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‘That’s a shame.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s away a lot for work. He’s a travel editor.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said distractedly, feeling in his pockets for his car keys. ‘We spoke at the Lupin launch a few weeks ago.’
He unlocked the ca
r and they slid into the buttery leather seats.
‘So do you want me to drop you home or … ?’
She felt her heart jump; she hoped he wasn’t going to try it on.
‘Don’t panic, I’m not about to seduce you,’ he smiled wolfishly. ‘Come on, Miss Garrett. It’s just that it’s not even ten. It’s still afternoon on New York time.’
It was true – Tess didn’t really feel tired; in fact she was quite energized after putting in an Oscar–winning performance as ‘Sean’s intelligent girlfriend’. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that she had flown from New York first class. She had promised herself that she would stay awake as long as possible in order to get the most out of the experience, but the welcome cocktail and lie–flat bed had been too much. She had slept most of the way across the Atlantic, only waking for a light lunch of poached salmon and champagne. Besides, she didn’t really want to go back to her empty flat.
‘Okay then,’ said Tess, ‘as long as you’re not dragging me to any of those horrible Eurotrash nightclubs or lap–dancing establishments.’
‘Why have you got such a low opinion of me?’ he asked, with mock outrage.
‘I think you can guess, Sean,’ she replied, a little too cattily, but Sean merely shrugged and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. ‘It’s me,’ he said into the phone, ‘Yeah, can you get me on the list for Nina’s party tonight? I’m with a friend.’
Snapping the mobile shut, he twisted the key in the ignition and Tess’s neck snapped back as they shot off into traffic.
‘I thought you knew everyone,’ said Tess.
‘I do.’
‘Not well enough to get your own invite?’
‘Nina Cheskov is a friend of a friend,’ he said with a thin smile, her barb clearly hitting its mark.
‘So who is she? An old conquest?’
Sean laughed. ‘Not this time. She’s a Kazakhstan oligarchess, if that’s the right term for the female of the species; one of the richest women to come out of the Eastern Bloc since Perestroika. She has one of the smartest places in Notting Hill – and yes, I have been – but she has just bought some ex–royal pad in Surrey, which is where she is having the party tonight.’
‘Surrey? That’s miles away!’
Sean turned to look at her, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
Tess laughed.
‘Seriously,’ he said, putting his foot down and shooting through an orange light. ‘It’s just down the A3. I’m told the house is a case study in how billions of dollars can’t buy you good taste. That’s got to be worth a look, hasn’t it?’
The silver sports car slid across the City streets, down through the gritty postcodes, and out where the houses grew larger and more suburban, exchanging London cool for trees and wide–open spaces. Sean reached over and pressed a button on the dashboard. A CD player blared into life: Gary Numan’s greatest hits. Sean sang along, loudly and out of tune, his faux–English accent making Tess snigger.
‘Hey, what’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Your confidence.’
‘That’s exclusive East Coast prep schools for you.’
Tess was quiet for a moment.
‘Sean, you were so good at that meeting tonight – great, even. But then you have this terrible reputation that undermines it all. Don’t you ever get sick of partying?’
Sean nodded. ‘I’m over all that.’
