Tap, tap, tap. Harry’s eyes blinked open. Tap, tap, tap. Was someone knocking on the door, or was it just noise coming from outside? Tap, tap, tap. It was definitely the door. He wanted to ignore it, but it had a persistence that suggested it wasn’t going away. Tap, tap, tap. He reluctantly placed his feet on the cold linoleum floor, pulled on his dressing gown, and shuffled across to the door.
If Harry was surprised when he opened the door, he tried not to show it.
“Hello, Harry,” said a sultry voice.
Harry stared in disbelief at the girl he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. A carbon copy of Emma in her early twenties stood in front of him wearing a sable coat and, he suspected, nothing much else. She held a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Clever Russians, Harry thought.
“My name is Alina,” she purred as she touched his arm. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong room,” said Harry.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Alina. She tried to slip past him, but Harry remained lodged in the doorway, blocking her path.
“I’m your reward, Harry, for making such a brilliant speech. I promised the president that I’d give you a night you will never forget.”
“You’ve already achieved that,” said Harry, wondering which president Alina worked for.
“Surely there’s something I can do for you, Harry?”
“Nothing I can think of, but please thank your masters and let them know I’m just not interested.” Alina looked disappointed.
“Boys, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.”
“Money?” she suggested.
“How kind, but I have enough already.”
“Is there nothing I can tempt you with?”
“Well,” said Harry, “now you mention it, there is something I’ve always wanted, and if your masters can deliver it, I’m their man.”
“And what might that be, Harry?” she said, sounding hopeful for the first time.
“The Nobel Prize for literature.”
Alina looked puzzled, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing her on both cheeks as if she was a favorite aunt. He quietly closed the door and crept back into bed. “Damn the woman,” he said, quite unable to sleep.
* * *
“There’s a Mr. Vaughan on the line, Mr. Clifton,” said the girl on the switchboard. “Says he needs to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently, but he’s away at a conference in York and isn’t expected back until Friday.”
“Put the call through to his secretary and ask her to deal with it.”
“Sarah’s not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton. I don’t think she’s back from lunch yet.”
“OK, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan, how can I help you?”
“I’m the senior partner of Savills estate agents,” said Vaughan, “and I need to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently.”
“Can it wait until Friday?”
“No. I now have two other offers on the table for Shifnal Farm in Shropshire, and as bidding closes on Friday I need to know if Mr. Sloane is still interested.”
“Perhaps you could give me the details, Mr. Vaughan,” said Seb, picking up a pen, “and I’ll look into it immediately.”
“Could you let Mr. Sloane know that Mr. Collingwood is happy to accept his offer of one point six million, which means I’ll need a deposit of £160,000 by five o’clock on Friday if he still hopes to secure the deal.”