She paused.
‘I’m just setting up my own business, actually. Personal health and fitness.’
It was economical with the truth. But it was still the truth.
‘That’s a growing market.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘And how’s it going?’
He looked into her eyes, and for a moment Sophie wondered if he was really asking about the business or about himself.
‘It’s early days yet,’ she grinned. ‘But I think it has potential.’
Just then the lights went down and Michael Bublé was frozen in a solitary spotlight. Everyone turned to look at him, holding their breath in anticipation, then the band kicked into ‘Haven’t Met You Yet’ and the dance floor erupted. Nick grabbed Sophie’s hand.
‘Come on, I like this song,’ he said, dragging her through the crowd.
‘No, Nick,’ she laughed. ‘I can’t dance, not in these shoes anyway.’
‘That’s okay, it’s up to the man to lead, right?’
He pulled her close and she felt his strong body against hers, then he spun her round and dipped her.
‘I feel like Fred Astaire,’ she giggled.
‘I think you mean Ginger Rogers,’ he replied.
She laughed.
‘That feels good.’
‘What?’
‘Laughing.’
‘And what about this?’
He pulled her closer, resting his hand on her bare back.
‘That’s pretty good too.’
‘You know, you do have very long eyelashes,’ he said, gazing into Sophie’s eyes.
‘And no one to bat them at.’
‘Not until now.’
Was he teasing her? Or was he really enjoying their time together as much as she was? Come on, Sophie, she said to herself, take it slow. She inhaled and let herself relax, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they swayed. She hoped Nick liked her. She’d been wary of men since Will had so unceremoniously dumped her. There had been no dates. No sex. She had trusted no one to get that close, expecting more disappointment. But this one seemed different.
The song ended and Nick whispered in her ear.
‘Shall we get out of here?’
She looked up at him.
‘Yes please,’ she said.
They walked down past the clipboard mermaids and up on to the concourse. Nick began to head across towards the taxi rank, but Sophie took his arm and steered him through the station’s ornate marble main entrance.
‘Let’s walk,’ she said.
It was a clear night and still warm; it seemed a shame to let the magic go so soon. They walked arm in arm on to Waterloo Bridge; the evening air was soft against her cheeks, and the light riverside breeze ruffled her dress.
‘Look at that,’ she said, nodding upstream towards the lit-up Houses of Parliament and the London Eye. ‘Best view in London.’
‘Damn.’ Nick whistled. ‘I see what you mean.’
They stood there, breathing in the night air, Sophie feeling his warm body against hers. She felt electrified by his presence and yet it felt so comfortable.
‘Why have I never noticed this before?’ said Nick quietly.
‘Men like you probably don’t go to Waterloo station very much.’
He smiled.
‘I guess not. So where are you taking me next?’
‘What do you want to see?’
‘Something British. Best London pub?’
‘It’s way past closing time,’ she said, glancing at Big Ben, whose black arms were both pointing up at midnight. ‘Besides, I’m not exactly dressed for it.’
She looked at him for a moment. ‘You really want to see London?’
‘Sure, but not the cheesy tourist version. Things only someone who lives here could tell me about.’
‘All right, but you can pay the fare,’ she said, putting her arm up to hail a taxi. ‘I’m going to take you on a tour of my favourite London places. Now pay attention, because I’ll be asking questions later.’
She pointed out Somerset House as they crossed the bridge, ‘the most romantic place to go ice-skating at Christmas’, then the old Strand ‘ghost station’ where they filmed movies, and the National Portrait Gallery, home to Sophie’s favourite painting, Branwell Bront?’s portrait of his sisters. They took a detour along Jermyn Street so Sophie could show Nick two of her favourite shops: a cheese vendor and a hat maker within twenty yards of each other.
‘Hey I love those hats the businessmen used to wear,’ said Nick enthusiastically. ‘What are they called again?’
‘Bowler hats. You should get one, it’d turn heads in Houston,’ she said.
Then she directed the cabbie down to the Mall, past the Palace – ‘We have to see Buck House, you are an American,’ she teased.
As they sat back in the cab, London was looking its most magical. The stateliness of the grand houses, the dark lure of the park, then an illuminated cavalcade of gleaming shop fronts, whirling traffic and the milky light from an almost full moon.
Finally they stopped at a late-night tapas bar in Belgravia Sophie had frequented in her Chelsea days and drank slightly rough red wine at a cramped corner table. But Sophie didn’t notice the surroundings, she was having too good a time. Nick was smart and charming and unlike so many men she had met in the upper echelons of society, keen to hear her opinions and stories. In between, he told her about his life, his comfortable childhood in ‘nowheresville’ River Oaks, his growing annoyance at having to spend half his year in the air and his deadline of forty when he wanted to give it all up. Sophie laughed at that one.
