Read the book: «Lost and Found»

Praise for Jane Sigaloff’s
Name & Address Withheld:

“This book is the perfect antidote to Christmas

get-togethers. Escape to a comfy chair and enjoy!”

—Company

“Sigaloff’s first novel is without doubt

an engaging romantic comedy!”

—Booklist

“Witty, juicy and romantic—a clever, controversial

comedy about finding love in all the wrong places.”

—Bestselling author Sarah Mlynowski

“Moving and cleverly written…

a great present for a girlfriend in need of some love

advice (we all have one of these).”

—handbag.com

“4½ stars… Sigaloff has an interesting

take on the relationship conundrum.”

—funkybitch.com

“Unusually daring in its approach…”

—The Big Issue

Jane Sigaloff

was born in London and, despite brief trips into the countryside, Jane has always been a city girl at heart. After studying history at Oxford University she entered the allegedly glamorous world of television, beginning her career as tea and coffee coordinator for Nickelodeon U.K. After she progressed to researcher and then to assistant producer, her contracts took her to MTV and finally to the BBC where she worked for over three years.

Since 2000, Jane has enjoyed a double life as a part-time P.A., which has given her more time to write and feel guilty about not going to the gym. She lives in London with her laptop and ever-expanding CD collection. Lost & Found is her second novel.

Find out more about Jane at: www.janesigaloff.com

By the same author:

Name & Address Withheld

Lost & Found

Jane Sigaloff

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In a concerted attempt to be more concise than last time, immeasurable thanks and much love to my friends and family for their unwavering support, for listening (or at least making encouraging noises while thinking about other things), for their positivity and for ensuring that the life of this writer is by no means a solitary one.

In particular:

Omi—my PR granny extraordinaire. Kate—for always being there for me (and for valiant shelf patrol). Charlotte—for indispensable and immediate fast-talking advice. Louise, Alice, Gemma, Mandy, Fred and all at the Barnes Ladies Writing Circle—it wouldn’t be as much fun without you. Marten Foxon, the most flexible boss in London—for employing the only part-time part-time P.A., for being grammatically pedantic and for tales of the city. Melissa, Stuart and Clodagh—for providing insight into life as a lawyer and answering all my questions with due consideration. Peter French and Alex Tscherne at the Carlyle Hotel, New York, for unrivaled hospitality.

As always, thanks to my agent, Carole Blake, to Sam Bell for editorial prowess and keeping me focused, to Claire Sawford for PR duties and to the whole Red Dress Ink team who have worked so hard on my behalf both in the U.K. and North America.

For my parents—

all of them

and

for Paul—

my little big brother and partner in crime

since 1975.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter One

‘Something to drink, sir?’

‘We’ll have champagne…’

Sam hid behind her eyelids. She’d closed them for the steep climb from JFK and must have slipped straight into a power nap. But now she was very much awake. And listening. Taittinger + senior supervising partner (flirting) + altitude of 38,000 feet = certain recipe for disaster.

‘Just a still mineral water for me, please.’ Opening her eyes, Sam automatically ran a finger along her bottom lashes to remove any smudges of mascara, whilst flexing her calves and curling and uncurling her toes to prevent the onset of DVT. If she focused on her legs she was almost sure she could feel that the blood flow was a little sluggish in the bended knee area. Hypochondria in action. Sometimes knowledge was definitely not a good thing.

‘Oh, come on, let’s celebrate.’ Richard punched her arm playfully. Regrettably, despite the extra room in business class, he was still well within touching distance.

‘No, really. I might have some red with supper. You go ahead.’ She still couldn’t believe he’d flown out for the meetings. As for his behaviour last night—she was generously going to attribute it to the martinis. Yet he was sitting next to her. For the next seven hours. Twenty-first century purgatory.

‘Couldn’t you squeeze in one glass? We’re not billing them for this hour.’

Now he was trying lawyer jokes. ‘No, thanks.’ Champagne invariably gave her a headache at sea level. ‘Just the water.’ She exchanged an esoteric smile with the flight attendant as another waft of his Eau de Testosterone threatened to choke them both.

‘Great work this week. Very impressive. You know how highly I rate you.’

Typical ambiguity on the personal-professional line. But, while Sam could feel her flesh starting to crawl, her demeanour gave nothing away.

‘They were always going to take our recommendations.’

Determined to avoid prolonged eye contact, Sam rummaged in her bag for her lip balm and wished she could be teleported back to London. Business trips were one thing, but a night in New York with Richard Blakely was in a different league altogether. Especially given that the only merger she was working on didn’t involve him.

‘Maybe, but I’d forgotten how good you are round the table…’

‘I enjoy it. Especially when things go our way.’

Wallet, passport, make-up, hairbrush, mobile phone, PalmPilot, perfume, chewing gum, hand cream, dental floss—come on, come on. If her lips were to survive the brutal in-flight air-conditioning she couldn’t give up now. She was sure she could actually feel cracks forming.

‘…and you’ve always been a bit of a ball-breaker. I wouldn’t trust you with mine…’

Definitely not the impression he’d given her last night.

‘Cheers…’

Richard raised his glass and, hang on, was that a wink? Sam wasn’t sure. Watching as he tipped his head back åand took a long sip, she forced herself to think positive. Maybe a stray beam of light had caught the edge of his trophy Rolex as it peeped out from underneath his stiff made-to-measure Jermyn Street cuff. Not a glimmer of embarrassment from him. Nor any sign of a hangover. Amazing.

