Текст книги "Eye Contact"

Автор книги: Fergus McNeill

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1. Severn Beach

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part 2. South Downs

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part 3. London

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the author

Fergus McNeill has been creating computer games since the early eighties, writing his first interactive fiction titles while still at school. Over the years he has designed, directed and illustrated games for all sorts of systems, including the BBC Micro, the Apple iPad, and almost everything in between. Now running an app development studio, Fergus lives in Hampshire with his wife and teenage son. Eye Contact is his first novel.

EYE CONTACT

Fergus McNeill

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton An Hachette UK company Copyright © Fergus McNeill 2012

The right of Fergus McNeill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 73963 3

Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 73961 9

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For Anna & Cameron

Always & Completely

He realised very early on that he’d have to set rules. Otherwise, there would be no structure, no real challenge . . . and what would be the point if there was no challenge? He wondered how many others might have walked this road before him, moving unseen through society, their actions sending out little ripples over the surface of the news, while they remained quietly anonymous, hidden in plain sight.

Little ripples.

He smiled at the thought. It was certainly harder to do now, so much more challenging than it would have been even twenty years ago – tougher surveillance, tougher forensics – but in many ways that was the appeal of it.

Little ripples.

He watched them spreading away into the twilight, glittering with reflected street lamps from across the otherwise calm water. He watched them fading as they expanded outwards, silent rings around the face-down figure, now so still after moments of such struggle. And then, like the last of the ripples, he was gone.

part 1

SEVERN BEACH

1

Wednesday, 2 May

Robert Naysmith peered thoughtfully at the typewritten menu in the window, then pushed open the door with his forearm, the sleeve of his jacket preventing any direct contact with the glass.

Old habits.

A little bell clinked above the doorway as he stepped inside, his polished shoes tapping quietly across the scrubbed wooden floor. Eight tables, neatly squeezed in, with linen tablecloths and flowers in slender vases, artistic photographs on the walls. But only one customer – an owlish old man lost in his newspaper, a half-empty mug at his elbow.

Naysmith walked over to the counter, his eyes on the woman with her back to him, studying the shape of her – those narrow shoulders, the straight brown hair – then calmly switched his gaze to the menu board as she started to turn round.

‘Can I help you?’

She had a soft voice, warm, with a slight West Country lilt. He allowed his eyes to drift back from the menu, as though he hadn’t been watching her before, his smile mirroring hers.

‘Are you still serving breakfast?’ he asked.

She glanced up at the wall clock, then looked back to him with a slight shake of her head.

‘We’re only supposed to do that till ten thirty . . .’

‘I understand,’ Naysmith sympathised. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble . . .’

He held her gaze, a hint of mischief in his unblinking eyes, until she smiled again and looked away.

‘Well,’ she admitted, pushing an errant strand of hair away from her face, ‘it’s not as though we’re busy. What was it you wanted?’

Naysmith turned to the menu board.

‘Eggs Benedict?’

‘I think we can do that for you.’ She called the order through to the kitchen.

‘Anything to drink?’

‘Black coffee, thanks.’

She turned and picked up an empty mug, while Naysmith reached for his wallet. She was wearing a blue sweater – plain, but just tight enough to show that she had a pleasing figure. Very little make-up, but that sort of sleepy beauty he’d always found rather appealing.

‘So is this your place?’ he asked. ‘Or are you a rebel employee who serves breakfast whenever the mood takes you?’

The woman laughed as she placed the mug under the coffee machine.

‘A bit of both,’ she replied. ‘I run it with my sister, so I suppose I can do whatever I like.’

‘Must be nice to be your own boss.’

She placed his coffee on the counter and took the money he offered.

‘Sometimes,’ she nodded as she turned to the till. ‘You get to meet some nice people.’

Naysmith smiled at her as she handed him his change.

‘Thanks.’ He remained at the counter, inhaling the steam rising from his coffee.

‘And you?’ the woman asked him after a moment. She had a wonderfully shy expression.

‘I’m just one of those nice people,’ he lied.

