‘Bad form,’ said Imogen, as she turned her back to him and squeezed between him and the car. She flattened her bag against her flat stomach. Her bottom brushed his. Ugh. She didn’t particularly enjoy bumping bums with strangers. Not even at nights in salsa clubs.
‘Apologies,’ said a low, distinctly American voice. It didn’t come from the man standing at the cashpoint; it came from the half-open, tinted window in front of her. Imogen stopped and peered in. A whiff of expensive leather upholstery went up her nose. It was the first thing she noticed. She was attuned to luxury; the leather was a very expensive-looking soft honey beige. The second thing she noticed was a man leaning confidentially against the honey leather. Dark suit and royal blue tie. Salt and pepper hair. Large nose. Twinkling blue eyes that over-rode it. Dazzling, sexy eyes, in fact. Overall effect: bloody handsome.
At the sight of Imogen’s face, he grinned. She restrained a grin at the sight of his, although other parts of her body were simultaneously breaking into smiles.
‘Tosser,’ she said. And she averted her eyes and strode forward, releasing her body from the unwelcome compress of the older man’s bum.
As she reached the boot of the car (it was a quite a long car – very flash), the man’s voice came through the window again. Louder this time.
‘I’m Richard. Pleased to meet you.’
She stopped, turned and stuck her head back through the window. It had now been wound down almost to the bottom.
‘You’re a Dick?’
‘Ha, you’re quick. No, I’m Richard.’
‘Dick,’ said Imogen, choosing to ignore him. ‘There’s quite a few famous dicks. Dick Turpin… Dick Emery… Dick for Brains,’ she said. ‘Actually, I couldn’t care less what your name is. You shouldn’t park here. You’re causing an obstruction.’
He grinned again, and shrugged. Nice tie, she thought. He really was very well groomed and smart. His shirt so white, his suit so immaculate. He would have been just her type, before the Man Ban. ‘London’s rammed today,’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere to park. I just took my chance. I won’t be here long.’
‘I hope that’s true.’ She gave him her best withering look. ‘Then you can bugger off back to America. I’m sure New York is desperate to have you back.’
‘How do you know I’m from New York?’
‘I know the type.’
‘Oh, really?’ He raised his eyebrows and gave a slow smile.
‘Yeah, really. Right, well I’m buggering off now. See you.’ But it was hard to tear her eyes off his. They were amused, mocking, enticing. Above that big old nose. It was a strange but highly sexy juxtaposition. She felt rooted to the spot. She didn’t want to go.
‘Have dinner with me.’
‘Do what?’
‘Dinner. I heard there’s a joint called Nobu. I’d like to go.’
‘Oh, I’ve already been, thanks. Loads of times.’
‘Come again? With me?’
How bloody forward! Typical American. What a cheek. Still. Despite the pact with Frankie and Grace, despite the fact she was supposed to be single for a year – and had been enjoying it – she was tempted. She loved the food at Nobu, this man looked hot and sexy and she was celebrating a new job, wasn’t she? A few months ago she would have jumped at the chance of this irresistible combination. A few months ago even just one of these things would have had her jumping up and down and saying ‘yes’.
Resist, resist, she told herself sternly. Just say no. You’re off men. They’re useless, hopeless wastes of space. The road to nowhere. The road to ruin. Damn. If only they weren’t. If only there was still the slightest glimmer of hope that one, just one of them, would be perfect. What if this man was that man? What if she let him go and he was someone worth hanging on to?
There wouldn’t be any harm in going for dinner with him, would there? It was just a little dinner. And a girl’s got to eat. She’d gone out with men on less of a pretext: because the guy had Gucci shoes; because she’d stalked the bloke on LinkedIn then hung around the pub in the city nearest his work for an hour, until he’d come in; because it was a Tuesday… Okay, no pretexts at all; she’d just wanted to date them. Yet, none of those guys had worked out well at all. They never did. Actually, maybe this man could serve as a reinforcement of her new ideology, a final underlining of what she now believed…
Damn him and his sexy big nose and sexy blue eyes!
She didn’t have to tell anyone.
‘You know there are actually two Nobus?’
‘Yes. Park Lane and Mayfair. I’m thinking Park Lane.’