‘Men like you never want to give up. You all say you do, but you love it too much.’
‘It’s what we work our asses off for, to retire to the country with a couple of pigs and a chicken.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Sophie. ‘You’re in it for the competition. I saw it with my dad, with his friends and with my ex. After a certain level of salary, money becomes meaningless. You might as well pay guys in the City in coconuts – all they care about is being the guy who has the most coconuts at the end of the year.’
Nick laughed.
‘Maybe you’re right. And what’s your ambition, Sophie?’ he asked.
‘I always wanted to live in a castle. By the water, like the sea or a lake that turns pink in the sunset,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘Maybe I have a princess syndrome,’ she laughed.
The crowd in the bar had thinned and the waiters had started putting the chairs on the tables.
‘Well, I guess that’s our cue,’ said Sophie, standing up and feeling an ache of sadness that the evening was coming to an end.
‘So where do you live?’
‘Not far. Just off Brompton Road.’
‘Well in that case, how about I walk you home?’
She was about to complain that it was too far to walk, that her shoes were too high, but she didn’t want the night to end. At the back of her mind a little voice told her to beware; that this could be just a quick fling, a holiday romance, a one-night stand with a handsome stranger who would be back in Texas by the end of the week, but she could only throw caution to the soft, balmy evening wind.
They walked up towards Belgrave Square and cut across Sloane Street, Sophie still pointing out landmarks, like the flat John Barry had shared with Michael Caine where he had kept the actor awake composing ‘Goldfinger’. She felt light-headed, and when Nick took her hand in his, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to happen. She let it stay, enjoying the warm, firm clasp of his fingers. She caught herself and realised she was happy. It wasn’t an emotion she had felt in a long time. Her grief and anxiety about the future had blocked out the light, but tonight she realised that something simple like holding hands with a man you liked was enough to make life feel good again.
‘So what’s a girl like you doing being single?’ he asked her finally.
Sophie paused for a moment.
‘Who said I’m single?’ she chided.
She caught his look of disappointment and continued.
‘Yes – I’m single,’ she grinned. ‘And what about you, oil man? You must be what, thirty-two, thirty-three?’
‘Thirty-two actually. Hard work, it’s taking its toll.’
‘So how come you haven’t settled down with those pigs?’
He stole a sideways glance at her and sighed.
‘I’m not one of those commitment-shy guys you read about in women’s magazines. I guess I’ve just spent the last ten years working my butt off to make something of my life. Besides . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, I know this sounds conceited, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘But I guess it’s difficult finding someone who likes me for me.’
‘You mean the money?’
‘Exactly. I mean, there’s a lot of gold-diggers out there,’ he said frankly. ‘If I hadn’t met you at a fancy ten-thousand-bucks-a-plate dinner, if we’d bumped into each other ice-skating at Somerset House, I’d have pretended I was a waiter or a struggling poet with not a bean to his name.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. My dad had four wives, count ’em. Even my own mom, she squandered the family money, parties every weekend, keeping up with the Joneses, all that crap. It’s just nice to meet someone, you know, who’s successful in her own right.’
‘Listen, Nick,’ she began, but stopped herself. She wanted to tell him that her dress was borrowed, that she lived in a tiny flat in Battersea, that she didn’t have a penny. But what good would it do? And anyway, finally there it was, Lana’s huge white house looming up in front of them like a big full stop.
‘Well,’ said Sophie. ‘This is it, then.’
‘This is yours? Hey, not bad.’
Sophie felt a sinking feeling. She wanted to blurt out that she was only house-sitting, that she wasn’t a high-flying businesswoman, but he was so nice, why ruin a perfect evening? And he would probably never call again anyway.
‘It’s been a good night, Nick. Thanks.’
‘Maybe. But it could have been better.’
Her smile faltered.
‘How?’
‘We never did this.’
Nick stepped towards her, his hand touching the curve of her cheek, his lips on hers, soft and warm. Hers eyes closed as she savoured the taste of him, then all too soon it was over. She knew he was waiting for her to invite him inside. But she couldn’t. He would know in an instant that the house was not hers. The photographs of Lana and Simon. Her bedroom, still with that temporary vibe of a holidaymaker. Don’t break the spell, said a voice in her head. Keep it as a perfect memory.
‘Good night, Nick,’ she said.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, his disappointment evident.
‘Well, I thought you were going back to the desert.’
‘Not straight away.’ He smiled, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a red pigskin diary.
‘Here,’ he said, opening it and showing her the page for the next day. ‘You see that?’ He pointed to the blank space. ‘That’s for you. And the next day and the next.’ He looked at her, suddenly anxious. ‘If you want it, that is.’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie, and she stepped forward and kissed him again. ‘Yes I do. Very much.’