Free Paradise City by Elizabeth Day

She can sense displeasure radiating from him.
    Rupert leans towards her and introduces himself. ‘Good of you to come, Esme,’ he says, as though she is doing them a tremendous favour. He is well-spoken and conventionally handsome, like one of those men in the Gillette adverts. He looks much younger than Dave even though she knows they are contemporaries. She wouldn’t imagine the two of them as friends. ‘Dave said you’re one of his star reporters,’ Rupert continues, motioning to her seat. ‘I must say, I thought you’d be older. It’s a sign of age, isn’t it, when policemen and doctors start seeming like children . . .’
    Esme notices Sir Howard staring fixedly at a point in the mid-distance throughout Rupert’s oleaginous patter. In person, the Fash Attack millionaire looks both smaller and more imposing than his photographs would lead you to believe. His face is dominated by a bulbous nose, framed by a receding hairline that is emphasised by a copious amount of gel, employed to slick the few remaining follicular wisps severely backwards. He is not wearing a tie and the collar of his white shirt lies open to reveal a sprouting of dark chest hair. For a titan of industry, he seems remarkably unintimidating but then she spots his eyes: brown and pinprick sharp, the pupils darting this way and that, trailing the waiters, taking in the other customers, analysing everything that comes into his field of vision. He is leaning his head against one perfectly manicured hand, the tips of his fingers so close to his nose he might be smelling them. He appears almost entirely uninterested in her.
    ‘I’ve been at the paper for eighteen months,’ Esme is saying as a waiter unfolds her napkin and casts it out over her knees. ‘Sir Howard, it’s very kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule,’ she adds, trying to get his attention. She is not used to middle-aged men disregarding her so flagrantly.
    Sir Howard turns his head, lizard-like. His voice, when he speaks, is pointedly quiet.
    ‘I was led to believe you were going to apologise,’ he says.
    Esme flushes. ‘Oh, yes, well, of course, Sir Howard. We – I mean, the paper – are really incredibly sorry for the oversight . . .’
    Rupert waves her apology away with a flap of the hand. ‘It’s quite all right. I’ve explained to Sir Howard that it was the picture desk who messed up. Dave tells me it won’t happen again.’
    ‘It won’t,’ says Esme, although she has absolutely no way of ensuring this.
    ‘I hate that fucking picture,’ Sir Howard says, launching the swear word across the table just as the waiter arrives bearing three identical egg-shaped bowls.
    ‘To start the meal, we present to you an amuse-bouche of shrimp and lobster ravioli with a ginger consommé.’
    There is a slight pause.
    ‘Well get on with it then,’ says Howard. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
    The waiter looks suitably apologetic but then takes a small age pouring the consommé into each of their dishes from individual white jugs. Once this is done, he stands back for a moment as if awaiting plaudits for the culinary genius on show. When none is forthcoming, he gives a simpering smile, bows and clasps his hands together.
    ‘ Bon appétit ,’ the waiter says, retreating backwards like a royal footman.
    ‘Christ,’ says Howard. ‘I thought we’d never get rid of him.’
    Esme laughs. He looks at her, his eyes suddenly twinkling.
    ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
    ‘Esme.’
    ‘Are you Scottish?’
    ‘No, my Dad was.’
    ‘Was?’ Howard fires back.
    ‘Yes, he died when I was eight.’
    He puts his spoon down and seems genuinely taken aback. Esme is used to all sorts of reactions when she tells strangers: shocked intakes of breath, sympathetic squeezes of the arm, patronising assurances that ‘time’s a great healer’ but, perhaps because he’s had to deal with his own loss, Howard’s appears oddly sincere.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he says