The Party Starts at Midnight

by Lucy King

  70s band

  Florist

  Heated marquee and associated furniture

  Lighting specialist

  Photographer

  Magician

  Pyrotechnician

  If you could get a guest list to me by the end of the week I’ll order the invitations on Monday.

  Oh, and by the way, thank you so much for putting me in touch with Elsa Brightman. Did you know she was also your mother’s maid of honour? Anyway, she’s been brilliant with the details, and is an absolute mine of information. And not just with regards to your parents. Obviously discretion is my middle name and my lips are totally sealed, but let’s just say, the summer you were twelve? The fortnight’s grounding? I know what happened!

  Abby x

  To: Abby Summers

  From: Leo Cartwright

  Subject: Re: April 2

  Date: 14 January

  The summer I was twelve...? Hmm. Now let me think... Nope. Nothing springs to mind. But if, by any chance, you’re referring to the night when the next-door neighbours’ daughter’s pyjama party which was being held in the tree house in the back garden was gatecrashed, it was all Jake’s idea. Honest.

  Guest list and menu selection attached.

  Leo

  PS—Happy New Year to you too.

  PPS—Did you mean to sign off with a kiss?

  To: Leo Cartwright

  From: Abby Summers

  Subject: Re: April 2

  Date: 17 January

  Absolutely. I regularly do so. All the time in fact. So rest assured it’s not specific to you.

  Abby xxxxx

  To: Abby Summers

  From: Leo Cartwright

  Subject: Kissing

  Date: 18 January

  Shame.

  To: Leo Cartwright

  From: Abby Summers

  Subject: Site visit

  Date: 2 February

  Hi Leo

  Thanks so much for arranging access to Barton Hall. Mrs Trimble was great about all of us swarming around taking measurements and photos—seriously, that housekeeper of yours has the patience of a saint. No obvious problems with the venue. On the contrary, it couldn’t be more perfect.

  The invitations went out last Friday. Please see the attached document, which will be kept updated with responses as they come in.

  What do you think about letting off a bunch of red heart-shaped helium-filled balloons after the speeches?

  Best wishes, Abby

  To: Abby Summers

  From: Leo Cartwright

  Subject: Re: Site visit

  Date: 2 February

  Back to best wishes? Where are my kisses? And balloons? Why not?

  To: Leo Cartwright

  From: Abby Summers

  Subject: Kisses

  Date: 6 February

  Kisses have to be rationed. I do have other clients, you know. How was your day-trip to Madrid?

  To: Abby Summers

  From: Leo Cartwright

  Subject: Re: Kisses

  Date: 6 February

  Quick. Hectic. Unavoidable.

  PS—Kisses rationed? Other clients? I’m devastated.

  PPS—Whose idea was it to put together a forty-years-in-forty-seconds video of my parents’ marriage? I like it.

  To: Leo Cartwright

  From: Abby Summers

  Subject: Update

  Date: 7 February

  I’m sure you’ll get over it :)

  The video was my idea but Jake’s the one who’s taken it and is running with it. Should be fun to see what he comes up with!

  Texts between Leo and Abby, February 15

  Another name to add to the guest list, I’m afraid. Blame Jake.

  That seems to be a habit ;)

  This time it’s true. He’s decided to bring a date.

  Hah! I knew it! And yes, he’s already sent over her contact details. No date for you?

  No date.

  Hang on, it’s two o’clock in the morning. Don’t you sleep???

  I’m on a building site in Beijing. It’s 10 a.m. What’s your excuse?

  Valentine’s Day cocktail party. A late one.

  Night off?

  As if. Work.

  Roses are red, violets are blue, I work too hard and Abby does too.

  Very good. Not! When are you back? Plans are at the stage where it would be easier to go through them face to face.

  Back the afternoon of March 1, but not free until the 5th. Unless you can do the evening of the first?

  Given our tight timescale sooner rather than later would be good, so first is fine for me. Your office? What time?

  Will need to eat.

  Oblix. The Shard. 8 p.m.

  Oooh, swanky. See you then. Goodnight, Shakespeare.

  Goodnight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘YOU KNOW, I still can’t believe you cancelled on me,’ said Gemma, who’d shown up at Abby’s flat for a cup of tea at four and still hadn’t left three hours later. ‘Blowing out your best friend for a date. Huh. And whatever happened to Leo Cartwright with his emotional obstinacy not being the man for you?’

  Abby eyed herself critically in the mirror that hung on the wall of her bedroom and ignored the quick leap of her pulse at the thought that in around an hour she’d see him again. ‘He isn’t the man for me,’ she said, turning and twisting to check her bottom for a VPL. ‘And this isn’t a date. This is a business meeting.’

  ‘Sure it is.

  ‘It is.’ After two weeks of pretty much constantly reminding herself of the facts she could say it—and believe it—without wishing it were different because she didn’t, of course, want it to be different.