Naysmith had always liked Clifton. It was quite beautiful in parts, especially up near the suspension bridge. Leafy streets with grand old houses, narrow lanes that fell away down steep inclines, boutiques and cafés and the well-dressed people who frequented them. So different from the rest of Bristol – a little island of calm, looking out across the hazy urban sea below.

He stopped by a second-hand bookshop, smiling as he studied the sign taped to the door: Back in 10 mins. The ink was faded and some of the tape looked older – the shopkeeper was obviously out a lot – but somehow that made the place even more charming. Yellowing paperbacks were stacked high in the window, larger volumes propped up against them in a precariously balanced display. He thought about coming back to browse and checked his watch – quarter to twelve. The Merentha Group meeting wasn’t until three. Plenty of time if he did decide to return this way.

The smell of warm bread came to him from a bakery across the road but he continued up the hill, enjoying the sunshine and shop windows, happy to see where his feet would take him.

At first, it was just a flicker of an idea, a nagging feeling that he couldn’t quite recognise, but it grew stronger in his mind as he walked.

It had been months since his work had taken him to Bristol, and even longer since he’d been up here. There was something about this part of the city that drew him, and some good memories from a couple of summers back when he’d chanced to meet a particularly interesting woman in a tiny private gallery. They’d discovered a shared dislike for modernist sculpture – she’d joked that even bad art could bring people together. Absently, he wondered if she still lived in that same flat, the bedroom windows overlooking the Downs, but then quickly dismissed the idea.

That wasn’t the sort of encounter he was thinking about.

It had certainly been a while. And coming here today on business might be the perfect opportunity to find a new challenge. To find someone new.

He stopped outside an antiques shop, his gaze wandering across the tarnished medals, dusty uniforms and other militaria that would normally fascinate him. But not today. Instead he found himself staring at the reflection of the street behind him. The people walking by, unaware of his presence in their midst, or his scrutiny. It could be any one of them . . .

His own reflection smiled back at him – late thirties, tall and slim, well groomed, with short dark hair that showed no sign of thinning. Searching dark eyes surveyed his jacket and shirt, stylishly casual as befitted a successful sales director, but smart.

He realised now that he had been trying to distract himself all morning, but the restless excitement was growing, the sense of inevitability.

Wandering on in the direction of Clifton Down, he savoured that curious mix of anticipation and regret that always seemed to stir in him at this moment. A familiar feeling now.

He checked his watch again. Five to twelve. There was really no sense putting it off any longer. He’d already made the decision – had made it years ago – and he felt the cold thrill stirring in his stomach as he prepared himself to begin.

Okay.

The park lay in front of him. He would walk across it; all the way across. The first person to make eye contact after twelve o’clock would be the one.

He bowed his head for a moment, took a breath to calm himself and clear his thoughts, then set off.

It was a bright day, and the high, open parkland of Clifton Down stretched out around him, a swathe of green beneath a vast blue sky. Newly cut grass filled the air with a wonderful, fresh smell. The edges of the straight tarmac path were dotted with benches, all occupied, and the warm weather had even tempted people to sit out beneath the trees, though it was still quite early for lunch. He smiled again. What a glorious day for it.

A dour little man on one of the benches glanced up at him as he passed, a mean-spirited face scowling behind a tightly held sandwich, clearly unhappy at the thought of sharing anything, especially his seat. Naysmith checked his watch – 11.58. A pity, but it encouraged him to think that he might find someone suitable, someone deserving. He walked on.

This was always such an exciting part of the game. So much of it was down to skill and strategy, but here, at the outset, he would give up the control and surrender himself to fate. It could be anyone, and therein lay the real challenge.

Anyone.

This was the random factor that made the game real, that made the skill and the strategy meaningful. There were rules, of course – the twenty-four-hour head start, only pursuing one target at a time, and so on – all carefully considered to make the whole thing more interesting. But without a genuine element of chance what would be the point in playing?

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell was chiming.

Noon.

Though it might be tempting to loop back round and find the man with the sandwich, he knew that would be cheating. He had to do it properly – continue walking all the way across the park before he could turn back.