Picking her bag up from the floor, Sam continued her search in the upright position just in case he thought she’d been aiming for his lap. She’d never so much as given him a modicum of encouragement—unless wearing a just-above-the-knee-length skirt to her final interview at City law firm Lucas, Lex, Lawton six years ago could be cited as foreplay—but her lack of interest didn’t seem to bear any relevance to his level of enthusiasm or dedication to her cause. His confidence levels were as unnaturally high as the balance of his current account.

‘…we could teach them a thing or two about drinking, though.’

‘Mmm.’ Sam wasn’t listening. She’d heard it all before. But she knew she should be grateful that at least she wasn’t expected to provide the in-flight entertainment.

‘So, what have you got planned for the weekend?’ Richard’s tenacity on the conversation front was commendable. ‘What does one of London’s most eligible women get up to when I let her out of the office?’

‘Oh, not much…’

Her choice. Sam refocused on the methodical check of the pockets of her bag, which should have been a dedicated site of special scientific interest. It would appear that they were breeding Biros and tampons.

‘I haven’t had a clear weekend at home in…’ she paused ‘…well, with the three-ringed circus of hen weekends, weddings and work, we’re probably talking months…’

Still sifting through the contents of her shoulder Tardis, Sam squinted at the screen showing their route across the Atlantic. To her dismay the computer-generated plane had barely left the Eastern seaboard, and was creeping north at the sort of pace that had given snails a bad name.

‘…and I’ve got loads to sort out—you know, all that life laundry that always has to take a back seat…’

She was craving a marathon gym session followed by an evening in and a long soak in an aromatherapy bath with the current men in her life: Paul Mitchell, Charles Worthington, John Frieda and, of course, her oldest and most loyal shampooing partner Tim O’Tei. Candles. Chill-out CD. No more having to make polite chit-chat. A bowl of bran flakes. Bliss.

Sam’s bathtime bubble burst and her stomach knotted instantly as she realised her bag was emptier than normal. The plight of her lips paled into insignificance as, uninvited, a cold sweat crept up the back of her neck.

A furtive glance to her left. To her relief Richard appeared to have finally taken the hint and was now staring out of the perspex window, apparently mesmerised by the blackness of the night sky. Or perhaps checking his too-perfect teeth in the reflection. Sam peered into the dark folds of her bag before unzipping the myriad compartments one more time, just in case she might have misfiled or overlooked it. Not that she did ‘over-look.’ Fuck.

‘Everything Okay?’ Richard sensed a change in the force. A tell-tale furrow had appeared in her brow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

‘Fine.’ Sam forced a smile and, leaning back stiffly in her seat, closed her eyes to create a few seconds of personal space. Maybe it was in her laptop case? A spark of hope followed by a dash of reality. She knew it wasn’t. And none of this would be happening if he hadn’t interrupted her routinely obsessive check of drawers and cupboards earlier.

She had to move fast. Only right now she was on a plane which, even with a complementary tailwind, was hours from Tarmac and a private telephone opportunity. Forcing herself to take a sip of her water, she reclined her seat, headphones on, volume off, pretending to watch the screen sprouting from the end of her armrest. But while the images flickered enticingly, they failed to penetrate her thoughts. The water felt like a river of neat acid as it burned its path down to her stomach. Internal turbulence. But in nineteen years her diary had never let her down, never told her it was too busy, never not been there for her…until now.

Ben refused to open his eyes. Having tossed and turned for most of the night, typically he’d only finally managed to drift into a proper sleep moments before the alarm had gone off. Yet it appeared, from the generally high activity levels going on around him, that his sister was well and truly up. On a Friday morning. On vacation. He must have been adopted; there was no way they could share genes.

Doing his utmost to pretend he was still asleep, he willed the steady hum of the air-conditioning to lull him back into unconsciousness, and was practically knocking on nirvana’s door when a very familiar voice started up right next to his ear. He should have read the small print. This had been sold to him as a free weekend away, not some sort of boot camp. But there was always a catch.

‘Ben…jy.’ The sing-song pre-school approach to his name was quickly cast aside in favour of an impatient bark. ‘Ben… Come on.’ If he’d had four legs he’d have known he was in trouble. ‘Look, I know you’re awake—your breathing’s changed. Come on, will you?’ No wonder David hadn’t minded him taking his place. Ben wondered whether his clients really were in town this weekend.

Ali poked his arm and Ben faked a somnolent shrug and murmur before opening one eye—partially and deliberately obstructed by his arm over his face—giving him a restricted view of his sister, who was squatting down at the edge of the bed. He tried not to smile. Things hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Then on Sunday mornings she’d physically prised his eyelids apart to prove that he was awake before forcing him to play stupid games—usually involving dressing up in clothes their mother had charitably donated to their cause—he suspected now, merely so that she hadn’t had to actually throw or give them away.

‘Ha! Stop pretending. I just saw you open your eye. Your arm shield needs work.’

Ben stretched indulgently before propping himself up on the pillows. ‘Give me a break.’

‘I know you.’

‘I’d hope so.’

‘Better than you know yourself.’

‘Hmm, I’m not sure about that.’

‘Well, I know that this pretending to be asleep ruse is a) gym avoidance…’

It was fair comment. But the sight of Ali in full Nike regalia before nine on a Friday morning was inducing acute narcolepsy. After hours of sleep deprivation, his eyelids felt incredibly heavy, and a vortex of dizziness was threatening to pin him to the mattress.

‘…and b) because you’re still worrying about Julia. Come on. You should come for a workout with me.’

‘Are you insane?’ Ben yawned and stretched before springing back into the foetal position.

‘You could do with it.’

Ben clenched his stomach muscles and stabbed at his T-shirt-covered torso to reassure himself that he still had some muscle tone, even if it was currently a few centimetres below the surface.

‘Maybe later. I’ve never been any good at physical exertion first thing. And I’ve only had about ten minutes’ sleep so it might just kill me.’

