Free Sin Tropez by Aita Ighodaro Page A

body but also everything she stood for. She was beautiful but not threatening. Her face and body welcomed and reassured them – had a maternal quality that made them feel as though they
could bury their heads in her ample bosom and she would stroke away all the monsters. And yet she made men feel like men; she was so soft and womanly and kind to them that they wanted to be by her
side and protect her always. Where they could only admire or objectify or lust over other women, men loved Sarah.
    And so it was with full confidence in her ability to charm any skeletons out of Willy’s closet that the Wimbledon Gazette dispatched her on this task. There was one minor problem.
Because the whole thing had been announced at such short notice, she only had until six o’clock to memorize everything there was to know about Willy Eckhardt. She had promised Si that
she’d have drinks with him at six-thirty and had no intention of cancelling. Since he’d started working at Atkins & Allison she barely saw him and they’d already had to miss
‘snuggle Sunday’ last weekend as he’d been paintballing at a team-bonding event.
    ****
    Sarah arrived at the Wolseley at nine o’clock precisely, dressed as she had been all day in a colourful, floaty knee-length skirt, a cream polo neck and ballet pumps. She
was rarely late for anything and tonight was no exception.
    ‘Hunter … booked for three,’ murmured the elegant maître d’, checking his list of table bookings. ‘You’re the first to arrive Madam, shall I show you
to your table? Or there’s also a table up on the gallery which has just come free?’
    ‘Actually,’ replied Sarah, ‘I think I’ll have a drink at the bar while I wait for the others, if that’s OK?’ As the bar was situated at the front of the
sweeping central dining room, Sarah guessed she’d see Willy and his publicist as they arrived, and she hoped she’d blend in more in the crowded bar than if she waited alone at the
table, where someone might spot that she didn’t really belong in this sophisticated restaurant, that she was an impostor.
    She ordered a small glass of house white, glad she’d stuck to water with Si. The clock above the bar showed that it was now five past nine. Sarah was grateful for more time to collect
herself and prepare her questions. By the time she finished her wine, though, it was nine-thirty and she began to feel nervous, then a bit annoyed. If she were famous, not that she particularly
wanted to be, she’d try even harder to be on time for everything, and to be lovely to everyone too, simply because it wasn’t what people expected. She got out her mobile; perhaps she
had missed a call from Willy’s publicist. Nope. She ordered another glass from the attentive barman.
    ‘Been stood up?’ he grinned.
    ‘I really, really, really hope not,’ Sarah responded.
    ‘Well he’d be an idiot to leave you in the lurch.’
    ‘Thanks.’ Sarah smiled shyly. Normally she was uninterested in appreciative comments from men but she was seriously nervous now and starting to regret not changing her outfit, so on
this occasion the compliment was welcome.
    Glancing at the entrance for the umpteenth time she was relieved to see Willy bounce into the restaurant, unaccompanied, and approach the maître d’, cracking jokes and doing comedy
impressions with everyone from the doorman to a departing diner on the way. He was casually dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. At once her nerves disappeared and she jumped off
her stool to greet him.
    ‘Mr Eckhardt,’ she breezed, ‘I’m Sarah Hunter from the Wimbledon Gazette . Lovely to meet you. Welcome to London.’
    ‘Nice to see you, to see you …’ He made a rolling gesture with his hands and then pointed at Sarah with a dazzling, toothy grin, as though he was waiting for her to finish his
sentence.
    ‘Er … nice?’ Sarah faltered, astonished he was up on nineties British television.
    ‘You got it,’