said quickly, ‘I’m joining someone—a Mr Nigel Hartley.’
He gave her a surprised look, then glanced at the large book in front of him. ‘Yes, he has a table at one o clock, but he has not yet arrived.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to enjoy a drink at the bar? Or be seated to wait for him.’
‘I’d like to sit down, please.’
‘D’accord.’ He came from behind the desk. ‘May I take your jacket?’ He indicated the blazer she was carrying over her arm.
‘Oh—no. No, thank you,’ Helen said, remembering with acute embarrassment that the lining was slightly torn.
‘Then please follow me.’ He opened a door, and what seemed like a wall of sound came to meet her, so that she almost flinched.
Nigel had not exaggerated the restaurant’s popularity, she thought. She found herself in a large bright room, with windows on two sides and more tables crammed into the rest of it than she would have believed possible. Every table seemed to be occupied, and the noise was intense, but she squeezed through the sea of white linen, crystal and silver after her guide and discovered there were a few remaining inches of space in one corner.
She sank down thankfully on to one of the high-backed wooden chairs, wishing that it were possible to kick off her shoes.
‘May I bring something for mademoiselle?’ The young man hovered.
‘Just some still water, please,’ she returned.
She had no doubt that the Martinique was a trendy place—somewhere to see and be seen—but she wished Nigel had chosen something quieter. She also wished very much that it wasn’t a French restaurant either. Too reminiscent, she thought, of her recent interrogation.
She wanted to talk to Nigel, but the kind of private conversation she had in mind could hardly be conducted at the tops of their voices.
He clearly thought she’d enjoy a taste of the high life, she decided ruefully, and she must be careful not to give him a hint of her disappointment at his choice.
Besides, they would have the rest of their lives to talk.
He was already ten minutes late, she realised, and was just beginning to feel self-conscious about sitting on her own when a waiter appeared with a bottle of mineral water and a tumbler containing ice cubes. The tray also held a tall slender glass filled with a rich pink liquid, fizzing gently.
‘I’m afraid I didn’t order this,’ Helen protested, as he placed it in front of her. ‘What is it?’
‘Kir Royale, mademoiselle—champagne and cassis—and it comes with the compliments of monsieur.’
‘Oh,’ she said with relief. Nigel must have phoned through the order, she thought, as a peace offering for his tardiness. It was the kind of caring gesture she should have expected, and it made her feel better—happier about the situation as a whole.
She drank some water to refresh her mouth, then sipped the kir slowly, enjoying the faint fragrance of the blackcurrant and the sheer lift of the wine.
But she couldn’t make it last for ever, and by the time she’d drained the glass Nigel still hadn’t arrived. She was beginning to get nervous and irritated in equal measure.
She beckoned to the waiter. ‘Has there been any further message from monsieur to say he’s been delayed?’ she asked. ‘Because, if not, I’d like another kir.’
He looked bewildered. ‘There is no delay, mademoiselle. Monsieur is here at this moment, having lunch. Shall I consult him on your behalf?’
Helen stared at him. ‘He’s here? You must be mistaken.’
‘No, mademoiselle. See—there by the window.’
Helen looked, and what she saw made her throat close in shock. It was Marc Delaroche, she realised numbly, seated at a table with two other men. He was listening to what they were saying, but, as if he instantly sensed Helen focussing on him, he glanced round and met her horrified gaze. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then reached for his own glass, lifting it in a swift and silent toast.
She disengaged from him instantly, flushed and mortified. She said, ‘You mean he—that person—sent me this drink?’ She took a deep breath, forcing herself back to a semblance of composure, even though her heart was racing unevenly. ‘I—I didn’t know that. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of having another. In fact, perhaps you’d bring me the bill for this one, plus the water, and I’ll just—leave.’
‘But you have not yet had lunch,’ the waiter protested. ‘And besides, here comes Monsieur Hartley.’
And sure enough it was Nigel, striding across the restaurant as if conducting a personal parting of the Red Sea, tall, blond and immaculate, in his dark blue pinstripe and exquisitely knotted silk tie.
‘So there you are,’ he greeted her.
‘It’s where I’ve been for the past half hour,’ Helen told him evenly. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I warned you I was busy.’ He dropped a cursory kiss on her cheek as he passed. ‘Menus, please, Gaspard. I’m pushed for time today. In fact, I won’t bother with the carte. I’ll just have steak, medium rare, with a mixed salad.’
‘Then I’ll have the same,’ Helen said. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.’
‘Fine.’ He either ignored or didn’t notice the irony in her tone. ‘And a bottle of house red, Gaspard. Quick as you can. Plus a gin and tonic.’ He glanced at Helen. ‘Do you want a drink, sweetie?’
‘I’ve already had one,’ she said. ‘Kir Royale, as a matter of fact.’
His lips thinned a little. ‘Rather a new departure for you, isn’t it? Did the waiter talk you into it?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. One is more than enough.’ She was ashamed to hear how acerbic she sounded, and it was all the fault of that—that creature across the room. But she was sharing precious time with the man she loved, and she wouldn’t allow it to be spoiled by anyone or anything.
She made herself smile at Nigel, and put her hand on his. ‘It’s so great to see you,’ she said gently. ‘Do you realise how long it’s been?’
He sighed. ‘I know, but life at work is so hectic just now I hardly have any time to spare.’
‘Your parents must miss you too.’
He shrugged. ‘They’re far too busy planning Dad’s retirement and giving the house a pre-sale facelift to worry about me.’ He shot her a swift glance. ‘You did know they’re moving to Portugal in the near future?’
‘Selling Oaktree House?’ Helen said slowly. ‘I had no idea.’ She gave him a blank look. ‘But how will you manage? It’s your home.’
‘Off and on for the past ten years, yes,’ Nigel said with a touch of impatience. ‘But my life’s in London now. I’m going to stop renting and look for somewhere to
