Perfect Strangers

Sophie gazed at her in amazement.

‘Here? For you?’

Lana threw the towel over her shoulder.

‘Why not? For insurance purposes, it would be good to have someone at the house.’

‘But you hardly know me. I could run off with all that expensive art in your hallway.’

‘I see you more than some of my closest friends.’ Lana smiled slowly. ‘Besides, I have a very sensitive alarm system and a housekeeper who lives out but who can check you don’t throw any wild parties.’

‘But what if you needed to come back to London?’

Lana laughed. ‘Darling, I can’t see that happening. But if I did, I wouldn’t throw you out. It’s plenty big enough for two.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘You’re unlikely to see him. He works mostly out of Geneva these days.’

‘Lana, I couldn’t . . .’

‘Sophie, you would be helping me,’ she insisted. ‘And you can use the studio for your training.’

Sophie understood Lana’s gesture. It wasn’t pity or charity, it was generosity. From Sharif’s no-strings-attached job offer at the gym to the man in the newsagent who gave her two months’ credit for the glossy magazine habit she couldn’t relinquish, kindness had come from the most unusual places since her world had turned upside down. And now Lana was making an offer she felt certain came from the same sense of simply wanting to help.

‘Well I warn you, I’m no domestic goddess, but I can water the plants, take messages if you like . . .’

‘That’s sweet, but I have a housekeeper for all that,’ smiled Lana. ‘I fly to Nice early Thursday morning. You’re welcome to move in any time after that. Any questions?’

Sophie looked around at her dream house and couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

‘No, actually, I think I’ll be fine.’

6

Ruth twisted around in front of the mirror, her arms tied in knots trying to reach for the zip. Stupid things, why do they make them so hard to put on? Finally she got the black dress straight, smoothed down her short blond hair and gave her lips one last slick of gloss. There, she thought, that’s the best you’re going to get. Looking at herself in the mirror, she winced at the reflection. She looked like a dominatrix. Perhaps it was the knee-high boots and the tight black dress. If she’d have been at home, she might have changed into something else, but she had left work so late, the only option had been to get ready in the ladies’ at the restaurant; she had to go with what she’d brought. Maybe she shouldn’t have rushed. Ruth seriously doubted David was even here yet. He was at his desk at seven and rarely left before ten; that was standard working hours in the City, so a financial journalist like David had to work the same beat. At least that was what he told her. Of late Ruth had begun to have doubts about her boyfriend. They had been dating for two years, and he had yet to invite her to meet his parents, they rarely spent the entire weekend together; hell, it was the first time she had seen him this week.

Of course, Ruth would never usually complain about that. She had always tried to keep relationships at arm’s length; work always had such a habit of getting in the way of her love life that she found it easier not to bother cultivating it. But she liked David. He was smart, sexy and handsome, with dark cropped hair and the clean-cut, regular features of a talk-show host. More importantly, they understood each other. He was as devoted to his career as she was to hers – he planned on being business editor of The Times within two years and editor-in-chief another three years after that. What she needed to work out was whether he was just as devoted to her. She wasn’t looking for a ring on her finger, but what was it her mom always used to say? ‘You’ve got to shit or get off the potty.’

‘Just go and have fun,’ Ruth told herself, blotting her lipstick and heading for the ground-floor cloakroom. Dropping her bag off, she rode up in the lift to the dining room on the twentieth floor. It was a pretty swish restaurant they were meeting in – so maybe things were looking up in her relationship after all. Stepping off the elevator, she almost whistled at the view. Ruth never tired of the other-worldly futurescape of Canary Wharf: the chequerboard yellow lights of the offices and the clean modernist angles of the architecture. It was like a science fiction film set come to life, a strange secret city

hidden away around the corner from the rest of London.

The maître d’ pointed her towards the bar area, where she saw David almost immediately. He was sitting at the bar laughing – with a pretty girl in a miniskirt. Great.

‘Oh, hi, Ruthie,’ he said, rising from his bar stool as he spotted her. ‘Come and meet Susie, she’s a lobbyist with Lorna Steele.’

Of course, thought Ruth, a PR girl. Aren’t they always? Not a great beauty up close, but blonde and young enough to flatter David, that much was obvious. The girl clearly caught the look on Ruth’s face, because she stood up.

‘Listen, I’ve got to be going,’ she said quickly, picking up her clutch.

‘Stay for another one,’ said David.

Susie shook her head.

‘It’s late. Lovely meeting you, David. You too, Ruth,’ she added, before swaying towards the lift on five-inch heels.

Fifteen years younger and ten times as hungry. What hope is there for the rest of us? thought Ruth, watching her leave. Her long legs, her tight ass. It didn’t help that David was three years younger than Ruth. He’d once called her his cougar and she’d sulked for three days. At least he’d laid off that line of teasing ever since.