cups before asking with unrestrained eagerness, ‘So what did you find out about him?’
‘Very little, except that he lives in a quiet block of flats in Mayfair.’ In a portentous voice, she added, ‘These days everything about him is shrouded in mystery.’
Only half believing her, Laura asked, ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
‘Why? There must be a reason.’
‘Well, as most of it seems to be public knowledge already, I’ll tell you what Mr Levens told me.
‘When Michael Denver first shot to fame after winning his second award, he became an overnight celebrity. But it seems that he’s a man who values his privacy, and he did his utmost to play it down and stay in the background.
‘Then he met and married a top photographic model named Claire Falconer—’
‘Oh, yes, I know her!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘Or rather I know of her.’ Then impatiently, ‘Go on.’
‘Both “beautiful people” and celebrities, they seemed to be madly in love with each other and ideally suited.
‘The media soon nicknamed them the Golden Couple, and followed them everywhere with their cameras. But while she enjoyed all the fuss and the media attention, he loathed it.
‘The attention was just starting to die down when a story that she’d been seen in the bedroom of a secluded hotel with another man while her husband was away got into the papers. She claimed it was a lie. But a follow-up story included a photograph of the pair of them trying to slip out of the hotel the next morning.
‘That gave rise to rumours that after only six months the marriage was breaking up, and the press had a field day. Michael Denver stayed tight-lipped and refused to comment, but his wife gave an interview in which she announced that she still loved him and was trying for a reconciliation. What he’d hoped would be a quiet divorce degenerated into a three-ringed circus—’
‘Now you mention it, I do remember reading about it. At the time I felt rather sorry for him.’
‘I gather from what Mr Levens told me that between his ex-wife, who continued to oppose the divorce, and the attentions of the gutter press, his life was made almost intolerable.
‘His refusal to give interviews or be photographed just made the paparazzi keener, and in the end he was forced to move flats and go to ground.’
‘It must have been tough for the poor devil.’
‘I’m sure it was.’
‘Do you know, in spite of all that press coverage I’ve no idea how old he is or what he looks like, have you?’
‘Not the faintest,’ Jenny admitted.
‘My guess is that he’ll be middle-aged, handsome in a lean and hungry way, with a domed forehead, a beaky nose and a pair of piercing blue eyes.’
‘What about his ears?’
‘Oh, a pair of those too. Unless he’s a tortured genius like Vincent Van Gogh.’
‘Fool! I meant flat or sticky out?’
‘Definitely sticky out, large, and a bit pointed.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because that’s what a brilliant writer ought to look like.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Well, if you say so.’
‘By the way, if you get back to find the flat empty, don’t be surprised. It’s Tom’s parents’ wedding anniversary, and later we’re off to Kent to spend the day with them.’
‘Well, I hope everything goes really well. Do give Mr and Mrs Harmen my best wishes.’
Her coffee finished, Jenny dressed in a taupe suit and toning blouse, swept her hair into a smooth coil, added neat gold studs to her ears and the merest touch of make-up.
With just a mental picture of Michael Denver, and no real idea of his age or what he might want in a PA, she could only hope he would approve of her businesslike appearance.
The car, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes, drew up outside dead on time.
Laura, who was stationed by the window, exclaimed excitedly, ‘It’s here! Well, off you go, and the best of luck.’
Trying to quell the butterflies that danced in her stomach, Jenny picked up her shoulder bag, and said, ‘Thanks. Enjoy your day.’
Outside, the air was cold, and Jack Frost had sprinkled the pavement with diamond dust and scrawled his glittering autograph over natural and man-made objects alike.
By the kerb, the elderly chauffeur was standing smartly to attention, waiting to open the car door for her.
As she reached him he bid a polite, ‘Good morning, miss.’
Jenny returned the greeting and, feeling rather like some usurper masquerading as royalty, climbed in and settled herself into the warmth and comfort of the limousine.
By the time they reached Mayfair and drew up outside the sumptuous block of flats, she had managed to conquer the nervous excitement, and at least appear her usual cool, collected self.
Having crossed the marble-floored lobby, she identified herself to Security before taking the private lift up to the second floor, as instructed.
As the doors slid open and she emerged into a luxurious lobby she was met by a tall, thin butler with a long, lugubrious face. ‘Miss Mansell? Mr Denver is expecting you. If you would like to follow me?’
She obeyed, and was ushered into a large, very well-equipped office.
‘Miss Mansell, sir.’
As the door closed quietly behind her a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man dressed in smart casuals rose from his seat behind the desk.
A sudden shock ran through her, and though somehow her legs kept moving she felt as if she had walked slap bang into an invisible plate-glass window.
While she was convinced they had never met, she felt certain that she knew him. Some part of her recognized him, remembered him, responded to him…
But even as she tried to tell herself that she must, at one time, have seen his photograph in the papers, she felt quite certain that that wasn’t the answer. Though there had to be some logical explanation for such a strong feeling.
Michael, for his part, was struggling to hide his relief. For a man who was normally so confident, so sure of himself and the plans he was putting into action, he had been unsettled and on edge. Half convinced that she wouldn’t come, after all, and angry with himself that it mattered.
Now here she was, and though for some reason her steps had faltered and she had appeared to be momentarily disconcerted, she had quickly regained her composure.
Holding
