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  Faye mulled over the options. She could struggle home on the overcrowded, dirty tube, or she could let this strikingly handsome man take her in his impressive car. Tricky one.

  “OK,” she said, and opened the door. “But it’s south of the river.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got my passport in the glove compartment.” He grinned and locked her seatbelt. She squinted in the low afternoon sunshine, and he put his hand into the car’s side pocket, then handed her a pair of pink-tinted sunglasses.

  “I’m sure your girlfriend will be thrilled to know her belongings are being shared around,” said Faye, pushing them up the bridge of her nose.

  “I haven’t got a girlfriend. They belong to my sister.”

  During the stop-start journey through the rush hour traffic, Faye learned that he was twenty-eight and originally from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, where his parents still lived. His sister was twenty-five and worked as a makeup artist for Granada Television.

  Nat owned a one-bedroom flat in the heart of Covent Garden, but wasn’t there much because of all the traveling to modeling assignments. He was signed to the hugely powerful Guru agency, and there was little doubt that he earned ten times as much as Faye. The car confirmed it.

  As they drove along the main road through East Sheen, Faye directed him to her mother’s house and thanked him for taking such a lengthy diversion. He shrugged. “I did it because I fancy you.”

  Faye was unsure how to react, then threw back her head and laughed. “Well, you’re certainly straightforward.”

  They pulled into her mother’s road and she gestured for him to pull up outside number thirty.

  He killed the engine and smiled. “So, how about it, then?”

  “How about what?”

  “You and me getting it on.”

  “How very Marvin Gaye,” she said mockingly, and rummaged in her handbag for her door keys. She looked straight at him. “It takes more than a lift home to win me over.”

  “How about dinner, then?” he said, his eyes playing strip-poker with her. “I do fancy you, but you make me laugh too. It would be nice to do something away from work.”

  Faye stepped out of the car and smoothed down her coat. As far as she was concerned, she could say no for reasons of dignity, then spend days convincing herself she had done the right thing, or she could say yes and go on a date with a man she found uncommonly sexy.

  Dignity doesn’t keep you warm at night, she thought. “OK, dinner.” She handed him one of the business cards she’d had printed on a machine at King’s Cross railway station.

  He took it. “Great. I’m off on a calendar shoot for a fortnight from tomorrow, but I’ll call as soon as I get back.”

  Faye suspected he’d forget all about her.

  In the event, it was four weeks before he got round to calling, and Faye had all but given up on him. When he did, he was disarmingly apologetic, blaming his workload for the delay.

  Their first date had been dinner at the Ivy, London’s most prestigious restaurant where the celebrity head-count was always high. Impressively, Nat had secured a table at short notice, always an indicator of someone’s current social standing. Faye was introduced to a stream of people who came over to say hello, and she had to admit it was a dazzlingly fun evening.

  Nat’s specialist subject was himself, but he was occasionally witty, mesmerizingly handsome, and paid the bill without flinching.

  He made a lame attempt to get her back to his flat, but when she said no, he ordered a cab on his account to deliver her home.

  The second date had been to the cinema where, at Faye’s insistence, they’d gone to see the latest hip foreign film with subtitles. As it reached its tear-jerking climax, Faye turned to gauge Nat’s reaction and found he was fast asleep. Afterwards she’d gone straight home.

  On their third date, she could tell there was something on Nat’s mind, and had a pretty good idea what it was. Clearly he wasn’t used to women resisting his obvious charms for long.

  “Is there any chance of us having a shag tonight?” he said, as they ate their appetizer in a quiet Italian restaurant in Soho. A woman at a nearby table choked on her asparagus.

  Faye raised an eyebrow. “Possibly. If you’re a good boy.” She licked a blob of butter provocatively from her forefinger.

  Nat put his elbows on the table and leaned towards her: “Sorry, no can do. I intend to be a very bad boy indeed.”

