Free Love in a Warm Climate by Helena Frith-Powell Page B

number four had been caught with his secretary in the boardroom doing more than going through the books.
    Another time it was Lucy on the phone in a state of despair because Perfect Patrick (her then crush at law school and now husband) had a girlfriend back home, and, what was worse, her mother was French. “How can I compete with a French woman?” she wailed. “Even Kate Moss couldn’t compete with a French woman – look what happened to Johnny Depp.”
    â€œPatrick is not Johnny Depp and she’s only half French,” I consoled her, wondering what, if anything, was ever going to happen with my own version of Johnny Depp.
    Then a third time (lucky for some but not for us) we finally kissed.
    It was about a year after he started at Drake’s. We were moving a table in the restaurant together. We had a hen party of twenty coming for dinner and needed to put two of our biggest tables together. At one stage we let go at the same time because it was so heavy. We stared at each other. I had such terrible butterflies I could hardly breathe. There was no one else in the restaurant.
    Johnny walked towards me. I kept looking at him, half in panic, half in joy. I was frozen to the spot. He stood opposite me, looking down at me. He smiled, cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. It was probably the most memorable kiss of my life. He gently leant down to touch my lips with his. Tentatively at first and then with more determination. I felt dizzy. My whole body seemed to float. I sometimes think about the significant things I will remember on my deathbed – walking down the aisle, the first moment I heldthe twins, my first (and only) pair of Manolo Blahniks (50% at the Selfridge’s sale), Nick proposing – and I still think that kiss would be right up there.
    After a minute or so he let me go.
    â€œI’m guessing that was a real kiss?” I asked, struggling to find my voice.
    Johnny laughed. “Yes. But as you said, it’s not in the job spec.”
    â€œOh forget the job spec,” I said, lifting my face towards his, smiling. “Kiss me again.”
    â€œHardly the kind of attitude I expect from one of my most promising and certainly my youngest managers.”
    Her voice cut through our intimacy like a knife through butter. Johnny and I sprang apart. It was Lady Butterdish herself, looking like the witch from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in a cream white fur coat and black stiletto boots that almost certainly cost more than my annual salary each.
    â€œBoth of you, to my office,” she commanded and stormed off.
    We obeyed orders and followed her. She started with me and made Johnny wait outside. I knew what was coming. I had the ‘I’m so disappointed in you’ speech and the ‘I trusted you despite your age and inexperience’ lecture.
    â€œIf you are here to seduce the staff, Sophie, then I think we had better terminate our agreement,” she concluded. “Either you are serious about this job or you’re serious about him. You can’t have both.”
    I was a girl at the beginning of her career. Lady Butterdish could have made sure I never worked in London again. So what did I do? I lied to her, of course. I lied to save myself. I behaved like a coward.
    â€œOf course the job means more to me,” I said, practically choking on my words. “He’s only a waiter.”
    â€œSensible girl,” smiled Lady Butterdish. “I am pleased to hear that. You’ll go far. Now send him in.”
    I was planning to wink at Johnny, to smile to give him some sign that I did care and that everything would be all right. But when I opened the door to let him in, he had already gone.
    He didn’t show up for work the next day, or ever again. He didn’t answer my calls. I once went to RADA to see if I could spot him leaving or arriving. I did see him, laughing and chatting with a pretty dark-haired girl. I gave up