sound of a mobile phone jangled, bringing us both to an abrupt halt. Like cowboys reaching for their guns, we both went for our phones, him shoving a hand in his inside pocket and me taking my clutch bag from under my arm.
He frowned as he looked at his screen and then back at me with apology as he answered the call.
Saved by the bell. The familiar sound and both of us going for it, reminded me of real life. What on earth was I doing? Lulled by the moment and being a big girl in a posh frock. I wasn’t the sort that picked up complete strangers, particularly not handsome Prince Charming types who were way out of my league. Moreover, there was no time in my life for a relationship; I had goals, things to do. Gut instinct told me that this mysterious stranger posed far too big a risk. I’d been hurt by Josh and I hadn’t felt one tenth of the spark elicited by this man. He was a man you could really lose your heart to.
I mouthed that I was off to the ladies and slipped away, doubling back down the stairs to my table, confident that among 2,000 people I’d lose myself easily.
‘Hello, Kate Sinclair.’ I absently picked up the phone as I stared at my computer screen, trying to be sensible and write a press release instead of replaying my Cinderella scene over and over in my head. Unfortunately I’d dashed off without leaving a glass slipper or a mobile phone number, so it would never come to anything and I couldn’t decide if that were a good or a bad thing.
‘Pleased with yourself, are you?’ snarled a voice down the phone.
Sitting up smartly I turned my chair away from the screen.
‘Sorry?’ I frowned immediately, thinking he must have the wrong person.
‘You are Kate Sinclair, aren’t you?’
OK, so not the wrong person.
‘Yes,’ I said slowly trying to place the angry voice. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Unfortunately, you’re about to. Benedict Johnson, lap dog,’ he spat.
Ah, the angry journalist. Why the hell was he ringing me? I had no idea but given his initial rudeness yesterday the opportunity to mess with him was too good to miss.
‘How the mighty are fallen, the other day you were Mad Fox,’ I observed, picking up a pen and doodling on my lined pad.
‘Then, I wasn’t dancing to your tune.’
‘Clues would be good at this point.’
‘Playing innocent, are we?’
‘It would be difficult to play otherwise because I have absolutely no idea why you’re calling me.’
‘Didn’t you hear the good news?’ Sarcasm curdled the words.
‘Hans Solo didn’t die in The Force Awakens? Douglas Adams got it wrong and the meaning of life is forty-three? Take That are back up to five members?’
‘I’m too bloody furious with you to even find you funny.’
‘Sharing’s good. Psychologists recommend it.’
‘Copenhagen. Press trip.’ He bit the words out with enunciated precision.
‘Journalist. Said no.’
‘Journalist forced to say yes.’
‘I’m all out of arm twists, so I’m not sure how you figure that. I’ve not forced anyone.’
‘Not directly. I don’t like sneaky, underhand people. You should watch out who you make deals with in future.’
‘I’ve got five perfectly reasonable people who have agreed to come to Copenhagen and are delighted. I’m not sure I want you along anyway.’
‘Too bad. Because now thanks to your conniving you’re stuck with me.’
‘Do you always talk in riddles?’ We were getting nowhere with this conversation and while I was enjoying it on one level, I had other things to do. ‘Seriously. You carry on but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve asked another journalist to go on the trip.’ They’d turned it down too but he didn’t need to know that.
‘The Advertising Manager said that you’d suggested it would make a great feature and that he could sell a lot of advertising off the back of it. He went to his boss, who went to my boss and suddenly … it’s a very good idea if I go on a junket to Copenhagen.’
‘Sorry still no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t suggested any such thing. You’ve got the wrong person,’ I said confidently.
‘Not according to Andrew Dawkins.’
‘Andr…’ my voice trailed away guiltily.
‘All coming back to you, now is it?’
‘I … er I, didn’t say that to him. I don’t …’ I sputtered as I desperately racked my brains as to what I’d said to him two nights previously.
‘No, of course not. Because he couldn’t possibly know that I’d been invited on a trip unless he’d spoken to you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry–’
‘Too bloody late now. You’d better send the itinerary over. I’ll see you in Copenhagen.’ With that he slammed the phone down before I’d had a chance to tell him that I certainly hadn’t put Andrew up to it, or that we were meeting at Heathrow.
Through bleary eyes, I clocked that Heathrow, even at the insane time of five o’clock in the morning, was surprisingly busy. Cleaners trailing huge carts with mops sticking out at odd angles roved the open expanse of the terminal, while half-asleep shop assistants battled with metal grilles opening up with weary determination, oblivious to travellers around them pulling the ubiquitous black luggage along.
As I waited by the check-in desk, I looked at all the paperwork for the fifth time. Passport. Contact numbers. Laptop. Luggage. My hands were shaking. Ridiculous. Yesterday’s last minute pep talk from Megan had put the fear of God into me.
‘Are you sure you’ll be able to cope with six of them?’ she’d asked me. ‘Press trips are hard work.’
‘I know,’ I’d replied, thinking how hard could it be? What could go wrong? We had an itinerary. A guide.
‘People think it’s a cushy little junket, but journalists have a habit of wandering off piste and doing their own bloody thing. You need to make sure they toe the line. No ducking out of this trip or that visit. You lose one, you lose them all.’
‘OK,’ I’d nodded again, trying to look serious and attentive.
‘There’s