Ali rolled her eyes.

‘Okay, maybe a couple of hours, tops, but I didn’t sleep much on the plane.’ He couldn’t help it if he was a sucker for seat-back Nintendo games and multiple movie channels playing on a loop. ‘And I’ve never been a morning person.’

‘It’s nearly two in the afternoon for us.’

‘For you, maybe. Anyway, that would make it just about time for an afternoon snooze.’ Ben folded his arms behind his head and indulged in a prolonged blink. Closed was definitely preferable to open.

‘You can’t just lie here moping.’

‘I would have been quite happy sleeping.’ Ben pulled the heavy Egyptian cotton covers up to his nose and relished the weight of the down duvet on his weak body.

‘Bull…it’d be good for you to get your blood pumping.’

‘It’d be better for you. You’re the one writing an article on the gym refurbishment. I might come along tomorrow, or I’ll go for a run in the park later. I need more sleep.’

‘Whatever.’

‘One of the advantages of being single is autonomy. Or at least that was the idea…’

‘Julia wasn’t bossy.’

Ben smiled to himself. In some respects she and Ali had been way too similar. They always say girls pick men like their fathers, but did brothers pick women like their sisters? Right now, he hoped not. ‘Besides I hate gyms. Too many mirrors. I want the before and after, not during. I mean, who looks good while they’re exercising?’

‘You’ll have to look yourself in the eye eventually, and she’s bound to have pulled herself back together by now—she’s a tough cookie…’

He just wished she didn’t have to hate him in the process.

‘Far better that you were honest. The longer you’d left it, the harder it would have become—and if you’d strung her along I’d have disowned you. Plus, just for the record, there are far more single women of your age out there than men. Read any of the magazines on my bedside table if you don’t believe me.’

‘Hey, I’m not desperate.’

‘I know.’

‘Even if I said the “d” word out loud, which might mean that you think I am because I’ve said I’m not.’

‘You are such an amateur shrink sometimes.’

‘I’m just a little disheartened. She wasn’t who I’d thought she was.’

‘We’ve all done it.’ Ali shuddered at the memories of dating pre-David. The drip-feeding of information at appropriate moments in an attempt to generate common ground before coming out with the more contentious, potentially deal-breaking stuff farther down the line. At seventeen she’d even reinvented herself sartorially in pursuit of Johnny’s affections. But he had been very cute. Everyone in her year had wanted to date him.

Ben smiled. ‘Are we talking ten-hole Doc Martens?’

Ali nodded sheepishly. Hormones had a lot to answer for.

‘And the rockabilly quiff…?’ He was enjoying this moment. She’d looked like a cross between Morrissey and the B52s.

She laughed nervously, willing the conversation to move on. ‘It was an important experimental phase…’

‘Turn-ups on your vintage 501s…bright red lipstick… Mum thought you were about to come out.’

‘Yeah, yeah… All photographic evidence has been systematically destroyed. And I don’t think I need to take this from the boy who wore eyeliner.’

‘Once. I was twelve and I wanted to be a New Romantic.’ Ben sighed, allowing his head to sink back into the pillow and making his next point to the ceiling. ‘It would just be much easier if single people were required by law to carry a card stating their genuine age, profession, aspiration for children, preference for Coke over Pepsi, cats over dogs, Friends over Frasier, you know…’

‘You need to get a real job. You’ve got far too much time to think.’

‘A real job like yours, eh? O freelance journalist.’

‘Just remember, it’s your choice that you’re on your own.’

Ben shrugged. Silence. Ali decided to ease off a little.

‘…so you’re not prepared to compromise. That’s a positive not a negative.’

Ben nodded sagely. Even at the time there’d been a sense of relief. Julia had become a habit rather than a choice. And he’d been very fond of her. Fond. That said it all. Great-aunts were fond of their great-nieces; the British nation had been very fond of the Queen Mother. But the bottom line was he wanted it all. The whole mutual love and respect thing. The Paul and Linda. The Brad and Jen. Someone to grow old with. To have children with. Or nothing.

‘But…’ there was always a bloody but ‘…maybe I was just being male. Wanting the thing I didn’t have just because… She was a great girl in lots of ways. Spent a bit too much time at the office…’

‘She was ambitious.’

‘So am I. I just don’t feel the need to talk about my career trajectory incessantly. And at least I have an office to go to.’

‘As do I.’

Ben scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘I think you’ll find yours is the spare room.’

‘At least I have a spare room.’

Why did she always have to have a comeback? ‘Anyway, people need television.’

Ali snorted. ‘Only in the way I need four pairs of black boots. Anyway, it’s not like you have a biological clock that’s ticking—and you’ve still got all your hair. Relax, unwind, have a bit of fun…’

Ben nodded. Right now the random shag option was far more alluring than playing the relationship game. He didn’t have the energy for false starts, thoughtful gifts and the whole wooing process if there wasn’t long term potential. Lazy? Tired? Uninspired.

‘She’s out there somewhere, Benj. Maybe even at the gym.’

‘Nice try, Al.’

Resting on his elbows, Ben eyed her suspiciously as she contorted herself through a number of stretches at the side of the bed. Women were definitely more supple than men, and Ali was always hyper when they were back in New York.

‘OK, I’m ready. Are you coming or what?’

‘Nope.’

‘Fine.’

Ben knew from her tone that it absolutely wasn’t, but he also knew she was his sister and by the time she’d sweated away over three hundred calories he’d be forgiven.

‘I’ll be about an hour. Why don’t you get some breakfast sent up?’

‘We can just grab coffee and a bagel.’ Ben wasn’t in the mood to spend forty dollars on tea and toast.

‘Order whatever you like. I’ll claim it.’

