Perfect Strangers

‘All this, Josh. Not just for the dress and the shoes and the hair, which by the way are all absolutely amazing, but thank you for helping me. I don’t know where I’d be without you; in a jail cell or at the bottom of the Thames most likely. You’ve saved my life, you helped me when you really didn’t have to, and I’ve been such a thoughtless cow to not stop and tell you how grateful I am. There’s no excuse, so I don’t blame you for being in such a bad mood with me.’

‘I know you haven’t got a very high opinion of me, but I just did what any decent bloke would do. I wasn’t going to stand back and let you get killed. Besides, I’m not in a bad mood with you,’ he said, avoiding her eyes.

‘You are. I can tell. You’re all sniffy and huffy and your brows knit together a bit like this,’ she said, doing an impression of a grumpy person.

She wanted to make him laugh, but instead he remained serious. His eyes locked with hers, and she felt a charge run between them so that she could almost see the sparks on the night air.

‘Listen, Sophie, I know this has all been a nightmare for you and that you’d rather be anywhere else – with anyone else.’

She was about to object, but he held up a hand to stop her.

‘No one wants to be on the run from the police and whoever the hell else is after us,’ he continued softly. ‘But look around, look where we are. We’re in one of the most amazing houses in one of the most beautiful parts of the whole world. No matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, we’re here now. Why not enjoy it? Why not pretend to be a real princess? Why not drink the champagne and dance the polka? For one night, let’s have fun, just me and you, okay?’

They were only inches apart. It wasn’t just the warm, scented gardens she could smell now, but Josh; the soft suggestion of soap and aftershave on his skin, the hint of champagne on his lips.

The tension between them was so electric it almost made her tremble. For the last three days – had it really only been three days? – she and Josh had barely been apart. And yet if they discovered who had killed Nick and returned to their lives in London, would she ever see him again? And would he care if she walked out of his life?

‘Well, if we’re planning to dance the night away, I’m going to put this scarf in the cloakroom,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘We wouldn’t want to lose it.’

She walked away from him towards the house, and when she glanced back, she saw that he was still watching her. She puffed out her cheeks, uncertain of the emotions she was experiencing, aware that there was more at stake from the evening than just discovering the identity of A.

The cloakroom had been roped off and was being manned by two beautiful young women dressed as cigarette girls. In their little hats and tiny scarlet uniforms they were clearly struggling with the volume of furs, capelets and jackets.

‘Could I leave this scarf?’ asked Sophie, gesticulating to make up for her lack of French.

One of the girls flashed her a helpless expression.

‘Je regrette, mademoiselle, we have no tickets left.’

‘Oh,’ said Sophie. She really didn’t want to lose it, not when it was a gift from Josh. The girl saw her disappointed expression and held up a finger.

‘Un moment, s’il vous plaît,’ she said, taking Sophie’s pashmina. Sophie watched as the girl pulled two white stickers from a roll and wrote the same number on each, handing one to Sophie. ‘We improvise, I think,’ she smiled.

‘Thank you,’ said Sophie, ‘But what number is this?’ She held up the ticket.

‘Seven zero one,’ said the cloakroom girl, pointing to each numeral.

‘Merci,’ grinned Sophie. ‘Merci beaucoup.’

Josh was not out on the terrace, so Sophie rushed back inside, searching the ballroom for his face. She spotted him on the far side, talking to a pretty girl in a violet gown. Catching his eye, she clumsily signalled to meet her on the terrace. Josh’s expression was concerned as he walked out.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said, glancing around. ‘Trouble?’

‘No, no, the opposite actually. Do you have the number that Sandrine gave you? The number of Nick’s other lover.’

‘Sure, but why?’ he said, pulling out his wallet to retrieve the Post-it note.

‘Look at this,’ said Sophie, pointing at the number the cloakroom girl had written. ‘H

ow did you read the last four digits of Sandrine’s number?’

‘0627,’ said Josh, holding up the Post-it.

‘Me too. That’s what I dialled in the hotel this morning – and that’s why we couldn’t get through.’

She could see he wasn’t getting it.

‘It’s not a seven, Josh. It’s a one; the French write it differently, with a long sweep at the front so it looks like a seven – and they cross their sevens to make the distinction.’