‘I was on my way to have dim sum, actually,’ she said. Good. Excellent. Go for dinner with him, but on your terms. Take control. ‘That’s what I fancy.’ It wasn’t the only thing.
‘I can do dim sum.’
God, that accent was intoxicating, thought Imogen. She’d had a couple of Americans. A Texan living in London who she’d dated for two weeks – it had all ended when he suggested a three way, with a blow-up doll – and a super arty Californian art dealer, who she’d thought would be super interesting, but had turned out to be super dull. He never ate after 6p.m. and didn’t drink alcohol. She’d been taken in by that accent before and it had never worked out. She feared she remained a sucker for it.
‘On the other hand,’ she pretended to hesitate, ‘I could just as easily go home to a ready meal for one and a date with MasterChef.’
‘I have no idea what either of those things are,’ said Richard, laughing. And what a laugh. Sexiest laugh she’d ever heard. ‘Look, we’ll go for dim sum. I’ll get Nigel to phone ahead.’ Nigel, the man at the cashpoint, was now back in the driver’s seat and twiddling with the radio.
‘You don’t book dim sum,’ said Imogen. ‘You just turn up.’
‘Whatever,’ said the most gorgeous man on earth. ‘Hop in.’
He swung open the door, took off his seat belt and eased along the back seat to the far side. An action that made her focus on his thighs. Lord, they looked firm under his suit trousers. She could see his shoes, too. Black and just the right kind of shiny. Shoes maketh the man, everyone knew that. She had dumped a man or two for bad taste in shoes. Had once actually fled a bar before approaching her date because his roosted position on a stool had exposed a pair of perforated lemon suede loafers.
This American’s shoes were nice. She bet he had very expensive socks, too, and that his feet never smelled. Oh bugger it, no one needed to know. And it would be rude not to, really, now he had moved across to make room for her.
She got in before she changed her mind. Nigel was suddenly at the door and shut it for her. The car smelt wonderful. That leather, and an expensive-smelling New York male cologne. Wow. She was like a fly in a very luxurious honey trap.
She had a moment of panic. She was safe, wasn’t she? Nigel was here. He looked a bit like her next-door neighbour, Mr Roper, the one who mowed his lawn at ten o’clock at night in the summer. He didn’t look like the sort of man who would suddenly and dramatically lock all the doors, wind up all the windows and speed off to some deserted industrial estate somewhere, whilst Richard’s face turned black as night and his lips twisted into a maniacal grin as he reached for a knife from the side car door pocket… She was safe; she was sure of it. Somehow.
The doors didn’t lock and they moved slowly off into the London afternoon traffic. Nigel sang softly along to Bruce Springsteen, on the radio. Richard smiled at her, his eyes all blue and sultry. She now felt panic of a different kind. What the hell was she doing? She was reverting to type again, wasn’t she? This was exactly the type of man she was supposed to be avoiding! Rich, powerful, impossibly groomed, charming, persuasive. The type of man she’d swerved when she’d lowered her sights to Dave Holgate. She was supposed to be avoiding all men, and had been, quite successfully, up until all of three minutes ago. What was she thinking, getting into a handsome stranger’s car?
She had form for it. Being reckless. There was the life insurance
guy who’d come into her office for a meeting with her boss and left with an afternoon rummage; the ridiculously rich guy she’d met by email and slept with on a houseboat after a night at the opera; the blind date she’d jumped on the Orient Express with… The only men she wasn’t reckless with were actors. She never dated actors. Not after The Blip.
She was always reckless with this sort of guy. Get a grip, she thought. This wasn’t Mr Big! There weren’t balloons in the back of the car! She wasn’t going to have an on-off relationship with this man for ten years and end up married to him and living in an amazing apartment overlooking Central Park.
As the car was now in stationary traffic, she reached for the handle. She feared not for her life, but for her sanity. She didn’t want to be doing this, after all.
‘I’m not a serial killer, honest,’ said Richard. ‘I work for Universal Re.’ He reached into the silky inside pocket of his jacket, and handed her a card.
She glanced briefly at it then passed it back to him. ‘American Psycho worked for a swanky bank. You could still be a serial killer.’
