours,’ she enthuses. ‘And that Harrods!’

I’m presuming by her exclamation that’s a good thing, but it’s hard to tell as her face isn’t actually moving because she’s had so much Botox.

‘It was the best mall I’ve ever been in!’

‘Well, it’s not really a mall—’ I begin, but she doesn’t let me finish.

‘And that Egyptian escalator!’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Who would have thought they’d have had escalators in the Pyramids! I said to Larry, “Isn’t that incredible? All those years ago.”’

I look at her in astonishment. Surely she doesn’t think … does she?

‘Dirty Martini?’