She knew him quite well.

‘I don’t want you whingeing about hunger pangs in a couple of hours—we’ve got a big shopping day ahead of us.’ Ben wished that he could get a little more excited at the prospect. ‘Now, shape up. This weekend is not all about you. Work aside, I need new clothes—and, having unpacked your bag, I know you do. Not least because we’ve barely made an impact on the walk-in wardrobe. I think this suite is bigger than your apartment in London.’

‘Not difficult.’

‘Stop being so antsy.’

‘I’m tired. Blame it on sleep deprivation. You’re the one who felt the need to set an alarm.’

Ali performed her most serious stretch while whistling ‘New York, New York’. It was like watching some freaks’ talent show.

‘And no one asked you to unpack for me.’ Maybe she was rechargeable. A couple of hours plugged into the mains and good as new. Now she was practically bouncing on the spot.

‘It was a pleasure. Love you too.’

The door closed—and opened again almost immediately. What now?

‘Hey, Daddy Warbucks, the Times and the Journal. I want you fully up to speed by the time I get back.’

The thud of broadsheet on carpet preceded the click of the room door and, relieved to finally be alone, Ben exhaled as he closed his eyes and fleetingly imagined himself on the treadmill. He could always go down and surprise her. Just a couple more seconds.

One of the things he loved most about living in England was the fact that everyone he knew talked about going to the gym whilst in the pub and, with the exception of January, they didn’t quite get there. As long as you paid your membership and could theoretically go and work out instead of hitting a bar, you actually felt fitter. And anyway, he always walked up escalators. Well, if he wasn’t carrying heavy bags…

Suddenly dimly aware that he was on the verge of his deepest sleep yet, Ben jerked awake. Sitting up far too fast, a wave of numbing pins and needles swept up his body as he stared at the alarm clock. It had only been a few minutes. Reaching for the remote he allowed himself a quick pre-shower television moment while his body came to terms with the fact that sleeping opportunities were over for the day.

He surfed fast and purposefully. If his career wasn’t going to be spiritually rewarding or making a difference, it could at least be paying better. He needed to be thinking format. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? He did. Such a simple idea. Just sadly not his.

Flicking between MTV and VH1, now he was awake he needed sustenance—even if the only growing he was doing these days was outwards. Leaning over, he tried the bedside drawer—Manhattan Super Pages and a pristine Holy Bible. In a single movement he rolled over to the other side of the bed. Nothing. Forcing himself into the vertical position, he padded across to the desk and checked the drawers.

Bingo. 1 x folder containing everything you would ever want to know about the hotel and its environs, including the extensive Room Service menu, and 1 x nondescript black hardback book. Moments later breakfast for two was on order and Ben was back in the horizontal position. But with the MTV channels on a simultaneous ad break, cartoons and infomercials on almost every channel that wasn’t showing the news, and Ali’s glossy magazines proving to be totally resistible, Ben opened the black book at a random page.

‘If anyone calls from The Carlyle put them through immediately…’

Please. Mel mouthed the word silently as she rolled her eyes at no one in particular from her desk outside Sam’s office.

‘…and I need those file notes typed up as soon as you’ve got a moment.’

‘Will do.’

Sam dialled the next number without even looking at the keypad.

‘Good afternoon, Greenberg Brownstein. EJ Rutherford’s office.’

‘Hi, is she there?’ Sam took another sip of her cranberry juice on the off chance that her nausea might be attributable to dehydration rather than the projection of what just might be in a no holds barred, worst-case scenario. Never before had she wanted to be able to turn back time. Where were Michael J. Fox and his customised DeLorean when she needed them?

‘Who’s calling?’ Standard screening procedure and a success-related perk. When your firm charges you out at nearly four hundred pounds an hour you get a full-time secretary-shaped filter to allow you to select who you speak to.

‘Sam Washington.’

She was through in a nanosecond.

‘Hi, darling. How was NYC? I haven’t been home for way too long.’ EJ kicked her shoes off under her desk, rubbed her tired feet against her ten-denier encased calves and swivelled in her chair to face the window. Blue sky and cold golden sunshine mocked her from the other side of the enormous double-glazed pane that was designed never to open. There might as well have been bars on it. She deserved a break.

‘Not bad.’ Who was she kidding? Sam glanced around the sanctuary of her office. Two hundred and seventy-five square feet of personal space. Almost a direct reflection of the percentage of her life spent at work. Not to mention the millions she’d made for the partners. She definitely needed some sleep and a holiday. Unless she was having a quarter life crisis. In which case she was expecting to live one hundred and sixteen years… Maybe taking golf lessons wasn’t such a stupid idea after all?

‘Did you bring me a Tootsie Roll?’ EJ Rutherford, top corporate lawyer, reduced to seven-year-old child complete with whiny voice at the prospect of her favourite candy.

‘No.’

‘What? Hey, you’re kidding, right?’

‘Sorry—I forgot. Mad rush at the airport. Plus I had Richard with me.’ See, she could do normal. Just another day at the office. And the hotel hadn’t called, so at this precise moment nothing was officially lost, merely missing in action.

EJ regrouped quickly and remained as optimistic as she could under the circumstances. ‘Raisinets?’ The silence spoke for itself. ‘Reese’s Pieces?’

‘You can buy them here.’

‘But they don’t taste the same. Did you say Richard was with you?’

‘They are exactly the same… Yup, he just turned up out of the blue for the meeting.’

‘Jeez. That man has a nerve. You’ve got to hand it to him—he sure is persistent.’

‘I don’t have to hand him anything.’

‘Hey, easy, tiger.’

‘Sorry, it’s been a long week.’

‘So…’ EJ sounded like a child bracing herself for disappointment. ‘Did you bring me anything at all?’

