about your family?’
‘I’m hardly going to be missed, am I? My parents are so busy following Adam’s ascent to celebrity status with his art that they’re not going to start showing an interest in my life.’
She leaned in towards him and lowered her voice, treating him to the dizzying scent of her vanilla perfume.
‘One of his pictures went for five figures last month, you know. Some anonymous buyer, apparently. But two words about my work and they start to glaze over.’
She leaned back again and took a small mirror from her clutch bag.
‘And you’ll be fine, of course,’ she went on, opening the mirror and checking her face in it, oblivious to his floundering brain. ‘You must have a whole little black book of girls who’d fall over themselves to step into my shoes. You’re hardly going to be stuck for a date.’
True enough. He might, however, be stuck for a date who made the right kind of impression. Wasn’t that how this whole agreement of theirs had started? He didn’t go in for dating with a serious slant—not any more. Not since Maggie and...
He clenched his fists. Even after all these years thoughts of her and their failed plans occasionally filtered into his mind, despite the effort he put into forgetting them. There was no place for those memories in his life. These days for him it was all about keeping full control. Easy fun, then moving on. Unfortunately the girls who fitted that kind of mould didn’t have the right fit in work circles. Emma had filled that void neatly, meaning he could bed whoever the hell he liked because he had her for the serious stuff—the stuff where impressions counted.
It occurred to him for the first time that she wouldn’t just be across London if he needed her. He felt oddly unsettled as she tugged at his arm and walked towards the main door.
‘You’ve had some mad ideas in your time, but this...’ he said.
* * *
As they entered the main gallery Emma paused to take in the enormity of what her brother had achieved. The vast room had a spectacular landing running above it, from which the buzzing exhibition could be viewed. It had been divided into groupings by display screens, on which Adam’s paintings—some of them taller than her—were picked out in pools of perfect clear lighting. A crowd of murmuring spectators surrounded the nearest one, which depicted an enormous eyeball with tiny cavorting people in the centre of it. His work might not be her cup of tea, but it certainly commanded attention and evoked strong opinions. Just the way he always had done.
She took two crystal flutes of champagne from the silver tray of a pretty blonde attendant, who looked straight through her to smile warmly at Dan. For heaven’s sake, was no woman immune? Emma handed him one of the flutes and he immediately raised it to the blonde girl.
‘Thanks very much...’ He leaned in close so he could read the name tag conveniently pinned next to a cleavage Emma could only ever dream of owning. ‘Hannah...’
He returned the girl’s smile. Emma dragged him away. Why was she even surprised? Didn’t she know him well enough by now? No woman was safe.
Correction: no curvy blonde arm candy was safe.
‘For Pete’s sake, pay attention,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘You’re meant to be here with me, not eyeing up the staff.’
She linked her arm through his so she could propel him through the crowd to find her parents. It wasn’t difficult. Her mother had for some insane reason chosen to wear a wide flowing scarf wrapped around her head and tied to one side. Emma headed through the crowd, aiming for it—aqua silk with a feather pin stuck in it on one side. As her parents fell into possible earshot she pasted on a smile and talked through her beaming teeth.
‘They’ll never just take my word for it that we’ve just gone our separate ways. Not without a massive inquest. And I can’t be doing with that. Trust me, it’ll work better this way. It’s cleaner. Just go with everything I say.’
She speeded up the end of the sentence as her mother approached.
‘And you don’t need to worry,’ she added from the corner of her mouth. ‘I’ll pay for the dry-cleaning.’
‘You’ll what? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
He turned his face towards her, a puzzled frown lightly creasing his forehead, and his eyes followed her hand as she raised her flute of champagne, ready to tip the contents over his head. She saw his blue eyes widen in sudden understanding and realised far too late that she’d totally underestimated his reflexes.
Dan’s hand shot out instantly to divert hers, knocking it to one side in a single lightning movement. And instead of providing the explosive beginning to her staged we’re finished argument, the glass jerked sharply sideways and emptied itself in a huge splash down the front of her mother’s aquamarine jumpsuit. She stared in horror as champagne soaked into the fabric, lending it a translucent quality that revealed an undergarment not unlike a parachute harness.
She’d inadvertently turned her mother into Miss Wet T-Shirt, London. And if she’d been a disappointing daughter before, this bumped things up to a whole new level.
TWO
‘Aaaaargh!’
The ensuing squawk from Emma’s mother easily outdid the gallery’s classy background music, and Dan was dimly aware of the room falling silent around them as people turned from the paintings to watch.
‘An accident—it was an accident...’ Emma gabbled, fumbling with a pack of tissues from her tiny clutch bag and making a futile attempt at mopping up the mess.
As her father shook a handkerchief from his pocket and joined in, her mother slapped his hand away in exasperation.
‘It’ll take more than a few tissues,’ she snarled furiously at him, and then turned on Emma. ‘Do you know how much this outfit cost? How am I meant to stand next to your brother in the publicity photos now? I’ve never known anyone so clumsy.’
Emma’s face was the colour of beetroot, but any sympathy Dan might have felt was rather undermined by the revelation that she’d intended, without so much as a word of warning, to make a fool of him in front of the cream of London’s social scene. That was her plan? That? Dumping him publicly by humiliating him? If he hadn’t caught on in time it would have been him standing there dripping Veuve Clicquot while she no doubt laid into him with a ludicrous fake argument.
No one dumped him. Ever.
‘An accident?’ he said pointedly.
She glanced towards him, her red face one enormous fluster. He raised furious eyebrows and mouthed the word dry-cleaning at her. She widened her eyes back at him in an apologetic please-stick-to-the-plan gesture.
Emma’s brother, Adam, pushed his way through the crowd, turning perfectly coiffed heads as he went, dandyish as ever in a plum velvet jacket with a frothy lace shirt underneath. There was concern in his eyes behind his statement glasses.
‘What’s going on, people?’ he said, staring in surprise at his mother as she shrugged her way into her husband’s jacket and fastened the buttons grimly to hide the stain.
‘Your