There were people on the path ahead of him. A young man came first, Chinese by the look of him, a little under six foot tall, spiked hair, slight build, listening to his iPod. Clean, white trainers. His clothes seemed too good for a student but he couldn’t have been older than early twenties. They drew closer, until Naysmith could hear the tinny beat from his earphones . . . but he passed by without ever looking up.

A moment later, a heavy-set woman in her fifties – somebody’s aunt. Greying hair, floral-print top, expensive bag. She had an aura of disapproval about her, steering herself towards the edge of the path as they came near each other and carefully avoiding his eye – her type often did. On another day, he might have felt a slight twinge of offence at this deliberate evasion, so determinedly keeping herself to herself – after all, there was nothing about him or his manner that anyone should find threatening. And yet, today, she was quite right.

Next were two younger women sitting on a bench – late twenties or early thirties, one fair-haired, the other a redhead. Both were smartly dressed, midday fugitives from an office perhaps. They were talking as he approached, catching up on gossip before they had to return to work. The redhead had her back to him as he approached, but her friend looked up as he passed, her eyes flickering to his for just a second before she continued her conversation.

She would be the one.

And now his pace faltered just a little as he bent his whole attention to her, taking in each detail, remembering, fixing her in his mind.

She looked to be of average height – hard to say while she was seated – with a relatively slim, athletic figure. Her grey trouser suit was presentable, if not flattering, and there was no ring on the hand that held her Starbucks cup.

He took another step . . .

Shoulder-length hair, straight, with cheap plastic clips to keep it out of her face, mousy with fading blonde highlights.

. . . another step . . .

Pale skin, delicate chin, high cheekbones, small nose, not too much make-up, pierced ears with small lobes. He burned her mouth shape into his mind, the slightly too pronounced pout of her lips, then gave the last seconds over to her eyes – pale grey-green with nice lashes.

And then he was past her. A fleeting moment, but that was all it took.

He never forgot a face.

One more glance at the watch – it was 12.07. She had twenty-four hours’ grace, and he had a meeting at three. Grinning cheerfully, he turned off the path and headed back towards the city centre.

Naysmith slept late next morning, and the hotel reception was busy with guests checking out when he came downstairs to catch the end of the breakfast sitting. He chose a table near the window and a nod summoned the attentive young waiter, who was immediately sent for coffee. The breakfast menu held no surprises, and Naysmith was already checking emails on his phone when the coffee pot was placed before him.

He ordered without looking up and finished tapping out a short reply to one of his subordinates. The dining room was almost empty now, just him and a few other late-risers – an overweight businessman tackling bacon and eggs, and an older couple looking around the room as they quietly ate their toast.

He poured himself some coffee and raised the cup to his nose, savouring the aroma before taking a sip. Heaven.

The place looked different this morning, sunlight from the windows infusing everything with a golden glow. He’d done his entertaining on the other side of the room last night.

The Merentha Group meeting had gone even better than expected. Jakob Nilsson, their dealmaker, was a large, friendly Norwegian with a vigorous handshake and a booming laugh – heftier and a little older than he’d sounded on the phone. He’d been refreshingly sensible about the numbers and they’d managed to agree terms there and then in his office. He wore a very good suit and Naysmith had taken to him almost at once.

Jakob’s colleague, Michaela, had turned out to be both intelligent and attractive in an understated way, with shoulder-length auburn hair, a guarded smile and dark, lingering eyes. She dressed with a classical elegance – black jacket, nicely tailored, with a simple cream blouse, and the confidence to wear a skirt. There was a quiet calm about the way she discussed their delivery requirements that he found oddly appealing, and he’d invited them both out for a drink. They’d started at a nearby bar on the waterfront.

‘So tell me,’ Jakob gestured towards him with his glass, ‘how did you come to be with Winterhill?’

Naysmith leaned back in his chair.

‘I like a challenge,’ he replied, allowing his eyes to engage Michaela’s for a moment, then returning to Jakob. ‘Winterhill gave me the opportunity to build my own department from the ground up, to run things the way I want.’

‘They are good to work for?’

