not like we’re close. I haven’t seen him in years.’
Sam couldn’t have been any more matter of fact. This had to be it. First Richard, then her diary, now her father. Everyone knows these things come in threes. Come in threes? Now she was sounding like Gemma.
‘Sam, come on—give yourself a break. Don’t be so bloody stubborn.’
‘Gemma didn’t even tell me she’d called again this morning.’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘I mean, how hard is it to write down a phone message?’
‘Sam?’
‘She must have to take messages at work all the time. If she’s not going to bother, I’d rather she didn’t answer the phone in the first place. Anyway—right—shoes. Where next? What do you think? King’s Road? It’s still only three-thirty. We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s just get a cab. My shout.’
Sophie dragged her into the nearest Starbucks. ‘It’s totally acceptable to be upset. In fact, it’s recommended. And you only have one father.’
‘Actually, I have two. Look, I’ll have a think and take a view. But today you, my friend, need white shoes, and it’s my job not to leave your side until we complete our mission.’
‘So I’ll wear flip-flops. You’re not going to get away with using my wedding or your work as an excuse to hide from the rest of your life—partnership race or no partnership race. What about going tonight?’
Silence. Sam’s face was expressionless, and for a moment Sophie wondered whether she had crossed the invisible unconditional-support-versus-advice friendship divide.
‘I’m seeing EJ.’
‘She’ll understand.’
‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks and I really want to—’
‘You’re right. You should tell her.’
Sam didn’t want to correct Sophie. But she’d only been going to say ‘see a film’. One step at a time.
Sophie had her diary out. ‘Well, Mark and I have a lunch tomorrow, but I could go with you first thing.’
‘Thanks, Soph, but honestly there’s no need. You’ve got quite enough on your plate as it is. And I will go. Soon. I just need a bit of time.’
‘Don’t leave it too long.’
‘He’d better be on his best behaviour.’
‘He’s got cancer.’
‘Which is why I’m going…’
Sophie reached over and gave her a half-hug. Not that it was really reciprocated, but it made her feel better for a start.
A doyenne of denial, Sam gathered her bags and got to her feet. ‘Now, come on. King’s Road or Knightsbridge? Your call.’
Chapter Five
108,102,96,94,88…Ben squeezed the brake and focused on the house numbers. Last week, safely on the other side of the Atlantic, this had seemed like a great idea: one knight, minus shining armour—well, more of a boy scout—doing a good deed for a damsel likely to be in distress. But at this precise moment he couldn’t help thinking that a stamp would’ve been far simpler. Added to the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he was there out of guilt, gratitude or just sheer curiosity.
Gemma flopped onto the sofa, cold bottle of lager in hand. The relief of pyjama bottom on sofa cushion was blissful. It had been a mundanely hard day in PAsville, most of the afternoon had been spent in Excel hell, and her eyes ached from sustained concentration. Fortunately Sam and EJ were checking out the latest influx of actors trying to make the transition from the big screen to the small stage, so the flat was hers for the evening.
Stretching out, she wondered how early she could go to bed without losing every self-respecting girl-about-town point. Almost all her friends with new babies were in bed by ten…and up at one, three and five. Surely she wasn’t getting broody? Well, maybe a little. And it wasn’t that she was short of male attention, but she’d always wanted to believe in The One, a sole soul mate, yet judging by the forest of wedding invitations on Sam’s mantelpiece, it did seem to be more about timing. In which case she should probably be out strategically sipping cocktails or salsa dancing. She knew she wasn’t going to meet anybody lying in front of the TV.
Ben took a look around as he slowed down. Aside from the roar of his Vespa—well, more angry wasp buzz—it was an eerily quiet road. And tidy. Window boxes added carefully thought-out finishing touches to newly painted windowsills and lovingly glossed front doors in muted blues, reds and greens. A smattering of estate agent boards signalled the transience of Battersea’s young residents as they moved onwards and outwards in search of more affordable space and room to park the inevitable people carriers. Shiny scooters broke up the Audi TT, MG, VW and Peugeot party, and Ben added his to the nearest bay. Strolling towards his final destination, he peered into the front rooms. Ikea envy. His foot was still nowhere near the first rung of the property ladder.
As he reached the front door of number 68, a large three-storey Victorian semi, he ruffled his hair. He knew better than to complain about an unruly mop when most of his mates were desperately trying to hold on to theirs, but it was a constant challenge to persuade it to lie flat, especially when there had been a helmet involved. Licking his finger, he held it firmly on the most independent tuft.
Houston, he had a problem. He’d carried the diary three and a half thousand miles and now there were three bells.
Johnson.
Brooks.
Washington.
And a perfectly acceptable communal letterbox. But surely that would be cheating?
Uncharacteristically tense, Ben rechecked the package in his hand. A sweat broke out in the small of his back as he remembered his broken promise to Ali, and he flapped his T-shirt to try and cool himself down. Flat 3. He checked his watch. Nearly eight-fifteen.
Taking a logical guess, Ben pushed the top bell.
A crackle of static. ‘Halloh…who is speaking, please, thank you?’
He seemed to have been connected to somewhere in central Europe. ‘Hi. Is that flat 3?’
A child shrieked in the background. Maybe two. Ben shook his head. He should have known that British electricians installed bells in whatever order they fancied. Bob the Builder should really have been Bodge the Builder. If he ever turned up at all, that was.
‘Heylow?’
His adult self compelled him to stay. ‘Sorry to bother you. Wrong apartment.’
‘No party here.’
‘Wrong
