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“This is Henley James’s phone,” she says, all professional-like. “I’m his assistant, Jenny.”
“Oh.” Relief fills me. “Can I speak to Henley, please?”
“He’s not available right now. May I ask who is calling?”
My eyes widen. Is this a trap? Maybe he has a girlfriend, and this is her pretending to be his assistant to catch him out and plot my murder. “Um.” I hesitate as I try to think on my feet. My eyes flick to Chloe’s. “It’s Juliet.”
“Juliet Drinkwater?” she asks.
“Yes.” I frown. How does she know my name? “I am.”
“Juliet, Henley has had to take an unexpected trip overseas for a site inspection, but he left me with instructions if you were to call.”
What?
“Oh,” I reply, surprised.
“Yes, unfortunately he won’t be back until Friday, but he wanted for me to arrange a time on Friday night for dinner.”
What?
This is weird.
“Um . . . sure.” I shrug.
“Is seven thirty okay?”
“Yes.”
“May I have your address so that Henley can pick you up?”
This is weird. I am not giving some random woman my address. She could be his bunny-boiling serial-killer wife. “I’ll meet him there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, I’ve booked Monsieur on Riley for seven thirty.”
“You’ve already booked it?”
“I knew you’d call,” she replies, a twang of sarcasm in her voice.
I roll my eyes at my predictability. Of course you did. “Okay, thank you.”
“Goodbye, Juliet.”
“Goodbye.”
I hang up the phone and stare at Chloe in shock. “Friday night, seven thirty.”
“Fucking boom.” Chloe laughs. “And that’s how you do it.”
At 7:10 p.m. on Friday night, I get out of the Uber with a spring in my step.
I’m early, I know, but I want to get there before him so I get to watch him walk in and not the other way around. I’m nervous enough already.
I’m wearing a sexy black date dress that’s strapless and fitted, along with new high heels; I even had a blowout today at the salon.