‘Very.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘I usually do one day a week in the Woking office, but the rest of my time is flexible. I work the hours I need to and, so long as I keep delivering the numbers, the directors are happy.’

‘I read that you recently expanded into Germany?’ Michaela had the faintest hint of a Welsh accent when she spoke. ‘Business must be good.’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ he nodded. ‘Germany’s our second-largest market and one of our resellers was based in Hamburg. It made sense to acquire them, bring their expertise in-house. It also eases the workload for my UK team, who were getting quite stretched. I just wish more of our clients were like you – it usually takes a lot more than one meeting to get a deal memo.’

‘Ah, but we know what we want.’ Jakob laughed.

Naysmith smiled at Michaela.

‘So do I.’

By 7 p.m. it was clear that nobody was in a hurry to go home, so Naysmith suggested they all eat at a nearby hotel. He remembered the restaurant there as being rather good, and there was a comfortable lounge as well. He could get a room – that would save him the misery of the slow evening train home, and it would afford him a legitimate excuse to spend the night and be in Bristol the next day.

Dinner was surprisingly enjoyable. Naysmith had known some very dreary Scandinavians, but Jakob was well travelled and Michaela added some welcome chemistry to their talk. At first, he had wondered if Jakob was fucking her – there did seem to be a faint spark between them – but as the meal progressed he had revised his opinion. The big Norwegian was keen on her, and she enjoyed the attention, but that was as far as they had gone, or seemed able to go.

Conversation drifted easily from business to pleasure as they ate.

‘Oh, I wish I’d known.’ Michaela brightened as they discussed music. ‘There’s a place on King Street that has great live jazz most evenings.’

Naysmith shrugged. ‘Next time I have an evening in Bristol . . .’

‘Absolutely.’ She smiled.

It was perfect. He’d never have risked a deal like this over a woman – if she and Jakob had been an item, he’d have kept his distance. As it was, though, he had a pleasing evening, asking her lots of open questions, carefully empathising, and verbally fencing with Jakob over her, letting everyone enjoy the agreeable tingle of flirtation in their talk.

It was almost ten when Jakob went to retrieve his jacket from the cloakroom. Sitting with Michaela, Naysmith casually reached into his pocket and stole a glance at her business card. There were three telephone numbers on it. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them.

‘This is your mobile number?’ he asked her, indicating the card.

‘Yes.’ She answered quietly, without looking at it, allowing him to hold her gaze far too long.

It was so tempting, to put his hand over hers, to ask her back for a drink in his room, but he reluctantly decided against it. She had something special about her, something that he didn’t want to rush. He could imagine slow summer afternoons with her, seeing her shy smile when she woke next to him, someone he might actually enjoy listening to.

‘I’ll hold you to that promise . . .’ he pointedly placed her card in his pocket, then smiled, ‘. . . next time I have an evening here.’

And then Jakob had returned and the moment passed, with just a hint of regret in her eyes to assure him that he was right.

She was something to look forward to when he had more time . . .

He savoured that thought as his breakfast arrived.

2

Thursday, 3 May

Naysmith called the office later on that morning and caught up on some emails before checking out of the hotel just before eleven. It wouldn’t do to be early, but he was eager to be back up at Clifton Down by noon.

He told the taxi to drop him at Sion Hill, a little over a mile away from the park – intentionally distant. It was better to be careful even at this early stage, and he had plenty of time. He took a few minutes to walk out onto the Clifton suspension bridge, stopping at the halfway point, alone, far above the Avon Gorge with its ribbon of silvery water and its tiny cars hurrying along below. He looked south across the city, out to the pale horizon beyond, then closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze, the tremendous sensation of height, like standing in the sky.

There was nothing he couldn’t do.

A narrow footpath wound its way up to an open expanse of grass, scattered with benches where people could sit and take in the view of the bridge. An enthusiastic young Labrador came bounding towards him as he crested the hilltop and he stooped to make a fuss over it as its owner, a large woman in her forties, hurried forward, vainly calling, ‘Sammy. Sammy!’

