Free Chloe's Rescue Mission by Rosie Dean Page A

tomorrow?’ Duncan’s body blocked the sun. I opened my eyes.
    ‘Yes thanks. How about you – is it all shaping up for a good event?’
    ‘I think it is.’
    ‘Excellent!’ I raised my glass in a toast, and took a slug. A block of ice smacked me in the teeth, sloshing tinto over my face. I lurched forward.
    Duncan, being a true gent, laughed. ‘Careful,’ he said, handing me a paper napkin.
    I frowned. I wasn’t mad keen on public humiliation, unless scripted and rehearsed for a paying audience.
    He sat down, which was a pity as I was intending to neck the remaining drink and leave. He was still smiling. ‘You okay?’
    ‘Absolutely fine,’ I said, mopping my chest.
    A waiter appeared with a glass of beer for Duncan. Then the waiter relieved me of the wine-soaked napkin and asked if I’d like another drink.
    ‘No, thank you.’
    Duncan reached into the pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Your delegate list,’ he said, handing it to me. I opened it out. Bless him, he’d highlighted a bunch of names in pink and several others in green. ‘The pink ones are my hot favourites. I think you’ve a good chance of getting them on side. The green ones are possibles. The others…’ he shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe you can work on them.’
    ‘This is fantastic. Thank you.’
    ‘Speaking as a businessman, you want to keep your pitch simple and make it relevant. Find some way the company you’re talking to could have a stake in what you’re doing. Let them know how you’ll spend their money and tell them it’s urgent. You don’t want them fobbing you off and sitting on the idea for months. If they can’t help now, you need to know.’
    ‘Would it help to say we’ll have their logos mounted on the theatre walls – a sort of permanent advert for them?’
    ‘It might. But is that what you want – some indigestion brand slapped on the theatre wall, or worse?’
    ‘I see what you mean.’
    ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll win a few of them round,’ he said.
    He glanced at his watch, prompting me to look at mine. Seventeen minutes to shower and change for dinner. At my audible gasp, he said, ‘Drinks are at eight, dinner’s not till eight-thirty.’
    ‘Great. Better go. See you later.’
    He raised his glass to me and, I suspect, watched me walk away, which I’m glad to report, I managed without tripping over a stray leaf.
     
    Marlean had suggested a cocktail dress for this evening and one full length for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Because I wanted to make an impact, I’d raided Mum’s vintage wardrobe, choosing one in several shades of coral that she’d worn in a production of The Boyfriend.
    I kept my hair loose since I planned on giving it the works for tomorrow’s gala dinner. Left to mother nature and a slew of expensive ‘product’ not to mention judicious use of a curling iron, my hair ‘tumbled’ as Mum described it, in corkscrew curls. As a child, I’d hated my hair. If only I’d gown up through the eighties, I’d have been the envy of all my friends but the nineties gave us Friends and The Rachel, making hair straighteners de rigueur. Lord knows, I’d worked my way through enough of those. Thankfully, as I grew taller, my body balanced out the weight of the curls but it didn’t stop me wishing for a cute, blonde, pixie crop that I could just run my fingers through after a shower. I wanted to look like Carey Mulligan, which is a shame because she’s at least two sizes smaller, two inches taller and seldom brunette.
    I checked the contents of my evening bag and headed downstairs.
    There was a hum of chatter at the bar and a waiter stood handing out glasses of sherry over ice. I wasn’t mad for sherry but when in Spain…
    Ahead of me was a chap in a navy and white striped shirt, navy chinos and super-shiny leather shoes. Was he approachable? I wondered, just as his head swivelled in my direction. I flicked my smile switch and headed for him.
    ‘Good