Perfect Strangers

‘So, want a drink?’ said David, slightly too eagerly. It looked as if he was on his third, at least.

‘Why don’t we eat?’

He laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? We’ll have to take out a mortgage just to get a starter.’

‘But it’s fine to buy overpriced cocktails with Susie?’

His handsome features frowned.

‘What’s got into you?’

Ruth stopped herself. After her confrontation with Jim, the last thing she needed tonight was a public row. She just wanted a nice night out, to have fun, for David tell her everything was going to be all right. And she wasn’t going to get that by screaming at him for talking to some floozy.

She waved a hand. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, capitulating. ‘Just a bad day at work.’

David raised a finger to get the barman’s attention.

‘Vodka tonic. Double. Slice of lemon.’

He turned to look at her.

‘So come on, tell me. What’s happened? Jim Keane’s been dick-swinging again?’

‘Is my working life so predictable?’

She took the vodka and sipped it slowly as she told him about the editorial meeting at the Tribune, about the escort story she had been working on, and how Jim had nixed it before she had time to investigate it properly. David leant forward on the bar, his eyes twinkling with the same excitement as she had felt earlier today when she’d been piecing together the story. Sometimes it was good dating a journalist – the same hunger for news.

‘Bloody hell, if you’re right that’s a fantastic story,’ he said. ‘Not just for the Tribune, but for the Germans, for us, for anyone. I can’t believe he doesn’t want to follow it up.’

Ruth stabbed at the lemon in her drink with a swizzle stick.

‘We’re both on trial for the bureau chief job, remember? And I have more to prove because he’s already in the job. He’s not going to want me to get the glory, is he?’

‘So don’t tell him,’ said David. ‘Write it under the radar. Smile sweetly, do the Angela Ahrendts profile and whatever else Jim throws at you. In the meantime, you find your scoop, then file it directly to Isaac.’

Ruth shook her head. She had already thought of that approach and dismissed it.

‘I don’t know. Isaac is going to see right through that. And Jim will go ballistic. In fact he’ll probably have me fired.’

David gave a low, slow laugh. ‘It’s every man for himself now, sweetheart. And as for Isaac, if he’s got a shit-hot story on his hands, he won’t give two hoots who you shafted to ring it in.’

Ruth smiled. She knew they were talking about dirty office politics but David made it sound acceptable.

‘You’re a ruthless sonofabitch, you know that?’

‘I’ll accept that as a compliment,’ he grinned.

Ruth finished her vodka. She was already feeling better, that stupid little PR girl a distant memory. She looked over towards the restaurant hopefully.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ she said.

David slid his hand up her thigh.

‘Yes I am,’ he whispered. ‘Why don’t we go back to mine and get a takeaway?’

‘Let’s go,’ she said, reaching out and taking his hand.

David lived in one of the anonymous modern apartment blocks a short distance away from the restaurant. Ruth had enjoyed the walk along the river, her arm looped through his, not talking, just relishing the intimate air of expectation. They rode up in the lift, then David stopped to push the key in the lock, fumbling and cursing as he failed to get it in. Smiling, Ruth came up behind him and brushed her lips across his neck. He smelt good – a familiar tang of soap and expensive cologne.