Free More Than You Know by Penny Vincenzi Page A

David was married, to Gabrielle, “a darling girl, a huge presence on the charity circuit,” and that their youngest child was now ten, that David was in charge of the business, and that in so many ways she didn’t know what she would do without him.
    “He seems … very … very charming,” said Scarlett carefully.
    “Oh, my dear, isn’t he? Of course, all the boys are, but I really think David would win the prize. Digby is the cleverest—but David—Ah, there you are, darling. Who was that?”
    “Oh, the guy I’m having dinner with tonight. Was going to have dinner with tonight.”
    “Did he cancel, dear?”
    “Postponed. Until tomorrow. So … looks like you and I have a date tonight, Mother. I’m relieved, actually; I am a little disoriented. Jet-lagged, I believe you call it, Miss Shaw. It must be quite a problem for you.”
    “Oh—no. I don’t do the long-haul flights. I work for BEA. It’s the BOAC girls who fly to your country and even Australia.”
    “And have you always been a stewardess?”
    “Well, yes. Since I was eighteen. Before that I was a—” Suddenly hairdresser didn’t sound quite glamourous enough. “A beautician.”
    “Oh, really? How fascinating. What made you change?”
    “Oh, I thought it would … suit me better.”
    “And she is a wonderful stewardess,” said Mrs. Berenson.
    “Yes, Mother told me, Miss Shaw, how you comforted her and made her feel so much more confident. In fact, she hasn’t stopped talking about you since. And now I can see why.”
    He smiled at her, the green eyes probing hers. Scarlett felt dizzy again, and something else: a squirm of sexual excitement, reaching into her.
    “You know, I just had the nicest idea,” said Mrs. Berenson. “Would you be free to join us for dinner, my dear? It would be so nice to have your company, and you could tell us what shows we should see and so on. Don’t you think so, David?”
    “I think it would be wonderful,” said David Berenson, “but I’m sure Miss Shaw will have better things to do than have dinner with two old people like us.”
    “Oh—no! I’d love to have dinner with you both. Thank you. But I should go now, if you’ll excuse me; I have a few things to do.”
    Like beg Andre Bernard at Dover Street, the hair salon she used for special occasions, to fit her in, press her black shift dress, maybe buy one of those long strings of pearls in Fenwick, and some new black stockings, ring Diana about what she thought was good at the theatre—so much to do.
    “You sound very excited,” said Diana, her voice amused. “What’s going on; who are you having dinner with? And where?”
    “Oh—just that nice American lady I met last autumn, who was very nervous and I sat with her through some turbulence. She sent me a Christmas card, care of the airline, and now she’s in town and she invited me to tea—”
    “Sounds lovely. Well, tell her Luther is amazing. Bit heavy, maybe, but Albert Finney is incredible. Oh, and on the lighter side, Oliver .”
    “Thanks, Diana.”
    “And where are you dining?”
    “The Connaught.”
    “Goodness. Well, enjoy it. The food’s wonderful.”
    Scarlett supposed the food was wonderful; she wouldn’t have noticed if they had served up porridge with chips. She devoted herself for the most part—they both did—to listening to Mrs. Berenson talk and reminisce, answering any questions that were put directly to her, suggesting they see Luther and also Oliver while carefully making it clear that she hadn’t actually seen either herself—no point pretending—and through it all, every time she dared to meet David Berenson’s eyes, feeling the same sweet, light-headed warmth.
    And then, “I might leave you young people,” said Mrs. Berenson, as coffee was ordered. “I’m a little tired.”
    “Oh—and I must go,” said Scarlett. “I have to be on the coach at seven in the morning. I’m flying out to Milan first thing.”
    “Don’t go.” David