Free Paradise City by Elizabeth Day Page B

‘Ada. That was her name.’ A pause. ‘Or is. I’m never sure what tense to talk in.’
    He gives a bark of bitter laughter, shattering the strange atmosphere that has settled around the table. She wonders whether to say something about how sorry she is but, at the same time, doesn’t want to sound bogus. She has, after all, only just met him. She’s a journalist, not a friend.
    ‘Well, I suggest—’ Rupert starts, but Howard interrupts him. His gaze is glittery, unfocused; his smile twisted.
    ‘Let’s order some plonk, shall we, Esme?’ he says, picking up the heavy bound wine list. ‘Toast absent friends.’
    She nods her assent, surprised, all at once, to find she has the beginning of tears in her eyes.
    Over a starter of artfully arranged radishes and crisp lettuce leaves that costs more than anyone could reasonably have anticipated, an equilibrium of sorts is established. Howard, warmed up by a full-bodied Pauillac (he had been politely conscious of the fact that the Tribune was paying), allows himself to relax. He regales Esme with riotous stories about famous people he has met, including the time he hosted Elizabeth Taylor on his private yacht and she lost one of her diamonds in the shower.
    She glances across the table at Rupert, wondering if they are teasing her for sport, but he appears perfectly relaxed. He catches her looking and grins wolfishly, as if implying he’s heard every one of these anecdotes a thousand times before. Rupert really is very handsome, albeit in a rather boring way: the male equivalent of a neatly ironed shirt. But there’s something about him she can’t quite ignore, as if his very blandness poses a challenge. She wonders what he’s like in bed. Filthy, she imagines. Probably has a thing about spanking.
    At the end of the meal, they order coffee. It comes in pretty china cups. Sir Howard picks out three lumpen brown sugar cubes with his fingers and drops them in his coffee, causing a small splash of liquid onto the tablecloth.
    ‘Well, Esme, I don’t mind saying that I wasn’t looking forward to this lunch. Thought Rupert was a bloody idiot for setting it up.’
    Esme stirs in her milk. She has already realised Sir Howard is the kind of man who doesn’t want to be interrupted in full flow.
    ‘But I’m glad to have met you, sweetheart.’
    She swallows her indignation. With men like Sir Howard, you just had to go with it. That was how you got the best contacts. Journalism taught you all sexism was relative.
    He leans over and pats her hand paternally.
    ‘We should be going,’ Rupert says. ‘We’re already late for our 2.30.’
    ‘Sure, sure,’ Howard replies, pushing back his chair. ‘Rupe, can you sort out a Fash Attack discount card for this young lady?’
    ‘Oh, really, there’s no need,’ Esme says, without meaning it.
    ‘Nonsense. You’ve given me a couple of hours’ diversion in the midst of an otherwise painful day of shareholder meetings and buying concerns,’ he says jovially. ‘It’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s all part of bolstering our relations with the press.’ He wags his finger at her. ‘No more unflattering photos, eh? Are we agreed?’
    ‘Agreed.’
    He buttons up his jacket, which sits tightly over his waistband, then leans in to kiss her on both cheeks.
    ‘I’m sorry about your dad,’ he murmurs softly into her ear and she wonders at first if she has heard him correctly.
    ‘I’m . . .’ Esme grapples for the right words. ‘Sorry about your daughter . . .’ she says stupidly. Rupert glares at her from behind his boss’s shoulder.
    Howard smiles. ‘I know,’ he says sadly. ‘I know.’
    The two of them walk out of the dining room. Esme sits back at the table and signals for the bill. She is perturbed, without knowing why. Something about Howard Pink has affected her. Perhaps it was the obvious resonance of a father who’d lost his daughter meeting a daughter who’d lost her father. But it was more than that