  Faye could feel his knee pressed hard against her leg and felt lightheaded with lust. She knew that if they didn’t have sex tonight, it would all be over. Nat wasn’t the kind of man who respected a woman for holding out: he would simply shrug his shoulders and find someone with less willpower.

  Besides, Faye found herself increasingly annoyed by the self-help books so eagerly consumed by her girlfriends. How to Find a Man. How to Keep a Man. How to Get Back Your Man. They were all full of dating “rules,” the most irritating being the one that specified how many dates to go on before you had sex. Faye never had sex on a first date, but after that her decision was based on the man involved and no “expert” was going to change that. She had noticed there were no such rules for single men. They were happy to sleep with whomever they wished, whenever they wished, without any ensuing hand-wringing or guilt.

  “I think,” she whispered, so that the asparagus woman wouldn’t hear, “we should have our main course and go back to your place for dessert.”

  Half an hour later they were walking into the foyer of Nat’s minimalist apartment building directly opposite the Covent Garden piazza. “Good evening, Mr. Finch.” The concierge tilted his head at Faye. “Madam.”

  “Good evening.” She wondered how many women he’d seen Nat coming and going with. She stepped into the lift.

  The second the doors closed, Nat pressed her against the chrome wall with such force that she couldn’t have escaped if she’d wanted to, but luckily she didn’t. By the time they reached the fourth floor, his hand was inside her blouse and things were becoming heated. When the doors opened, the floor was empty, sparing Faye’s blushes as she hastily rearranged her bra.

  Nat grabbed her hand and dragged her along the corridor to a door marked “45” where he stopped and fumbled for his keys.

  As he opened the door he nuzzled her ear and whispered, “I’m going to fuck you senseless.”

  Three hours later, her senses were still intact, but she had to admit he was an impressive and relatively unselfish lover. Her skin still tingling, she lay back and studied his bedroom. It was starkly male, with gray walls and a glass-brick partition separating it from the en-suite bathroom. The bed was king-size, with surprisingly tasteful white linen sheets and a black fake-fur throw placed along the foot. Hanging above it was a giant photograph of Nat, taken from the previous season’s Gucci campaign. Lying next to her now in a disheveled heap, she had to admit he was even more luscious in the naked flesh.

  He opened his eyes and caught her looking at him. “You can’t believe your luck, can you?” he joked.

  “On the contrary . . .” Faye yawned. “I feel very underwhelmed by the whole experience.”

  He propped himself up on one elbow. “I like your sarcasm. I’m used to women fawning all over me.”

  “Really?” Faye adopted a surprised expression. She threw back the sheet, swung her feet out of bed and on to the cold wood floor.

  “The call of nature?” he asked.

  “Nope. The call of home. I’ve got heaps to do.” She walked around the room, picking up her clothes.

  He looked at his watch. “But it’s four in the morning.” He patted the bed. “Come on, hop back in and I’ll persuade you to stay.”

  “Sorry, no can do,” she said. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, so I need to get home. Can you order me a cab, please?”

  In truth, there was nothing she’d rather do than leap back into bed for another passionate session: this man’s sheer animal magnetism almost overwhelmed her. But if there was one thing Faye
had learned about men like Nat, it was not to look too eager in the early stages. She wasn’t sure if she’d hear from him again, but her seeming reluctance to stay might heighten her chances. She believed that there was no such thing as an across-the-board bastard. It all depended on what you let them get away with. One woman’s bastard was another woman’s puppy dog.

  It was the same with her. Certain men brought out her worst side, not because they deserved it but because they let her get away with too much. She had every faith that, out there somewhere, was her match: a man who would bring out the best in her while letting her know that he wouldn’t tolerate any bad behavior. It was all about finding and maintaining a delicate balance of power.

  She knew that any relationship with Nat wouldn’t progress past shallow fun, but it would be enjoyable while it lasted. Nothing more.

  As she washed her face in the bathroom, she heard him order a cab, again on his account. At least he’s not tightfisted, she thought.

