ANNE WEALE - Desert Honeymoon

‘Good afternoon.’ She always shook hands firmly but now put all her strength into returning his clasp to avoid having her knuckles ground together. But his handshake wasn’t the crushing grip she expected. Obviously he modified it when greeting women.

Then, instead of introducing her to the others, he said to the hovering young man, ‘We’ll go straight in and have our drinks at the table.’

Apart from one young couple so casually dressed that Nicole thought they had to be from the pop music world, or showbiz, the restaurant was empty.

‘What would you like to drink?’ her host asked, when they were seated.

Nicole’s mind went totally blank. Perhaps it was the result of tension, followed by relief that the other people weren’t with him, plus the jolt of attraction, but all the right answers deserted her.

‘As we’ll be drinking wine, let’s stay with the grape, shall we?’ Strathallen. suggested. ‘Two glasses of champagne, please.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

When the young man had gone, Strathallen said, ‘I arrived early and got into conversation with a couple of Americans. Nice people, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear all the details of their itinerary. I hope coming to London again hasn’t caused any problems with your present employer.’

‘No, my working hours are fairly flexible. With all the people I’ve worked for since leaving college, I’ve always tried to give maximum input—never just the minimum required—and that’s paid dividends. They’ve been understanding when I wanted to go on courses or take an extra day off.’

‘What sort of courses have you been on?’

‘Oh...time management...computer graphics skills...that kind of thing.’

The champagne arrived and with it two large folders containing the menus.

‘To an enjoyable lunch,’ said Strathallen, raising his glass to her before tasting the pale golden wine. ‘Let’s decide what to eat and then we can concentrate on other things.’ He replaced the flute on the table and began to study the menu.

Nicole tried to match his concentration, but it was making a good second impression on the man beside her that mattered more to her than the specialities of a chef who, according to her friend, had already been awarded two Michelin stars and was said to be sure to gain the coveted third star before too long.

When the maître d‘hôtel came to explain, in a pronounced French accent, some of the choices to her, she was conscious that, although he was very good-looking and charming, he didn’t, for her, have the disturbing qualities of the darkly bronzed Scot beside her.

At least she presumed from his surname that Strathallen’s roots were in Scotland even if, like so many of his countrymen, he chose to spend his life elsewhere.

After their food and wine had been ordered, on impulse she said, ‘Does your wife like living in India, Dr Strathallen?’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. There were no visible signs of his displeasure, but she couldn’t have felt it more strongly if he had glared at her. Perhaps he expected her to let him lead the conversation. Or perhaps he didn’t approve of being asked a personal question. For whatever reason, she sensed she had annoyed him.

‘I’m not married,’ he answered. And then: ‘My way of life and domesticity don’t mix. But why are you free of all attachments?’

The questionnaire she had filled in had required ‘divorced’ to be ticked if that was the applicant’s status. So he knew she had never been married. But searching as it had been, the inquisition hadn’t required her to state that she was a single parent. And she had no intention of revealing that fact to him now. Somehow she didn’t think he would be sympathetic. He might even consider that Dan’s existence disqualified her.

Some people wouldn’t understand how a loving mother could contemplate leaving her child, even though, hopefully, it wouldn’t be a long separation. Had Dan been younger, she wouldn’t have left him. But at this point in his life, the potential benefits outweighed the drawbacks. She would miss being with him a lot more than he would miss her.

Reminding herself that she hadn’t even got the job yet, and might never have it, Nicole said, ‘I loved someone when I was younger. Unfortunately it didn’t work out. Since then I’ve concentrated on my work. Perhaps I’ll meet someone else someday... but I’m not holding my breath,’ she tacked on lightly. ‘There are other things in life.’

‘Indeed there are—and food is one of them,’ he added, as two more of the restaurant’s staff arrived at their table, the one in the rear holding a large silver tray from which the other took a dish and placed it in front of Nicole.

She had chosen scallops as her first course. They came arranged in a circle surrounding a column of chicory. Earlier, a basket of long pointed brown rolls had been brought. As she broke hers in half and helped herself to butter, Nicole realised that she was hungrier than she had expected to be.

Usually, stress killed her appetite, and what could be more stressful than knowing that her future and Dan’s depended on convincing Alexander Strathallen that she was the best person for the job?

CHAPTER TWO

FOR some minutes they ate in silence.

Strathallen had already finished his glass of champagne and started drinking the wine he had chosen to go with the meal. Nicole still had some champagne left and planned to go easy on the wine which, judging by her glimpse of the label when the wine waiter had displayed it, was several cuts above the plonk she drank on evenings with her friends.

She liked to relax with a glass of wine when she got home from work. But her father wasn’t allowed to drink for health reasons and Rosemary was one of those non-drinkers who disapproved of alcohol as vehemently as reformed smokers disapprove of cigarettes.

She was the kind of woman who, if Nicole had kept wine in the sideboard in the dining room, would have watched to see how much she was drinking. So Nicole kept a bottle of supermarket plonk in a cupboard in her bedroom-cum-studio. The cupboard was locked because she knew Rosemary went in there while she was out. Keeping the bottle out of sight made her feel uncomfortable, but it was preferable to having Rosemary making critical remarks. She made enough of those as it was.

Closing her mind to thoughts of her stepmother, Nicole said, ‘My father is interested in anthropology. He remembered a talk you gave to the Royal Geographical Society. Perhaps it wasn’t reported accurately, but it gave the impression that you don’t think much of the way the western world operates.’

He put down his knife and fork, leaned back in his chair and gave her the penetrating look that made her feel he could see inside her mind. ‘I don’t. Do you?’

‘The west is the only culture I know.’

‘You must have opinions about it.’

She had hoped to start him talking about his views, not to cause him to quiz her about hers. ‘Of course... everyone has opinions, but they’re not always worth expressing. Mine certainly wouldn’t be worth a report in The Times as yours were.’

He shrugged. ‘They were probably short of copy for that particular issue. But we didn’t come here for me to expound my views. I want to know more about you. What do you do with yourself outside working hours?’

Most of Nicole’s spare time was spent with her son, but she couldn’t tell him that. She said, ‘I walk...I I read...I go swimming...I like to cook.’ Though, since Rosemary’s advent, her only chance to use the kitchen was when her father and stepmother went out to dinner with Rosemary’s circle of friends.

‘What sort of books do you read?’ Strathallen asked.