‘I don’t think he heard you.’ Naysmith grinned, rubbing the dog behind its ears.

The woman shook her head, catching her breath. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be, it’s fine,’ he laughed. ‘Are you all right, though? Looks like he’s been giving you quite a workout.’

‘I never thought having a dog could be so exhausting.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It’s worse than going to the gym.’

‘Better company though.’ He gave the dog a friendly pat and stood up. ‘You wouldn’t have the right time, would you?’

The woman quickly frowned at her watch. ‘Twenty to twelve.’

‘I’d better get along.’ Naysmith smiled. ‘There’s someone I have to catch up with.’

The footpath led down through a stand of overhanging trees, then out to the main road. He crossed over and walked up a long hill, admiring the tall houses that looked out over the park.

Somewhere, a bell chimed noon. Seven minutes to go and her twenty-four hours would be up. He gave them all this grace period, a head start, so they had the chance to disappear before he came looking. She could be anywhere now, but that just made the challenge more interesting. And of course, she didn’t know he was coming.

At the top of the hill, the road bent round to the right and he followed it, measuring his pace, resisting the temptation to hurry.

A buzzing in his pocket slowed him and he cursed under his breath. Taking his phone from his jacket, he looked at the name on the screen, sighed, and diverted the call. Not now.

Switching off his phone, he cleared his mind of everything but her, summoning her face from his memory, recalling her eyes, the small nose and straight, shoulder-length hair. A sense of calm spread through him as he focused on her image.

He was just a couple of hundred yards from the corner of Stoke Road. It was 12.06, but he waited, willing the second hand on his watch to crawl right round to the top before he looked up.

12.07 – and the game was on!

Quickly, his eyes swept the park, studying the various distant figures for anyone that might possibly be her. He crossed the road but ignored the path, cutting straight across the grass in the direction of the bench where she’d been twenty-four hours before.

Picture her now, slim figure, about five foot six, mousy blonde . . .

He moved purposefully towards the middle of the park, his gaze flickering left and right – it was vital that he saw her before she saw him – but there was no sign of her as he drew near the bench and found it deserted. He paused for a moment, then sat down where she had sat, placing his palms flat on the rough grey wood of the seat and leaning back.

It would have been her lunch hour. He turned his head, looking out over the park stretching away into the distance, then considered the buildings to his left, the shops and offices he’d passed on his walk yesterday.

Thoughtfully, he stood up and started back along the tarmac path, retracing his route from the day before. Still alert, he scrutinised every approaching figure, but the sky was overcast now and it was colder – the park was quiet today.

He reached the road and waited at the busy junction until he could cross over, his eyes drawn to the crescent of four-storey buildings that curved down to Whiteladies Road ahead of him. A bridal store, sports shop, Indian restaurant . . .

Picture her now. Smart grey trouser suit.

His eyes drifted up to the second-and third-storey windows. Some had net curtains – obviously flats – but as he walked down the hill he began to see more with vertical blinds, sterile fluorescent lights and stencilled business names.

She worked in an office.

He drifted slowly down the road, relaxed but watchful, stopping now and then to peer through the windows of cafés and sandwich shops – anywhere that workers might visit on an overcast lunchtime. His gaze flitted around the people on the street, resting longer on anyone slim, anyone about five foot six, anyone with mousy hair . . .

By 1 p.m., he began to sense that he’d missed his chance. Her lunch hour would be over and she’d be back at work. He looked up and down the road, lined on both sides with offices. There was no way of knowing which one she was in, or even if this was the right place to search. It was a daunting challenge, but he found the prospect pleasing.

Tired of walking up and down past the same shops, he turned his back on the park and followed the road as it sloped down in the general direction of the city centre. He decided to look in on the second-hand bookshop he’d passed the day before and see if it was open. Crossing the street, he continued to watch the people around him, just in case . . .

Two young women were walking up the hill towards him, deep in conversation. Both were casually dressed – one with short blonde hair, faded jeans and a tight green sweater, the other looked Asian with a tan suede jacket and dark trousers. He knew immediately that neither of them was his target, but the Asian girl was rather attractive and held his attention as she came closer, long dark hair swaying as she walked. As they drew level, she placed her hand on her friend’s arm and whispered something, almost spilling her companion’s coffee as they both giggled. She had a nice smile, but as they passed Naysmith stopped short.