  Walking back into the bedroom, she collected her handbag from the bedside table and turned to face him. He was lying with his hands behind his head, looking utterly edible. “I’ll go and engage your concierge in scintillating conversation until the cab arrives,” she said. “Thanks for ordering it.”

  “No problem. Least I could do.” He showed no sign of saying anything else.

  “Right, then, see ya,” she said, and left. God, she thought, I sounded like someone from a bad soap opera. But she had been determined not to have any eggy moments in which she waited for him to suggest another date. He had her number, so he could call if he wanted to. If.

  Ten days later, Faye was contemplating another night of watching reruns with her mother. She had resolved to start saving hard to buy a passport out of there, if only for a tiny studio flat in central London. Smearing a piece of toast with low-fat margarine, she walked into the sitting room where Alice was already engrossed by the television and sank onto the sofa beside her. The phone rang. She picked up the hands-free unit, got up, and wandered out of the room.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  Faye knew instantly who it was, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of instant recognition. “Sorry, who’s ‘me’?”

  He let out a mildly impatient sigh. “Nat.”

  “Oh, hi,” she said casually. Annoyingly her heart rate had increased. “How are things?”

  “Good,” he enthused. “I’m rushed off my feet with work or I’d have called sooner.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been horribly busy myself.” If you can count handing out free chocolates at the Ideal Home Exhibition, she thought ruefully.

  “Great!” He sounded genuinely enthusiastic. “What campaigns have you done?”

  “Oh, this and that,” she said. “To be honest, I find all that kind of thing horribly boring to talk about.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said unconvincingly. “Look, the reason I was calling was to find out whether you want to come to the première of a new film with me tomorrow night.”

  “Which one?”

  “No idea. My agent just thought it would be good for me to be seen at it.”

  What a Philistine, she thought. But a sexy one. “Yes, why not?”

  The première of Martin Scorsese’s latest film was the first of several high-profile dates between Faye and Nat who, thanks to the latter’s status, found themselves appearing in several newspapers diary columns over the next couple of months.

  For Faye, the media attention was a novelty, and she was under no illusion that anyone would be interested in her if she wasn’t hanging off Nat’s arm. But it certainly boosted her own career: the catalogue and magazine jobs flooded in. Most important, she’d got her eleventh-hour chance to do the shoot with the hugely influential Couture magazine, where she’d met Adam.

  The pattern of her and Nat’s dates was always the same: he’d send a car for her, they’d meet in the foyer of his flat, then walk round to whatever film première or launch party they were to attend that evening. Afterwards, they’d return to his flat for some mind-blowing sex. Occasionally, she’d stay all night, and a couple of times they had even strolled round to a local café for coffee and croissants while they read the papers in virtual silence.

  To her, the mundane things couples did together were as important as the exciting ones, if not more so. It was easy to get on with Nat while they were pitching up at crowded social events and drinking the free alcohol, but she knew the test would be a quiet country weekend with him, or staying in with a video.

  Outside the bedroom, she found him increasingly dull. His conversation rarely veered away from either himself or his beloved Fulham Football Club, and his interest in her life was microscopic. It was clear he’d got used to people making an effort for him because of his looks, but he rarely bothered to return the compliment.

  For a while it suited Faye that their “relationship” amounted to hanging out in noisy places, then returning home to exchange grunts in bed, but eventually, against her better judgment, she found herself wondering whether she could be the one to change him.

  Faye felt that one of womankind’s greatest weaknesses was the desire to be loved, irrespective of how suitable the man was. And, try though she might, she was no exception.

  Like everyone, she had her insecurities, which manifested themselves in a desire to be so witty, interesting, and different from all the others that no boyfriend could bear to be without her. A psychologist might say that this was rooted in having been abandoned by her father before she was born, but Faye had never booked a therapy session to find out.