Sam exhaled. This she could handle. ‘I might have copy of W in my computer case…’

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

‘…and a bag or two of Reese’s.’

‘Awesome. Yay. Thanks, darling. You’re the best. I love presents.’

‘They’re one hundred and five per cent fat.’

‘Just because you don’t like peanut butter…’

It was a valid point.

‘Anyway, they taste of home to me.’

‘Give me a fruit & nut any day. You guys have a lot to learn about chocolate and biscuits. I mean, Chips Ahoy? What’s that all about?’

‘They’re cookies.’

‘You are so pedantic.’

‘Look who’s talking…’ EJ trailed off, distracted by a man skilfully pasting a new twenty-four-sheet poster onto the advertising hoarding visible from her window. He was making it look very easy.

‘Anyway, how’s things? Good week?’

‘Just another takeover at the office. Still, at least the weekend is looking pretty safe—although I’m still standing by for final instructions from an American fund on an acquisition. Fancy a bit of supper tomorrow? It feels like ages since we last actually saw each other.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ The more distractions the better.

‘Excellent.’

‘Maybe we could squeeze a film in too?’

EJ watched the young man smooth the final sheet down with his low-tech broom, finally revealing the release date of the film his handiwork was promoting.

‘How about Taking Stock?’ Never underestimate the power of advertising. He wasn’t exactly the Diet Coke man, but it was quite refreshing to see muscles, jeans and Timberlands…and a full head of hair—a pretty rare sight at Greenberg Brownstein, where, it would appear, the success of male employees was intrinsically linked to their being follically challenged.

‘Taking Stock?’

‘Yup.’ EJ squinted at the billboard. ‘“Jim Stock, Wall Street whizz kid, goes missing”—and by the look of the ad campaign it’s going to be big budget and totally unrealistic.’

‘Perfect. Nothing I like more than a bit of global financial meltdown on a Saturday night.’

‘Great, because it’s finally happening. I’m losing touch with popular culture. We so need an extra day in the week. Just imagine—three-day weekends every week, only forty-five weeks a year… It’d be a hell of a lot more popular than the Euro. You sure you’re Okay? You’re very quiet. Unless, of course, you’re just using me as filler while you go through your inbox…’

Sam took her finger off her mouse button. She’d only been skimming a few. Meanwhile the clock on her phone was silently baiting her. 13:36. 08:36 in Manhattan, and they’d promised they’d check first thing. Sam didn’t care about interrupting the sleep of guests who’d paid over five hundred dollars for a night of luxury. Plus it was Friday; most of them were bound to be jogging around the reservoir or knee-deep in a breakfast meeting by now.

‘Did it all go well?’

‘I’m just tired.’ Finally it would appear her physiology was starting to limit her once indefatigable attitude. One of her school reports had called her a human dynamo; now she needed a jump start. Sam rested her forehead on her fist and exhaled.

‘What’s with the yawning? Didn’t you sleep at all?’

‘Hmm?’ To her annoyance, Sam was feeling worse since she’d got to the office.

‘Sleep…on the plane?’

‘A bit. Well, I pretended to so I didn’t have to small-talk my way home, but I had a lot on my mind…’ Her masochistic self wanted to confess, but EJ wasn’t really listening. Sam didn’t begrudge her. They were both experts in self-absorption—plus, since their law school days they’d had an unwritten rule that governed their friendship, outlawing negativity and insecurity. Together they perpetuated strength and success. And Sam hadn’t granted this situation crisis status yet.

‘I know what you mean, honey. What are we like—? Oh, my God!’ EJ interrupted herself. ‘I just have to tell you about last night.’ EJ dropped her voice to an almost whisper. ‘Let me tell you there is only one thing worse than a dinner party full of couples at our age, and that is a singles dinner party thrown charitably by a couple of cohabitees attempting to streamline their Christmas card list. I seriously thought about stabbing myself with a fork during the main course so I could pretend I was coming down with meningitis. Seventy per cent of the men were called Ed, only fifty per cent had hair, forty per cent had talked about their serious ex before dessert and, at a guess, one hundred per cent of them would like to screw a thirty-year-old lawyer, if not marry one.’

‘Well, I’m safe for a few more weeks, then.’

‘Why is it now that we’ve hit our thirties we’re suddenly expected to be grateful for any male attention that comes our way? If it wasn’t so fucking hilarious it’d make you want to cry. It’s all about older men. Obviously it’s better if they’re not married, but…’

Sam’s focus returned. ‘Elizabeth-Jane—you’re not, are you?’

‘No…afraid not. Even though it was the best sex I’ve ever had.’

‘La-la-la. Fingers in ears. Not listening.’

‘Oh, yes, you are. Prude. Just because you haven’t had sex in…’

‘Hey, that’s harsh.’

‘Anyway, Nick’s ancient history.’

‘Just ancient.’

‘He’s only forty-eight…and I haven’t seen or spoken to him in weeks…’

‘Weeks? I thought it was January when you…’ Conscience more stabbed than pricked, and Sam swallowed hard as her error dawned on her.

‘Hey, a girl’s got to live a little…’

She’d had nowhere else to turn. But now, thanks to the blank page and Bic biro approach to secret-keeping, it wasn’t only her personal life currently out there on a pale blue feint line. Sam shook her head as her Friday feeling hit an all-time low. She envied EJ. Having a therapist was no stranger than having a hairdresser if you were American. And you couldn’t accidentally leave a therapist in a desk drawer.

‘I really better get on, honey. I need to sort some stuff out before my tele-con with the LA office. I promise I’ll give you the rest of the story tomorrow. I’m planning to run Hyde Park first thing—call me if you’re interested. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’

Sam was miles away, torturing herself silently with details. Now the phone had gone quiet. Bugger. And she hadn’t actually heard EJ say goodbye.