Sitting on that bench in the park, average height, slim athletic figure . . .

He frowned, concentrating on the image in his mind.

. . . grey trouser suit, no ring . . .

The two women passed by, oblivious.

. . . and what was she holding?

‘Excuse me?’ Naysmith called after the two women, who turned and regarded him with puzzlement.

‘Sorry to bother you.’ He offered a wry grin, then pointed at the coffee cup in the blonde’s hand. ‘Just wondering if you could tell me where Starbucks is?’

The Asian girl pointed back down the hill. ‘Just keep going down there and you’ll see it on the right.’

‘Next to the station,’ her friend added.

The entrance to Clifton Down station was only a couple of minutes’ walk down Whiteladies Road, and just beyond it Naysmith found Starbucks. He went in and ordered a coffee. Standing at the counter, he casually glanced around the tables, but he knew she wouldn’t be there. Not now. Not today.

And yet she had bought a coffee from here, then walked up to the park with it – walked that same road he’d just been on.

He was getting warmer.

He folded his newspaper and looked out of the window as the train pulled into Salisbury. Getting to his feet, he stretched, then joined the other passengers already huddled around the door, waiting for it to open.

He walked quickly, deftly negotiating the obstacle course of people and luggage to ensure he got a taxi. Instructing the driver in a tone that didn’t invite further conversation, he slammed the door and sank back into his seat. The traffic was still slow with the tail end of the rush hour, but they soon broke free of the town. Gazing out at the familiar trees and hedgerows, he distracted himself by calculating his commission on the Merentha deal, and planning what he might do with the money. In the window, his reflection smiled back at him.

He watched the taxi turn and head off back through the village, then made his way to the white front door and, taking a key from his pocket, let himself in.

‘Rob?’ a woman’s voice called down from upstairs as the door slammed. ‘Is that you?’

‘It’s me,’ he replied, putting his phone and keys on the table. ‘Kim, come down for a minute.’

Kim appeared at the corner of the stairwell, looking at him with a slight frown. Five foot six, with a youthful grace that belied her twenty-eight years . . . and there was something very arousing about her when she was cross.

‘I called you today, just before lunch,’ she began, toying with her shoulder-length dark hair, ‘and you “busied” me.’

‘I was with a client,’ he sighed. ‘Come on, you know how it is.’

‘You never called me back.’ Her large hazel eyes studied him accusingly from across the room. She was wearing a simple white top and jeans that accentuated her narrow waist and small, slender frame.

‘Ah.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘That’s because I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.’

She walked slowly over to him, more intrigued than suspicious now. ‘What surprise?’

‘Well, I had some good luck in Bristol,’ he smiled. Taking her hand, he pulled her close, enjoying the feel of her against him. She didn’t resist.

‘Your meetings went well?’

‘Very well,’ he murmured, leaning forward to smell her hair.

‘Don’t tease,’ she scolded him. ‘What surprise?’

‘All right,’ he laughed. ‘I got the deal – the whole thing – and it’s going to mean a really good bonus. I thought we might have a long weekend in Rome—’

‘Oh Rob, that’s perfect!’ She hugged him excitedly, then left her arms around his neck as she gazed up at him. ‘Sorry . . . you know, if I was a bit moody . . .’

‘Forget it.’ He smiled. ‘Now, run upstairs and put something else on – I’m taking you out to dinner.’

‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘Do you want to come and help me choose what to wear?’

He looked at her for a long, lingering moment.

‘Tempting,’ he said slowly. ‘But if I have to watch you getting dressed, you know what’ll happen.’

She turned and gave him a coy look. ‘I don’t mind . . .’

‘I know,’ he nodded, ‘but first I’m taking you for a meal at Mirabelle’s.’

He watched her obediently skipping up the stairs, and sighed quietly. At moments like this, he was genuinely fond of her.