‘Pierce and Pierce.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That was the name of Patrick Bateman’s company in American Psycho. It was fictitious. Made up. And his company was investment; mine is re-insurance.’
‘Re-insurance? Isn’t insurance boring enough the first time around? And I know what fictitious means. We invented the English language, remember.’
Richard nodded, smiling, his eyebrows slightly raised and teasing.
‘You seem to know a lot about American Psycho,’ she said. ‘That’s suspicious in itself. You know what suspicious means, right?’
‘Ha ha, touché!’ Richard’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. He had very attractive lines. How old was he? Late forties? How annoying it was that lines could look extremely sexy on a man’s face but never a woman’s. ‘I’ve seen the movie, that’s all. Look, I’m not a serial killer. Call one of my colleagues if you want to. I’m here in London for six months. Working at the Gherkin.’ He went to pull his card out of his pocket again.
‘No, it’s okay.’
‘Good. It’s all fine and dandy then.’ He leant back, relaxed. He was a big man. Not fat big. Broad big. She imagined serious pecs and huge ‘guns’ under that crisp white shirt. She envisaged strong, hairy legs and sexy feet and toes. She pulled her eyes away from him and tried to be interested in what was going on outside the window, which was difficult, as all she could see was a static and traffic-blackened brick wall. The car was still not moving. It would have been much quicker to walk.
‘I’m someone who takes chances,’ Richard said, behind her head. ‘And I like the look of you and hopefully you like the look of me.’ She turned back from the window. Locked her eyes onto his. Oh sod it, he was gorgeous, why not just enjoy the fact? ‘So we’ll go have a little dinner. That’s how it works, isn’t it? People who like the look of each other go out on dates. I’m sure dating in London is not so different to New York.’
‘Do women jump into the back seats of cars with strange men in New York?’ she asked. ‘Okay, don’t answer that! We’re a bit more cautious here. Have you been to London before?’
‘Nope, first time. But I know all about the well-documented British reserve,’ he said. ‘The renowned stiff upper lip. Never let your guard down, don’t show emotion and when the going gets tough drink a nice cup of tea.’
‘Stiff upper lips and cups of tea served us well through two world wars, I’ll have you know.’ I’ll have you know? Who was she, her dear departed nan? And what was she going on about? Soon she’d be prattling on about Eccles cakes and ration books. ‘Which we won,’ she couldn’t help but adding, unnecessarily.
She really didn’t want to get onto this. Did they really want to get into a discussion about GIs and Winston Churchill and all that standing shoulder to shoulder business? Although she wouldn’t mind standing shoulder to shoulder with this man, or indeed putting any part of her body against his.
She sighed. Did he have to mention tea and British reserve? He was so fabulously amazing, she hoped he didn’t turn out to be awfully disappointing – one of those Americans who laughed at all the stereotypical things that British people supposedly did, and bought Union Jack tea cosies thinking they were beanie hats and went around saying how quaint everything was. Surely, he wasn’t like that?
He was laughing. ‘I’m teasing,’ he said. ‘I know you Brits hate it when we Yanks – I’m kidding, we hate that, too – start going on about English clichés and putting on terrible accents that make us sound like Bert from Mary Poppins.’ He smirked and gave a slight wink. ‘I’ve never seen an upper lip here that was particularly stiff, and all the guys in my office drink coffee. It’s the only thing that keeps them awake for all that boring insurance.’
Now it was Imogen’s turn to laugh, but her laugh quickly faded away when she realised Richard was staring quite intently at her mouth. Was he looking at her lips, her upper lip? She had an urge to not be bloody reserved in the slightest and kiss him right there and then, in the back of his car.
She moved her head out of his laser stare and sat back, aware she’d been perched forward since she’d got into the car, like a budgerigar. She had a proper look around her. She was half expecting a drinks cabinet thing to automatically open up from somewhere, James Bond style, or a glass screen to pop up between them and Nigel, trapping her in the back seat and leaving her to the mercy of Richard. She quite liked the idea of that, to be honest, which was ridiculous, as five minutes ago she’d been terrified at the very thought.
‘So what do you do?’ he asked. Now it was her turn to study his mouth. She noticed his teeth. Super white. Nice. His lips were on the thin side, but curved upwards at the corner, like a fox’s. Tasty.