‘Look forward to…’ Sam stopped herself when the dialling tone cut in, confirming that she was talking to herself. Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared at her computer screen, seeing nothing except imaginary tabloid headlines. Despite her desire to come up with a proactive master plan, all roads currently led to Wait Patiently. Not something Sam Washington had been designed to do. Losing things coming a close second.

As if she’d been waiting for a silence, Mel popped her head round the door. Apparently privacy was an outmoded concept.

‘Three file notes for you to proof, and I’ve brought you some tea. Thought you might need pepping up before your meeting.’

Sam was about to request a herbal alternative, but from the wafts of minty steam knew her secretary had anticipated well.

‘Thanks. Meeting?’

‘Your two o’clock. Fifth floor. Conference room 1. Just thought it might have slipped your mind, what with the not having been to bed thing. I mean, I know your seat practically turns into one, but I imagine it’s not the same.’

‘Right. Yes. I’ll be there…thanks.’ Sam picked up a pen and stared at the papers on her desk. She’d been counting on losing herself in a drafting but the words were just taunting her. As for a meeting…

‘No problem.’ Mel turned as she got to the door. ‘Oh, and your mother rang. Please call her when you get a chance. She said it was fairly urgent.’

‘Will do…’

Sam suppressed her irritation. Despite repeated briefings on the subject, her mother still hadn’t grasped that phoning the office was best kept for emergencies and that organising Sunday lunch didn’t deserve ‘fairly urgent’ classification.

‘Oh and Mel?’

‘Yup?’

‘If The Carlyle Hotel call…’

‘I know, I know. I’ll put them straight through.’

‘Right…’

Conversation closed.

Taking a sip of her tea, Sam brushed her hair, applied a little extra Touche Éclat, a fresh coat of powder, lipgloss and a generous squirt of perfume from the bottle she kept in her desk drawer. Restored to at least a superficial level of normality, she smoothed down her skirt as she got to her feet, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Perfect.

Insecurities filed away in an internal drawer somewhere, she strutted towards the lift. She loved the high-profile deals, and she was getting more and more of them. Youngest partner in the City. She dared to dream. As long as EJ didn’t get there first.

Chapter Two

January 24th

Ben hesitated. Ali hadn’t seen the funny side of him reading her journal, and that had been nearly twenty years ago. But there was a high probability that this one might contain more than high school crushes, exam angst and playground politics. Plus, if he didn’t at least try to identify the author, how was he supposed to reunite the two in exchange for eternal gratitude? Perfect justification. He flicked back to the beginning.

If found please return to:

Flat 3,

68 Warwick Road,

Battersea,

London SW11 8HP

Damn. But breakfast wasn’t due for another forty-five minutes, and he only needed to have a quick shower. After all, he was unpacked already.

Jan 1st

Hungover. Should never have gone to Sophie’s dinner party. Food always fantastic—really must learn to cook properly—but midnight was a bit like watching the slow dance at the school disco. Bed at 4:00 a.m. Resolve to wake up next New Year’s Day without having to apologise to liver, stomach and kidneys for immaturity. Brain seems to have developed pulse of its own. Just waiting for it to burst out of my forehead, Alien stylee.

NY Res:

1. a) Run/cycle round Battersea Park at least 3 x week

b) Register for charity half-marathon. Would like to hit 30 at peak of physical fitness

Ben held his two-pack in. What was it with women and exercise? As far as he could make out they spent most of their schooldays avoiding physical education before devoting their late twenties to single-handedly combating the twin forces of evil—cellulite and gravity—determined to make amends.

2. Posture.

Stand and sit up straight.

Don’t want to become hunchbacked old woman

He sat up a little straighter. Round shoulders were the curse of the comfort generation.

Smile while walking fast. Don’t want to be old and fierce-looking with furrowed brow

3. No carbs. (January only) Fresh fruit x 5 daily. Espec. red peppers and tomatoes—antioxidants

4. Read one Penguin Classic every 2 months

5. Keep legs and bikini line hair-free even in depths of winter—remember am doing it for self

6. Be better friend, however busy at work. Owe Sophie and Mark at least five dinners—prob. more

7. Sort out nuclear winter in window boxes and try and keep them alive for more than two months at a time. Replanting is cheating. Water might help. Think last batch of plants were dodgy. Water. Sun. Photosynthesis. How hard can it be?

8. a) Have great sex

b) Have sex more than once

c) Have sex more than once with the same person

d) That person must be someone you have never had sex with before

9. Pilates or yoga? Research difference

Research difference? Ben scoffed. He was sure one was just the new-fangled version of the one before. It was all a gimmick. New millennium women were exhausting.

10. Streamline wardrobe. Be ruthless. Do not need another pair of black trousers, probably ever.

11. Buy anti-wrinkle cream. Is it too late once wrinkles have started to appear? Ask EJ. She seems to have inside track on new products

12. Buy night repair cream—why do repairs have to take place at night? Is it like roadworks? But no one has to dig anything up, do they?

13. Find tennis coach. Am too old to still have a crap serve

14. Try whisky again. May have grown into it now.

Ben grimaced sympathetically. He’d never understood the allure of cough medicine with ice or water, and despite David’s repeated determination to make him a man, Southern Comfort was as close as he’d managed to get to the whole malt zone.

15. Exfoliate

Liver now feels like is trying to burrow its way out of my back cavity. Sure in desperation it has borrowed water from other vital organs. Can’t rehydrate fast enough and have officially run out of soap operas, Australian, American and otherwise, to watch on apparently numerous digital television channels that I pay for. Hangovers definitely getting worse.

