Free The Next Best Thing by Sarah Long Page A

uniforms, packed into one giant Jeep under Jane’s supervision,
while Will followed in a separate vehicle, scowling at them from under his weathered Drizabone hat.
     
T HREE
    Rupert Beauval-Tench slipped on his jacket and glanced down at Lydia still asleep in bed. She wouldn’t wake up for at least two hours, which was perhaps why she looked so
serene. Though come to think of it, she always looked serene. She was blessed with the peace of mind that came from knowing what she wanted, and being in no doubt that it would all come her way in
the end. It was what had attracted him to her, this presumption that life was a party to which she had been invited as chief guest of honour. He only wished he felt the same.
    He quietly closed the door to the apartment and went downstairs, letting himself out of the front entrance where the taxi was waiting, engine purring, black and shiny against the redbrick
terrace. Considering this was such a chic address, the architecture was pedestrian, like a series of Victorian school-buildings.
    Climbing into the back of the cab, Rupert stretched out his long legs and reminded himself that London taxis were one of the few reasons he was glad to be back in Britain. In New York the sullen
drivers refused to get out, and left you to pull your own suitcase out of the trunk. In London, you felt they were on your side; they were engaged and chatty, with firm opinions, and often
alarmingly well-read.
    ‘Mayfair please,’ he said. ‘St James Street.’
    The driver nodded, and Rupert disappeared behind his copy of the Financial Times. He might as well face the worst and check out this morning’s figures, though doing so always left
him with a creeping sense of gloom. At the age of forty, he knew he should feel much happier than he did. Not only did he have a lovely new fiancee, he had his very own new business to run.
    ‘Looks like you’re in finance.’ The driver had raised his face to speak, obliging Rupert to meet his gaze in the rear-view mirror.
    ‘Sorry?’
    The driver pointed at his FT. ‘You want to take a look at that book by Roland Edgeworth I’ve left out in the back,’ he went on. ‘He’s got a good section on
you lot. “In sawcy State the griping Broker sits.” John Cay. Wrote The Beggar’s Opera,’ he added, seeing Rupert’s blank response.
    Rupert politely put down his paper to take a flick through the densely worded tome bulging out of the back pocket of the front seat.
    ‘I’m not a broker, actually,’ he said. ‘Good God, have you read the whole thing? How on earth do you find the time?’
    ‘Lunch break. I get a sandwich and sit in the rank. What d’you do then?’
    ‘Me? Oh, I used to work for a bank, but I left to set up a hedge fund.’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘It’s . . . a bit tricky to explain really. Not sure that I quite know myself.’ He acquitted himself with a self-deprecating smile in the mirror. ‘Speaking of which,
I’d better get back to the markets, if you don’t mind.’ He replaced the book and retreated behind his newspaper. On reflection, there were times when a silent driver would be
preferable to a chirpy London cabbie.
    He glanced down the figures printed in small tight columns on the pale orange paper, then sighed and closed his eyes. It must be his age. There had been a time when he was genuinely interested
in all this, but since his return from New York he just felt he was going through the motions, marking time until he found a way out. This was unfortunate, since he had just gone into partnership
with a colleague whose enthusiasm made Rupert feel like a sodden old rag in comparison. After eighteen years in the corporate fold they had decided with Boys’ Own bravado that it was
time to go it alone, but Rupert was no longer so sure it was such a good idea.
    Turning forty, that’s what had done it for him, though he had played the occasion down with a low-key dinner for two with Lydia, rather than one of those