‘I’m an agent.’ Yes, she was. She was an agent, again. Hoo bloody ray.
‘CIA? Federal?’
‘Ha, funny. No we don’t have silly things like that in this country, as you probably know. We just have the police. Oh, and MI5, though I’m still not exactly sure what they do.’
‘Literary?’ He gave the word four full syllables. It sounded sexy.
‘No, acting. I’m an actors’ agent.’
‘Movies?’
‘Television. Mostly.’
‘Cool job.’
‘Yup.’
‘I bet you’re damn good at it.’
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’
‘English rose,’ he said, smoothing his tie. Oh God, don’t look at his hands, she thought: if he’s got nice hands as well, you’ll be powerless. She was a stickler for a man’s hands. And if they pleased her, she knew that they would please her. Neat clean nails, large, firm-looking hands, just the right slight smattering of hair on the backs – and she was a goner. Richard’s hands were perfect. She got tingles in parts of her body she’d rather not mention.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m afraid I’m wandering down stereotype alley here, after all, but you’re one of those English roses, aren’t you? Winslet, Thompson, Pike. Is your name Rosamund or Abigail or Imogen?’
‘Actually, it is. It’s Imogen. Imogen Henderson.’
‘Bingo!’ said Richard, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. He looked like a small boy who’d found a nickel on the sidewalk. (Imogen congratulated herself on her American analogy.)
‘Very lucky,’ said Imogen. ‘Aren’t English roses supposed to be blonde, though?’
‘I think so, officially. But I’d like to expand on that. I’d like to expand that to gorgeous brunettes with sparkling green eyes and a knock-out pair of legs.’
Imogen blushed, conforming to the stereotype after all. An English rose, eh? She’d never been referred to one of those before. And she wondered if she was too old to strictly qualify for one. No matter, she could go with it.
‘You know your British actresses,’ she said, trying to deflect the attention elsewhere.
‘I’ve watched a l
ot of British movies.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said. ‘Let me guess. Notting Hill, Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually?’ The usuals.
‘Yes, those. But quite a few others, too. I’ve seen a lot of British films. From all the eras. Ealing comedies, Powell and Pressburger, kitchen sink dramas. Kes. Even the odd Carry On. Ooh matron,’ he said, in cod Kenneth Williams. Imogen laughed. He actually made Kenneth Williams sound sexy. ‘I like British movies. My favourites are Trainspotting, Shallow Grave, The Full Monty. The 90s is my era.’
‘Oh me too,’ said Imogen. ‘Especially for music. Blur, Oasis –’
‘– James, Suede, Elastica,’ he added. He knew his stuff. ‘Sleeper, The Stone Roses, Dodgy…’
‘Dodgy! There’s a blast from the past! Fabulous.’
They grinned at each other. Wow. He liked British films and knew his Britpop. Impressive.
‘What’s your favourite Blur song?’ she asked.
‘“The Universal.”’
‘Mine too,’ she said. Now she was more than impressed.
They both paused. Looked at each other. The pause was kind of electrifying. She needed to break it as it was almost unbearable.
‘I like a lot of American movies, from the 90s,’ she said. ‘Goodfellas. That’s my favourite movie of all time. The long shot, going into the Copacabana club, just genius.’
Richard nodded. ‘Yes, I know it. Ray Liotta and Lorraine Bracco.’ Now he looked impressed. She started to show off.
‘I met Paul Sorvino, once,’ she said, ‘in the 90s. He was Paulie, in Goodfellas. I met him at a party.’
‘Cool. Cool guy. I’m in awe of you already, Imogen.’
‘Are you, Richard?’ She was flirting now and she knew it. The conversation had got…exciting. Movies, music…they were on the same wavelength. She wondered what other areas they might be in tune on.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Oh God, it was corny, and she knew he was saying it slightly tongue in cheek, but the way he said ma’am made her feel weak at the knees. Oh goodness. They were doing so well, keeping away from all the clichés. She really shouldn’t be seduced by the cliché of a charming American. Good Lord! This wasn’t Yanks (although she loved that film! Richard Gere? Hello! Who didn’t?)
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