said, shaking his head. ‘She really doesn’t deserve you.’
David stood to go, snatching up his car keys from the arm of the chair. ‘That’s a matter of opinion, Nick,’ he said, his confidence almost fully restored. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ And he sauntered out the door.
Cate was jet-lagged, but otherwise was in a good mood. Having breakfast at the swish Wolseley on Piccadilly with Nick and Jenny Tyson, her favourite PR, a lively no-nonsense sort of woman who loved to spill industry gossip, she was feeling tired but happy. And hungry – Cate quickly polished off her American waffles covered with streams of maple syrup, accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey tea. Jenny had nibbled at a bagel, but was in a hurry to dash.
‘Big kiss to you both,’ she said, puckering up at the air over both of Cate’s cheeks. ‘I have to be back at the office by ten, otherwise nobody will do a thing.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Cate. ‘I’m just going to finish my juice,’ she said, pointing to her glass, ‘then we’re off too.’
As Jenny disappeared through the revolving doors, Nick picked up a brochure for a Maldives island retreat that Jenny had left for them. ‘Well, that was pretty useful,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so hard on PRs in the past. What she was saying is that this hotel will let us take a celebrity out to the Maldives, spend a week shooting them, and they’re going to pay for it all?’
‘Something like that, yes,’ said Cate, amused. ‘Music to your ears, eh Mr Scrooge?’
Cate took a gulp of orange juice and kicked back in the banquette, stretching herself in an effort to wake up a little more. ‘But I tell you, that is the last weekend I am working for the rest of the month. These trips to LA just kill you for the next few days. I think it’s about time I started reclaiming a little bit of my life back from the magazine. What did you do this weekend?’
‘Nothing much,’ shrugged Nick, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. ‘Just mooched around, read the papers, watched a video. A quiet one.’
Cate nodded. ‘I was supposed to go to some wedding with David this weekend, but I had to knock that on the head. That model, Melissa D? Not too keen on her, but I wouldn’t have minded going to the Chateau d’Or: it sounds gorgeous. Maybe David will take me one weekend,’ smiled Cate, reaching to pull on her jacket. ‘I hope it wasn’t too unbearable being on his own, but he’s so sociable, isn’t he? Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. Yes. Er, no,’ said Nick, reaching down to pick up his bag from the floor. ‘Have you?’
‘Well, have you spoken to him – yes or no?’ said Cate, amused.
He looked over at the revolving door, pretending not to have heard her. ‘Shall we go?’
Cate’s instincts, although muted by jet lag, could still pick up on the atmosphere. ‘Nick, what’s wrong? Have you spoken to David?’ she asked, more seriously this time.
‘No,’ said Nick crossly, ‘now let’s go. I’ve got a meeting at eleven.’
Cate smelt a rat. It wasn’t like Nick. During the meeting he had been ebullient and chatty as usual but, as soon as the conversation had switched to David, he had become like a Trappist monk.
‘Nick Douglas,’ said Cate again sharply, ‘is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘No!’ said Nick.
‘Well you’re a crap liar,’ said Cate, who put her bag back on the table with a thump. ‘Have you seen David?’
‘OK. Yes, actually, very briefly yesterday afternoon.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
Cate narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Come on, Nick, what am I missing here?’
‘Look, I’m sure David will tell you all about the wedding himself,’ said Nick, suddenly regretting having said anything.
‘And is there anything to tell?’ asked Cate again. She knew intuitively that something was wrong. The prospect of David attending a wedding that had no doubt been packed with glamorous young things was not one to fill her with confidence. She was not a fool. Things had been going well between them, but she was not deluded: she knew that David had an eye for the pretty girls and, while she’d never seen any evidence of it during the four months they’d been seeing each other, what better place to test his faithfulness than at a wedding like that?
‘Is there something I should know about David at the wedding?’ said Cate, trying to catch Nick’s eye. Nick simply shook his head.
She grunted. ‘I could just ask David, but who knows whether you’ll get the truth from any man?’ she said pointedly. ‘I think I’ll ask Serena to ask her friend Elmore. I know he was at the wedding.’
‘Well, why not ask Serena directly?’ said Nick. ‘She was there too.’
‘Well I will!’ said Cate, collecting her things.
Nick grimaced, cursing himself for letting his mouth run off again. He had been sure David Goldman would have talked to Cate already. ‘Leave it Cate,’ said Nick, trying to sound more casual, ‘there’s nothing to tell. You’re just overreacting.’
‘Well, forgive me if you’ve made me paranoid, Nick,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Let’s just get back to the office,’ said Nick, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re just jet-lagged.’
Cate shrugged him off and turned for the door. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’
Back at her desk, Cate was restless. She didn’t see David more than two or three times a week, but they spoke frequently and it was unusual that, during the twelve hours she had been back, she hadn’t heard a peep from him. Nick had definitely been on edge about something at breakfast that morning. He was a terrible liar. Very soon after they’d met back in February, she’d noticed how his eyes shone when he was trying to get something past her.
Unable to concentrate, she picked up her jacket and walked out of the building to hail a cab, giving the driver Serena’s address in Chelsea. The weather was on the turn: blobs of rain started to bounce off the window where she lightly rested her head, watching London slip by in a daze. Suddenly her mobile rang. She picked it up and looked at the number. It was Nick. She put it back in her bag. The second time it rang she ignored it, and the third time she simply switched it off.
Her first thought had been to confront David, but somehow she knew that he’d be able to outmanoeuvre her. It would be easier to wheedle it out of Serena if she had seen something or heard something. If her sister was one thing, it was a terrible gossip.
Serena had the top two floors in a striking white Palladian-fronted house in The Boltons. Cate rang the intercom buzzer three times before a sleepy voice answered and she was buzzed inside. Cate wondered frantically how to play it. Bluff, she thought. Pretend she knew more than she did. That was the way to do it. Serena answered the door still yawning in a white cotton gown, her long blonde hair tousled like a surf girl’s, an embroidered silk sleep-mask on top of her head.
‘Cate. What do you want?’ she mumbled. ‘It’s
