Louise Bentley is a feisty, wild, 'let's-go-to-Capri-for-the-weekend-yeah?' kind of girl. She spends her days working at a party-planning company. Oh, and she never wants kids. Ever.
Ben Langford is a studious, quiet, 'I'm-busy-reading' sort of man...
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Louise knocked on the door.
The Hotel du Vin was exactly what she'd expected: midnight blue sofas, luxury oak paneling, framed photos of Winston Churchill... A bellhop offered her a glass of champagne as she stopped by reception, and then she was whisked up to the penthouse, where she stood now, her feet sinking into the plush carpet.
She knocked again.
"It's open," a voice called.
Louise slipped through the door.
Jack Norberg was pacing in front of the large glass windows overlooking St Paul's cathedral; the white dome glistened like a pearl in the weak February sunshine. Jack paused as she entered. Turned to face the light.
Louise blinked.
The man she'd met in the King's Road café had been glossy, decked out in Tom Ford cologne and a shiny Rolex big enough to crush a small family of ants. This man stunk of week-old takeout, cigarettes, and booze.
"Hi," she said. "Thanks for seeing me."
"Thanks for coming," Jack said.
He tugged at his collar. Dropped his hand. Raised it again. His eyes were bloodshot, small rivers of red snaking through them, and his hand trembled as he gestured to a chair.
"Please," he said. "Take a seat."
Louise sat.
Jack poured a cup of tea, the milk splashing on the sideboard. Louise looked away and pretended not to see as he cursed, sponging at it with a serviette (recyclable, of course). He handed her the cup.
"I've oversteeped it," he said. "Sorry."
"It's alright."
Louise took a sip. Jack went back to pacing. There was something frantic about him, something unpredictable, like a jack-in-the-box winding up before it popped. She set down the tea, wincing as her bruised ribs twinged.
"So," she said. "I've spoken with Arabella."
Jack's rhythm faltered. "How is she?"
"Okay," Louise lied. "She's getting by." Arabella had, in fact, been crying into a box of chocolates when she called and bingeing a show about bullied children that found love through the power of equestrian riding, but she felt it was best not to mention this. "I'm not sure if you've spoken to her—"
"I haven't."
"Oh. Right." Louise took a sip. "Well, I can't get the entire deposit back on the venue, but I can get 80 per cent of it. The cake can be donated to a local children's shelter. Everything will be taken care of. I promise."
Jack ran a hand through his hair; it was speckled with salt at the temples. "And you've already made those calls, have you?"