EJ says we have passed physical peak. Wish I’d known when I was reaching the summit. Should’ve had more random sexual encounters. Anyway, who says I need man to rescue me? Am perfectly happy. Wonder how Paul is? Oh, no. Usual downward hangover spiral and selective memory kicking in. Always wouldn’t mind having boyfriend, however unsuitable, on days like today. And if alcohol is a depressant why did I feel so good last night? Lonely. No one has called. Not even Mum. Don’t know why I bother to have answer-machine and call-waiting.

Ben shook his head. If she had just got off her toned arse and headed down to the pub for a couple of Bloody Marys with a buddy or two she’d have been feeling a lot better, he was sure of it.

Must call Sophie and Mark and say thank you. Not now. Probably still in bed. Not sure will make it out of house today. Maybe should add atrophy to list of skills to perfect this year.

All out of empathy, he flicked forward a handful of pages.

Jan 16th

Bad day. 1—Caught myself counting faint lines on forehead in lift mirror at 7:00 a.m. before remembering CCTV memo. 2—Richard called twice about having lunch to discuss my progress—more like his progress. 3— Departmental drinks tonight—decision to have onions in salad at lunch was wrong one. 4—Monster spot brewing on lipline, with roots in central nervous system and fast-track link to tear ducts. Have drenched in tea-tree oil and now whole office smells like aromatherapy zone. Have despatched Mel to buy industrial strength cover-up and air-freshener.

Ben yawned. Just reading her life was exhausting, but no wonder Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones were world-famous. It was mundanely addictive stuff, and without thinking he’d conjured up a mental picture of a black-trousered, ageing, hyper-active hunchback in need of chill-out, pilates and serve lessons.

Hope that someone laughs at early attempt to be witty before I lose will to live or they notice spot. Definitely should not have attempted pre-emptory squeeze. Lip must not swell. Are there genuinely confident people out there or are they just better at bluffing than the rest of us?

Sam sat in the conference room and watched the bubbles in her mineral water lose their battle to cling to the bottom of the glass before forcing herself to concentrate by diligently taking copious notes. Doing her utmost to avoid Richard’s gaze, even though she could feel him observing her from the other side of the table, she channelled all her positive mental powers of retrieval to the other side of the Atlantic.

Jan 21st—Edinburgh

Freezing my tits off despite two fleeces and long sleeved T-shirt. Perfect skiing weather, only there’s no snow and no piste. If I ever have hen weekend it will be somewhere hot and will not involve being hungover in hiking boots. Sunshine is glorious. Wind-chill is positively Scandinavian. Thank God Sophie has opted for London-based traditional drinks, dinner and nightclub approach. Hope Gemma not having some sort of travellers reunion on Designers Guild sofa and has remembered to feed George.

Hard to share after months alone, and probably impossible to ever find someone totally compatible post-Soph. Can’t believe G caught me waxing legs in front of Dolly Parton documentary on Thursday night. Now probably thinks I am some bluegrass nut. And all because I couldn’t face Newsnight. Miss the anonymity. And do miss topless cup of coffee first thing, pre-shower. Maybe am secretly some sort of naturist? Will actively discourage that tendency.

Deal should close next week. Hope EJ is still up for skiing. Can’t believe she is still sleeping with NG after everything he’s put her through. But apparently sex is awesome.

Ben stopped skimming. This was the Holy Grail of diary snooping.

Fact he is so well known has got to be recipe for disaster…not to mention the takeover. Have had serious chat and she’s adamant he’s got more to lose than she has. Therefore she’s safe. She didn’t even buckle at the Hello! spread. Perfect home, perfect children, perfect wife. But you can’t just go shagging the other side. Even if he did make the first move, how could she ever prove it?

A surge of adrenaline powered up Ben’s hard drive as he began to scour his archives. NG… NG…

Can’t believe it’s been on and off for 5 months.

Ben counted back on his fingers to August/September and added the details to his search. Still nothing.

She insists monogamy is flawed. I just don’t want to see her get hurt. Of course if you never over-estimate a man then he’ll never let you down, but she deserves so much more, and it’s not like she needs to be checking in and out of hotels midweek, even if they are all five-star. She claims it’s all on her terms, but how can it be when he dictates where and when? She says this is the future. I am still hoping for more. Seems impossible that is now six years since my last, okay my only serious relationship ended. Wanted period of being single, but not necessarily a lifetime. And what if that was the best I—

A knock, followed by—what was that?—the doorbell?

As he crash-landed back in his world, Ben’s amusement at the fact their room was large enough to merit a bell was only momentary as he heard a key slice into the lock.

‘Coming…’

Momentarily forgetting the breakfast order, he wondered whether this could have been a set-up. The curse of a vivid imagination coupled with mild paranoia. One of the many side effects of being a true creative…along with lower than average salary, propensity towards messiness, predilection for alcohol and the inability to look truly smart even in a suit.

‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ Stuffing the diary under his pillows, Ben strode across the fitted carpet to answer the door.

Disappointingly there was no sign of any food. Instead, a woman power-dressed in a black suit, who looked as if she had been made up enthusiastically by Picasso using a trowel, was waiting patiently, hands clasped to display her freshly manicured nails.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you, sir…’

Ben loved the formality of hotels. Being a paying guest was a prostitution of sorts. Instant respect without having to earn it so long as you had a valid credit card number. Where else would a thirty-something producer for a mediocre television production company, dressed in his underwear, be addressed with such deference? Although somewhat disappointingly she had resisted the urge to bob a curtsey. It wasn’t until he felt her gaze wander to his midriff and back that Ben realised he was only wearing boxer shorts. A cursory glance due south confirmed that nothing was gaping and everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, albeit shrinking rapidly.