  Gemma glanced up from the magazine she was flicking through while lying stretched out on Abby’s bed. ‘Then why have you had your hair done?’

  ‘Coincidence. It needed a cut.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You had it cut a fortnight ago.’

  ‘So? Split ends have no concept of time.’

  Gemma hmmed sceptically and went back to the magazine. ‘Whatever. But I bet you don’t normally wear that top for business meetings.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s fabulous. The colour really suits you and the sparkly bits are cool. But it’s so low cut that all you have to do is lean forwards a bit and Leo will get an eyeful of cleavage.’ She paused, then added, ‘Actually, scrap that. You don’t even need to lean forwards. And every time you move it’ll shimmer and you’ll be drawing attention to your boobs. Is that a coincidence too?’

  Abby did a quick wiggle, then leaned forwards, and had to admit that Gemma had a point. About the coincidence thing too, because of course the timing of her haircut and her choice of outfit weren’t a coincidence. Even though she knew perfectly well that this evening was nothing but business, she’d wanted to look as good as she could. As sexy as she could. Which was pathetic and pointless, but there it was.

  She might not have seen Leo for a couple of months but that didn’t mean she hadn’t thought about him. She had. A lot. And not just in the strictly business sense.

  It would probably have helped if she hadn’t set up that Google alert so that every time he appeared anywhere online, a day or so later she’d find out about it.

  After an initial flurry of alerts, from which she’d learned that the brothers’ company had been granted planning permission to develop a swathe of east London and that Jake had appeared at the opening of an art gallery in Mayfair, she’d told herself to delete it because these were things she didn’t re
ally need to know.

  But every now and then up would pop a picture of Leo, inevitably looking all dark and smouldering and gorgeous, and she’d remember the things they’d done in bed together and she just couldn’t bring herself to click on the delete button.

  It also might have helped if she hadn’t had such regular contact with Elsa Brightman, but there wasn’t a lot she could have done about that. In the absence of any information coming direct from Leo’s parents, and not a lot coming from either him or Jake, she was the best source Abby had.

  The problem was that not only was she Leo’s mother’s best friend and maid of honour, she’d also been something of a semi-permanent fixture in the Cartwright household over the years, living close by as she did. And, heavens, did she have stories to tell about the boys. Stories she’d been delighted to share, with only the barest of prompts, and which Abby had lapped up.

  She’d told herself that any information was useful to guarantee the success of the night, but, honestly, what need did she have for details about Leo’s childhood? None. What relevance did what he’d got up to in his teens have? Again, none. All those girls he’d gone through at university and had occasionally brought home? She’d certainly had no valid reason to probe for details of them. And as for her delicate enquiries into his wedding day, which to her surprise had been very politely but very firmly rebuffed, well, those had no bearing on the proceedings whatsoever.

  So when she encouraged Elsa to continue with her stories when she otherwise might have stopped it was nothing more than rampant curiosity and self-indulgence because she was intrigued and she simply couldn’t get enough.

  It was absurd, the hunger she had for information about him. Scarily absurd. And her inability to exert any sort of control over her thoughts was downright worrying.

  As was the impatience with which she’d found herself waiting for his replies to her emails, texts and calls, the disappointment when a day went past with no word, and the excitement when he did get in touch. What that was all about she had no idea. She’d never been the type to wait and hope and obsess when it came to men, yet that was exactly what she’d become.

  She’d also become reckless, irrational and careless, because how on earth could she have signed off one of her emails to him with a kiss? It didn’t matter that Elsa had just told her about the night Leo and Jake had snuck up into that tree house to gatecrash the girls’ pyjama party with torches and Frankenstein masks, and caused mayhem. It didn’t matter that her heart had practically melted at the thought of it. The lapse in professionalism had been inexcusable.

  As had been the subsequent shift in tone of their communication, which had definitely become more flirty. She couldn’t ever recall bantering like that with a client, or using emoticons and exclamation marks with quite such abandon.

  Yet deep down she’d loved it. Rather pathetically, it brightened her days. Gave her something to look forward to. Something to think about and, if she let herself, read far too much into, such as was he flirting back? If he was, why?

  And that was why, like a poor, deluded, faintly desperate fool, she’d kept the dialogue going by asking ridiculous questions that resulted in her having to scour the internet for one hundred and twenty biodegradable red heart-shaped balloons and a helium pump, and making ridiculous suggestions, such as this totally unnecessary meeting.

  With hindsight she shouldn’t have done it. There was no need to meet. But she’d been working at that Valentine’s Day cocktail party, surrounded by love and romance and smooching couples, and for a moment she’d felt so very, very lonely. She’d wanted nothing more than to be going home to someone. Someone to talk to, have a glass of wine with and snuggle up next to on the sofa.

  Then he’d texted and told her he wasn’t bringing a date to his parents’ party, and quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly and quite desperately she’d wanted to see him.

  But it had been a mistake because nothing would ever come of doing anything about her infatuation with Leo Cartwright. He wasn’t the talking kind, even less the snuggling kind, and as he was unlikely to become any of that there was absolutely no point in continuing with it.