  In a bid to put their relationship on a more normal footing, she’d invited Nat for dinner at a restaurant to meet Adam and he made it quite clear that the only reason he would come was her friend’s influential position at Couture.

  The evening had been an unmitigated disaster, particularly because Nat had turned up an hour and a half late. If Faye and Adam had planned to spend the evening on their own, they’d have enjoyed it, but as it was, they kept consulting their watches and glancing at the door every time it opened. Being late without calling was typical of someone so self-centered: Nat couldn’t make an impression with his personality, so he placed his own indelible stamp on the evening by keeping people waiting.

  “I hope he’s worth it when he gets here,” muttered Adam, starting on his second bread roll, “though if he’s like most male models I know, I doubt it.”

  Nat hadn’t bucked the trend and proved himself to be every bit as disappointing as Adam had thought. The icing on the cake was when he told a story about a gay male model and used the term “booty bandit.”

  Afterwards, two weeks passed in which Faye didn’t see or hear from him. Pride prevented her calling him, although on several occasions she had been just moments from doing so.

  She scoured the daily diary columns for any clues to his whereabouts, willing his absence to be attributed to a long modeling assignment abroad. Even then, she knew it would have been easy for him to call and let her know. Several times, she contemplated the idea that he might be unfaithful, but as they’d never really discussed the status or permanency of their relationship, she was unsure whether he even thought of her as a girlfriend.

  It was unusual for Faye to feel so emotionally wobbly, but she put it down to the uncertainty of the situation rather than any depth of feeling for Nat.

  As the silence edged into a third week, he called out of the blue to invite her to a launch party for the new album by the latest girl band, Minx. They followed their usual routine, and ended up at Nat’s flat where he made up for his lack of conversational skills with particularly passionate sex.

  Glancing through the papers, the next day, she saw that a picture of them arriving at the party had made Nigel Dempster in the Daily Mail as well as the Londoner’s Diary in the Evening Standard. Consequently another handful of modeling jobs came in via her agency.

  Soaking in the bath one night, whil
e her mother watched television downstairs, Faye mulled over her relationship with Nat. Although she wasn’t sure of the depth of its future, she felt optimistic enough to try to crank it up a notch. Perhaps I’ll suggest a weekend away, she mused, or maybe spend a Saturday and Sunday at his place and see how we get on.

  The next morning, she got up early and headed off to a catalogue shoot in north London, making a mental note to call him that evening.

  Grabbing a bite of lunch between outfits, she picked up a copy of that morning’s Standard. She took a bite of her brie and tomato baguette, and flicked idly through the pages, speed reading the headlines. As she turned to page twelve, a lump of bread stuck to the roof of her mouth and her jaw dropped.

  There, in front of her, was a picture of Nat arm in arm with a stunning redhead. The caption read; “Top male model Nat Finch out on the town last night with rising film star Jade Brogan.”

  And that was how she found out it was over between them.

  Friday, June 28

  3:10 p.m.

  Tony Hawkins stood in the reception area, studying the ornate ceiling, while an anxious Mark collected his room key from the desk.

  Tony hadn’t asked him to do it, but he had an air of authority that made others feel the urge to jump through hoops for him. From the Clint Eastwood less-is-more school of thought, he was proof that what you didn’t say proved more effective than what you did.

  A ruthless businessman, Tony had sat many times at a conference table saying nothing, merely raising an eyebrow here or pursing his lips there. His silence had troubled many into hastily offering more than they had intended in a deal, but it never bothered him. He could say nothing for as long as it took to get what he wanted.

  The heartfelt hug he’d just shared with Mark on the hotel steps had been the first in nearly two years, and Tony was surprised by the deep feeling it had stirred in him. He was very fond of his younger brother.

  Since he’d moved to New York, they’d kept in touch with occasional emails, but Mark had been so tied up with his new job that he’d resisted Tony’s offers to pay for him to visit. In his turn, Tony had been too busy in New York to come home.