Perfect Strangers

She closed her eyes for a moment, considering the alternatives. Freelancing? Writing about relationships for the women’s glossies? She’d come here expecting a promotion. Instead, she was being retired. Washed up at forty-one. She had devoted everything to her career at the expense of other areas of her life – most women her age were married, settled, they had kids. She knew the window of opportunity for motherhood was closing quickly, and while that thought occasionally saddened her, she consoled herself that she had her career. But no. After all her hard work, twenty years of dodging bullets, pounding the pavements, her reward was going to be – nothing?

‘Listen, nothing has been decided yet,’ said Isaac. ‘As I said, I’m just giving you a heads-up. There is a possibility that we might keep a bureau chief in London if we can show it’s worthwhile.’

‘But that’s Jim’s job.’

‘Not necessarily.’

She raised her eyebrows. Was he suggesting her?

‘I want the best person for the job in that role. If you can prove to me that that person is you, then I will move Jim on. There’s possibly an opening coming up soon in Shanghai that I think he’d be perfect for.’

It was a tiny chink of light, but it was something.

‘So when will you be making a decision?’ Ruth asked, trying to keep her excitement in check.

Isaac closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with one finger.

‘I don’t know. Within a few weeks. Half the publishers are on vacation until Labor Day.’

Ruth began to speak, but Isaac silenced her with a shake of his head.

‘Don’t think you’re getting a free run at this, though,’ he said. ‘I’ll be giving Jim the same pitch: there is only money for one of you – and even then you’ve got to make it pay. I want to see a shitload more stories coming from the London bureau – good stuff, real scoops, none of this red-carpet crap – otherwise I’m going to cut you off at the nuts and I won’t feel the slightest qualm about it. We clear?’

Ruth nodded, her smile leaking through. Stories were what she was good at. ‘We’re clear.’

‘Okay then,’ said Isaac, snapping his fingers for the waiter. ‘Let’s order some steak.’

3

Her hand caught the alarm clock’s off button on the third ring. Sophie stifled a yawn, and reluctantly crawled out of bed. She was not usually a morning person. She had always been a ‘five more minutes under the duvet’ kind of girl, but since the funeral she had felt a renewed sense of purpose. Life seemed more urgent, as if there were so many things to do, and right now was the time to start making them happen. It was either that or curl up into a ball – and Sophie wasn’t prepared to give in to that urge.

Walking into the bathroom, she turned on the shower as hot as she could stand and stepped inside. She let out a high-pitched squeal, but forced herself to stay under the scalding water until her head cleared, then she carefully scrubbed herself with some peach-grain body lather and washed and conditioned her hair. By the time she was dried off and wrapped in her fluffy robe, she felt ready for the day.

Taking the few steps back into the bedroom, she folded up the sofa bed to transform it back into her living room. Her Battersea studio was the tiniest space – but it was her own space, she reminded herself, remembering the day when the For Sale sign had gone up outside her old Chelsea flat. She cried herself to sleep that night, but she had been adamant she was not moving back to her parents’ house. After the financial problems began, the atmosphere at Wade House had become depressing, not to mention that she did not want to be a daily reminder to her father that he could no longer provide for her. Instead, she offloaded her entire designer wardrobe of dresses, bags and shoes to the second-hand dress agency on the King’s Road and the mon

ey was enough to pay for the deposit and twelve months’ rent on this place. Although it was small – no bigger than the dining room in her Flood Street apartment where she had thrown her weekly pre-Raffles dinner parties – it was bright and sunny, which gave the illusion of more space, and it was in a decent spot too – two streets away from the park and a ten-minute bus ride from Chelsea. Her old life might have gone, but with her new address, at least she had a view of it from the other side of the river.

She sat down at her little dressing table and chose a lipstick. Even her make-up had been scaled back, but she’d always had too much of that anyway – too much of everything really. Sophie knew she had always led a privileged life, a safe life. She had always stayed well within the bounds of what was expected of a pretty girl of her class. Her default setting was shy, and for many years she did not have the confidence to do anything but conform. There was never any teenage rebellious phase; she had never done anything unexpected. If everyone was wearing pearls, she would wear pearls. If everyone was learning to ride horses, she signed up. She applied to one of the Sloaney universities, and when everyone started dating men from the City, she found herself a banker boyfriend too. Sophie couldn’t remember a time in her life when she had done anything daring, or even out of the ordinary. She had always just been a leaf bobbing along on the stream.

Leaning forward into the mirror, she stared at her reflection. Well, now it was time to take her own path. The past few days had gone by in slow motion, and her grief still felt raw. But Daddy was gone and one thing was clear. Not only was she going to have to look after herself; in a reversal of the parent–child dynamic she had grown up with, she now felt completely responsible for her mother. For a start, it meant that she had to make some money. For the last few months she’d got by on what a Burlington Arcade jeweller had given her for her diamond stud earrings and Cartier watch – a present from Will two Christmases before – but that money was dwindling and she’d have to start paying more rent soon.

She dabbed her lips and forced a smile, then grabbed her gym bag. She picked up her iPod and phone, zipping them up inside her make-up bag, a hard-won habit she’d developed to keep them safe from wet towels and puddles in the changing room.

Glancing at her bookshelf, she saw the faded spine of I Capture the Castle, the book her father had given her for her last birthday. Smiling sadly, she opened it up to read the inscription Peter had scribbled on the title page.

To my dearest S, read this and think of our castle. Happy birthday. All my love always, Daddy.

It wasn’t a first edition or collectable; just a rather dog-eared second-hand copy with the name of the previous owner scribbled inside. Sophie had loved its faded green cover with its line drawing of a peacock peering down at a creepy castle, because it showed her Dad had been thinking of her. He could have bought her some fancy perfume or something – not that they had any money for luxuries, as her mother was constantly reminding her – but instead he had remembered that I Capture the Castle was her favourite book, and had written a message only they would understand.

Sophie and her father had talked of their castle since she was a little girl and he had told her bedtime stories of sailing off to exotic shores. ‘One day,’ he had said, ‘we will all live in a pink castle on a desert island where no one will ever find us.’ That was never going to happen now she thought grimly, throwing the book in her bag and heading for the bus.

There were closer gyms to Sophie’s flat, but the Red Heart was owned by Sharif Khan, an old friend from the Chelsea nightclub scene, who had offered her free membership in return for helping out behind the reception desk once a week. Sharif was a serial entrepreneur who had gone bankrupt many times before, and he knew more than most that she needed a lifeline.

‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, grabbing a plastic cup of water as she grinned at the short-haired man behind the desk.

‘How are you, Soph?’

She guessed his concern was genuine; Mike had filled in for her last week, so no doubt Sharif had told him why she was away.