impress this over-privileged princess, so he just shrugged and told her the truth. ‘Same reason as most people who leave a ridiculously well-paid job in New York for unemployment in London.’
Cate smiled at him. ‘Fired?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Well, you and me both,’ she smiled with a hint of embarrassment.
Nick softened, looking at her wide smiling mouth. Her trying-to-hide-it nervousness was actually quite endearing, he thought. Shame she was such a pompous cow.
Nick took a big gulp of Guinness and continued. ‘The funny thing is, it’s terrible being fired and all that, but I’m sort of glad. I was bored shitless, but I could have carried on for another ten years, with my nice West Village apartment and summer weekends in the Hamptons. It was nice. Really nice. But when things are too nice, you don’t take any chances.’ When he grinned at Cate, faint little creases crinkled around the corners of his eyes.
‘So, how far have you got with your publishing company?’ asked Cate, feeling as if she was interviewing him.
‘Is that what Tom told you? I had a publishing company?’ Nick laughed, draining his pint glass. ‘It’s less a company, more of an idea. You see, I’ve got great contacts in the ad world and I know some people in the City who might be interested in backing a media venture, but I don’t think I’ve quite got the product to present to them yet. When you’re a start-up company, the first product has got to be absolutely right, and I don’t think that Your Parrot magazine is going to set the City on fire.’
‘Your idea is for a bird magazine?’ said Cate, her heart sinking.
‘Parrots.’
‘Well, the pet market is huge,’ she acknowledged, not wanting to mock his idea.
Nick started laughing – a deep, loud laugh. ‘No, I’m not doing a bloody parrot magazine. That was a joke.’
It was Cate’s turn to feel riled. How dare he make her feel stupid when she was only trying to be kind? She bowed her head to stop him seeing her cheeks burn red and began to rummage around in her bag, trying to find her mobile to call a taxi. She’d had enough of this. Nick Douglas was obviously not the charmer Tom had described. Unable to find the phone, she pulled out a thin portfolio she had put together, full of layouts and mood boards, and put it on the table.
‘Is this it?’ asked Nick, craning his neck over to the side of the table.
Before Cate could stop him, Nick was reaching for the black leather portfolio. She shot out her hand and put it on top of his.
‘I wasn’t giving you that,’ she snapped pulling it back.
‘Then why are we here?’ He looked up at the angry, determined line of her mouth, which he found, against his better judgement, quite cute.
‘Hey, don’t look so worried,’ laughed Nick more softly, putting his palms up in surrender. ‘I’m not the KGB! If you’re worried about me pinching your idea, which of course I won’t, I am quite happy to sign a NDA.’
‘A what?’
‘Non-disclosure agreement. Not that they are worth the paper they are written on, but I’m happy to sign one.’
Cate took a deep breath and looked into Nick’s intense eyes. ‘OK,’ she said, pushing the folder across to him. ‘I trust you,’ she added, not very convincingly. Nick returned her gaze, then nodded.
He opened the folder and sat patiently and methodically working his way through the layouts, spreading them out onto the battered wood of the pub table as Cate launched into a passionate description of her vision and her belief that there was a real niche in the market.
He carried on flipping the pages, occasionally glancing up at Cate. She was sitting under a wall-lamp, the light spilling down on her face. She looked as if she was glowing in happiness.
‘I love this,’ said Nick at last, ‘I’m genuinely impressed. It’s so fresh. Makes all those dull travel magazines look so bloody boring and personality-free. And the fashion is gorgeous,’ he said, pointing at a picture of Serena astride an elephant, a late-evening Indian sun shining on her skin. ‘It makes the fashion mags look so po-faced.’
‘Well, that is a Mario Testino shot,’ shrugged Cate, trying not to burst with pride. ‘He makes people look so exotic and luscious.’
‘Even so, this is brilliant, Cate. I know the advertisers will just love it. It’s glamorous, it’s escapist, it’s new. And there’s certainly nothing on the shelves like it.’
He shut the file, which closed with a whispering thud.
‘So?’ Cate had gathered he liked it, but wasn’t sure whether he thought of it as a business opportunity.
‘It’s exactly what I, sorry, we, need,’ he continued carefully. ‘From a business point of view, it would be madness for a small start-up publishing company to launch a mainstream women’s magazine like Marie Claire or InStyle. Our pockets just wouldn’t be deep enough to compete. And if we did try, the big publishing companies like Alliance would just try and destroy us with their muscle at the news-stand. But this,’ he clinked his empty pint of Guinness against Cate’s glass, ‘this is brilliant. A travel and fashion magazine is niche enough for us to build a thriving business under everyone else’s radar. But it’s also commercial enough that I think we could easily shift fifty thousand a month. And we’d get good advertising too.’
Cate was tingling all over. ‘So what does that all mean?’ she asked.
‘It means it could work.’
She felt her tummy leap with excitement. ‘That’s fantastic. So what’s the next step?’
‘The first thing we need is a business plan to take to potential backers. I’ll do the figures and draw up a publishing strategy. You need to prepare a really slick presentation of what you’ve just shown me. All this is great editorial stuff, but we’ve got to demonstrate a gap in the market so I need all the facts, figures and circulation figures of any competitors we can think of.’
Ideas started to bounce between them like a Wimbledon tennis rally.
‘I’ll get a list of all celebrities, publicists and photographers we can get on board.’
‘And I’ll get in touch with my ad contacts. If we could just get Armani, British Airways, Chanel – any of the major advertisers – on board before we go to the City, that would be fantastic.’
Cate furiously scribbled down everything into her little black Moleskin notebook. When she looked up, she saw him smiling at her.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You. Like a little beaver.’
In all the excitement and planning, she had almost forgotten that Nick Douglas was the most smug, cocky man she had met in ages.
‘Well, Mr Douglas, if you think I’m so funny, forgive me for spoiling your little cabaret show. I have to be going.’
Nick looked around and, noticing