  Glancing down at the top that had seemed such a good idea when she’d put it on, Abby sighed because Gemma was right. Apart from the heavy folder sitting on the kitchen table, nothing she’d done today in preparation for this evening was a coincidence, and for the sake of her sanity she needed to put a stop to it. ‘I think I’d better change.’

  * * *

  Normally when he came back from a trip Leo was knackered. Normally all he wanted was to crash out and re-emerge only when he’d recovered. Not so tonight. Despite a ten-hour flight followed by an extremely frustrating extra hour circling over Heathrow he was feeling remarkably awake. Alert. Hyped, even. Whatever, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

  Unlike Abby.

  She’d barely been out of his thoughts over the last couple of months, and not just because she was organising this party. Try as he might—because what was the point when she clearly wasn’t interested in him?—he couldn’t stop thinking about the night they’d spent together. If he’d hoped that the memories would fade with time he’d been mistaken because if anything they’d sharpened and had very probably become exaggerated because surely the night couldn’t have been that great.

  What the hell he’d been thinking, sort of cyber-flirting with her, he had no idea. He ought to have been stamping out the flames not fanning them, but he just hadn’t been able to help himself.

  He’d been impressed by her efficiency and amused by her ideas. Teasing her about the kisses had been fun. And as for texting her about Jake’s plus one when he knew perfectly well that his brother had already informed her of the change, well, he’d done that because it had been a while since he’d heard from her, and, standing there on the sixty-fifth floor of the skeleton building that shot into the sky leaving the chaotic mess of Beijing way below, he’d weirdly and unnervingly missed the contact, so it had simply been something he’d just had to do.

  He couldn’t explain any of it and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be able to. All he knew was that he’d never been so distracted, never been so confused by his behaviour, and for a man who craved control, order and regularity, the absence of all three was a bit harrowing.

  The one upside to the whole mad enterprise, he thought, rolling his glass of whisky between his hands as he sat at the table and waited for her to show up, was that getting through Christmas had been a breeze. With Abby’s missives to look forward to and his own state of apparent mental collapse to deal with, he’d barely spared a moment’s thought for Lisa and the humiliation she’d put him through, which was a huge relief because he was beginning to realise that five years was way too long to still be hung up on it.

  But whatever he thought about Abby, whatever he wanted—and, as he glanced up and caught sight of her weaving her way through the tables, looking so beautiful that for a moment he forgot how to breathe, right now what he wanted involved forgetting dinner, grabbing her hand and carting her off to his place—it had to stop. This was business. Nothing more, nothing less, and if he didn’t want to look like a pathetic drooling idiot he’d do well to remember it.

  Pulling himself together and fixing a smile to his face, Leo got up. As she reached their table he glanced down at her outstretched hand for a moment and when he ignored it and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek instead it was hard to say who was more surprised.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, sounding a bit breathless and looking slightly flushed, but then she had been striding through the restaurant at quite a pace. He had no such excuse.

  ‘Hello.’

  He waited for her to sit down and then did the same. She thanked the waiter who’d pushed her chair in as she sat, and in response to his offer of a drink ordered a tequila. Then she stowed her handbag beneath her chair and fiddled with
her napkin and all the while Leo couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if her outfit of black trousers and black polo-neck was particularly revealing. And it wasn’t as if she looked any different from the last time he’d seen her. Yet something about her was holding him captivated and rendering him unable to think, let alone speak, which was highly disturbing not least because he was now going to have to drum up some kind of conversation and once again his mind was blank.

  ‘So how was your flight?’ she said, sitting back and smiling at him and clearly having none of the trouble with basic functions that he was having.

  ‘Long.’

  ‘And China?’

  ‘Productive.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ she said, picking up the menu and opening it.

  ‘Building a building.’

  ‘What kind of building?’

  ‘The tall kind.’

  She frowned slightly and let out a tiny sigh—of exasperation?—and he told himself to get a grip and drum up some manners because he really ought to start contributing more to the conversation, and surely he could manage that.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, draining his drink and setting the glass on the table whereupon it was whisked away with the efficiency one would expect from one of the city’s top restaurants, ‘when it’s finished it’s going to be one of the biggest of its kind in Asia. It’ll have a hundred and fifty floors and over three million square feet of retail, office and residential space. A twelve-storey underground car park, landscaped gardens and every kind of amenity you could possibly imagine. Construction is more or less half complete and while it hasn’t been without its difficulties—’ and, goodness, some of their partners had been tricky to handle ‘—things are looking good. The views from the upper floors are going to be breathtaking.’

  He stopped and looked up to find Abby watching him with a smile that made his heart skip a beat. ‘What?’ he asked, frowning because since when had a smile ever done that?

  ‘You love your job, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s all consuming, stressful and frequently involves having to make near impossible deadlines so I couldn’t do it to the extent I do if I didn’t.’