course he would be calling about business. Doing her best to hold back a sigh, she said, “New business ideas are my brother Thomas’s bailiwick. You’re better off calling him directly. I don’t get involved in that end.”
“You misunderstand. This isn’t about Collier’s. It’s about… Let me just say I think I have an idea that might benefit us both.”
Beneficial to her but didn’t involve Collier’s? He had her attention. “Go on?”
“I don’t suppose you’ve read Lorianne’s blog today?”
Lorianne Around London was the UK’s most popular gossip website. A treasure trove of royal, political and celebrity gossip, the blog was influential and widely read, even by those who claimed they didn’t. “The only thing I’ve seen today is the inside of my eyelids. Why?”
“You might want to check it out on your way to the restaurant,” Lewis replied. “There’s a “Blind Item” you might find interesting. Now, are we on for lunch?”
Susan ran a hand through her curls. Her hair was a stiff mess from being retro-styled and she still had a splitting headache. Without checking a mirror, she knew she looked like a plump, raccoon-eyed nightmare. Hardly suitable for public viewing.
On the other hand, Lewis’s offer intrigued her foggy brain. A business venture that benefitted her, didn’t involve Collier’s and was somehow connected to a “Blind Item” in Lorianne Around London? How could she resist?
“Where and when?” she asked.
The Christmas tree next to the fountain was decorated with pairs of miniature shoes. At night, it was lit with hundreds of rainbow-colored lights, but at midday all you could see were mini sneakers and stilettos. It was supposed to be making an artistic and social commentary, but damn if Lewis could figure it out. Walk a mile in another’s shoes, maybe? Guess he wasn’t sophisticated enough because he preferred the lights.
Still frowning, he turned his attention back to the restaurant. It was ten minutes past their agreed-upon time. Susan didn’t strike him as the kind of person who ran late. He’d done a little digging on her when he’d texted Hank and Maria. If anything, Susan was the kind of person who arrived early and grew annoyed when you didn’t too. She hadn’t been joking last night when she said she wasn’t very well liked at her company. In fact, Maria had used a very specific word to describe her, and for a second Lewis wondered if his plan was a good idea.
He caught the eye of a waiter who immediately approached the table. “Can I get another sparkling water?” he asked.
The young man nodded. “Of course. Right away.”
As the man walked away, Lewis noticed a handful of diners looking in his direction. The Mayfair restaurant was too posh a location for autograph seekers. The people who dined here were supposed to be nonchalant about dining with celebrities. That didn’t mean they weren’t above sneaking a peek when one was in their midst, however.
When he was a kid, places like this were a foreign country. They were for people who lived on the other side of the city, who drove nice cars and whose kids always had new clothes. They definitely weren’t for nobodies who bounced from foster home to foster home. Sometimes he pinched himself that he was really able to walk into a restaurant like this one and order whatever he wanted. Sometimes he masked his anxiety with extreme cockiness.
Sometimes—most times, in the past—he’d drunk to keep from feeling exposed.
It’s all right; you belong here.
For how long though? Celebrity was a fleeting thing. Washed-up athletes were a dime a dozen. If he couldn’t get a broadcast job, what would he do? Football was the only world he knew. The sport defined him. Made him matter. Made him somebody.
It’s your reputation, Lewis. That’s how his agent had put it after telling him he’d lost the BBC commentator job. People are afraid you’re going to pull one of your antics again. No one wants to risk waking up to see their studio analyst double-fisting bottles of Cristal on the front page.
In other words, he needed to prove to the world he had shed his Champagne Lewis persona for good. He’d been trying to deliver that message for the past nine months, but karma kept tripping him up. Like last night. He was surprised that the drink-tossing incident hadn’t made it onto Lorianne’s blog. The woman had spies everywhere.
Reading today’s item, however, made him realize a few things. First, that he was damn lucky, and second, that if he wanted the world to know he was a changed man, he needed to do more than simply give up drinking and stay home. He needed to give the public proof, something splashy, that would convey the message for him.
The idea as to how had hit him like a jolt this morning. It was crazy, but it was worth a shot.
Now he needed his proposed partner in crime to appear.
He was about to turn his awareness back to the window when a flash of blue caught his attention. Finally. Susan Collier cut through the dining room, her peacock blue jacket popping amid the room’s gold-and-green garlands. She wore a pair of oversize sunglasses covering her face and moved like a person who didn’t have a moment to spare. Quite a different appearance from the soft, hazy woman who’d tripped her way up her front stairs the night before.
“Sorry I’m late. We got stuck in traffic.”
Lewis saw it for the excuse it was. He also always seemed to have problems with the traffic on days he was hungover. “No problem. I’ve been sitting hear enjoying the view. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”
“It should. They started decorating the day after Halloween.”
She looked down at the bench he sat on. Although the alcove table could accommodate up to six people, it had been set for intimacy. This meant the only seating was the velvet bench that curved along the wall. She had no choice but to slide to the middle so they could sit side by side. “Interesting choice of table,” she remarked.
“I like sitting by the window.” He moved over to make room. Not too much room though. He wanted to sit next to her. That was the point.
“Don’t suppose you read Lorianne’s site,” he said when she’d settled in—her sunglasses remaining in place.
“You mean ‘Blind Item’ number five? How could I resist? You had me intrigued.” Reaching into her shoulder bag, she pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. It was a printout of Lorianne’s blog.
This A-plus bad-boy former athlete with the fancy name was seen playing the gentleman for a member of one of London’s most established families last night. He walked the lady to the door and didn’t stay the night. Fluke? Or has he washed his hands of his wild ways?
She folded the paper in half again. “Those are some of the lamest clues I’ve ever seen. ‘Fancy name’ for Champagne Lewis? ‘Washed his hands’ for Collier’s Soap? Was this your doing?”
“I wish. Our driver must have given her the tip. Lorianne’s known for her network. He must have texted her after he dropped us off and Lorianne shoved it in her column.” That was the beauty of the internet. In the old days, the public would have had to