‘I can come back a little later if this is a bad time?’ This time she looked him squarely and unblinkingly in the eye, the directness of her stare more than a little unnerving.

‘Really, it’s no problem. What can I help you with?’ Ben folded his arms across his chest to remove the likelihood of his hands accidentally straying to his groin area for a morning scratch. It was either that or hands on hips, which would have looked even stranger and much camper, if not like a little teapot. He would have pulled on yesterday’s jeans if he’d been able to see them. Obviously they were hanging in a wardrobe for the first time in their life. There were advantages to having an interfering older sister, but this wasn’t one of them.

‘It really shouldn’t take a minute.’

‘I was just getting up anyway…’ To his relief, Ben spotted a bathrobe and belted it round him to reduce his increasing feeling of semi-nakedness. But now, with his underwear still on underneath, he might have appeared more decent but he felt like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Lily Savage.

She was still hesitating on the threshold.

‘Really. Come in.’ Taking a step to one side, and with a hospitable sweep of his arm, he finally persuaded her to enter the room and, shoulders back, she strode past him to the bedroom.

Retreating to the sitting room, Ben pulled back a curtain, flooding the room with light. It had been dark when they’d arrived, but now a patchwork of power stretched out below, the long green rectangle of Central Park a perfect contrast to the density of towers midtown that made the New York skyline one of the most distinctive in the world.

The sky was a perfect high-pressure blue, and as the sun reflected off cars and windows, with glimpses of handkerchief-sized stars and stripes blowing in the crosstown breeze over twenty floors below, it was as if the city was twinkling. Surveying the scene, he was overtaken by a sense of pride. He loved London—its quirkiness, its history, its architecture—but the British just couldn’t do skyscrapers. Canary Wharf wasn’t in the same league.

‘I’ve just got to check a couple of drawers.’

‘No problem.’

‘The previous guest thinks she may have left something behind…’

‘Really?’ Ben silenced himself. Each word on the subject only deepened his deception. Picking up the New York Times he forced himself to sit down and act natural. He was an oxy-moron in action. Maybe just a moron. And he might as well have been holding the Times upside down for all the information he was gleaning.

Ben watched and listened over the top of the paper, half expecting the book to fling itself into open view from its inadequate hiding place. But on Tuesday he’d be back in London—or he could hand it in to Reception later. It was a win-win situation.

Sam stared at the Post-It in the centre of her desk. Melanie’s curvy writing filled the primrose-yellow. There had to be a logical explanation. But if she didn’t have it and neither did the hotel…

Her chest was tight. Only a diary. Only a diary. Only a diary… It wasn’t working. If anything, hysteria was tiptoeing a little closer. If she’d wanted to expose her soul to an audience she’d have been a talk-show host, not a lawyer. Yet now someone had the fast-track to her unencrypted inner sanctum and, worst of all, it wasn’t only her privacy that had been invaded.

Sam shook her head vehemently and deliberately. She needed a calming influence. There was only one person for the job. She might have moved out in October to start a joint life with Mark in their little house on the Fulham prairie, but thankfully she was still at the end of the phone.

Sophie eyeballed the phone, daring it to ring. She’d only popped out for stamps, and she’d left return messages for Sam everywhere. Something was up. She couldn’t remember the last time Sam had called her at home in the afternoon. All part of the not-needing-anyone-for-anything charade that she seemed to have successfully perpetuated with everyone who hadn’t met her before she’d finally split up with Paul.

Double-checking she had all the photos and samples she needed for her meeting, Sophie made herself another coffee. As the kettle boiled she stared critically into the mirror, pawing at imperfections only she could see before standing back to allow a more soft-focus view and grimacing to tighten the skin of her neck in an attempt to exercise the muscles responsible for keeping her chin in place.

As Mark swept in to the sitting room, pinstriped from head to toe, newspaper tucked under his arm, a bunch of flowers wrapped in the usual pastel paper from the flower stall outside the tube station, Sophie gave her hair a quick flick and hoped he hadn’t noticed her moment of gurning madness. She was never going to stop men in the street with her looks, but she’d always been attractive enough. And happy enough. It was just—well, what with all the planning for the wedding she couldn’t help becoming a little more self-absorbed and self-conscious…

‘Hello, you. Happy weekend. Smells gorgeous in here.’ Mark presented Sophie with the bouquet and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek before striding over to the oven and peering in. ‘Mmm. Cottage pie. My favourite. You are clever. Lucky me. But only a small dish…’ He looked up. ‘So does this mean you’re abandoning me again this evening?’

‘Only for a few hours. And only for another woman.’

‘Excellent.’

Sophie smiled. Mark’s fantasies were as original as his taste in suits.

‘She’s just inherited four floors of Artex and woodchip in Richmond and needs serious help.’

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘Here’s hoping.’ Sophie walked over to her husband-to-be. His five-thirty shadow was giving him an atypically rugged appeal that she really quite liked. ‘It’s just an informal meeting—a chance for me to introduce myself and give her a few knee-jerk ideas—but at least this way I’ve still got the weekend to myself, and if she likes my recommendations it’s potentially my biggest project yet. Apparently her husband’s loaded.’

‘And hopefully devastatingly unattractive.’

‘Hideous, I believe. Anyway, there must be a good four hours of crucial sport for you to watch on cable until I get back.’

‘Well, they’re repeating the one-day cricket from India…’ Sophie pulled a face. She couldn’t understand the point of a sport in which the quick version took a whole day to play. ‘…plus there’ll be the weekend football and rugby previews, and of course essential tractor-pulling on Eurosport. But first I was planning on getting out of my uniform and having a little rest.’ Mark filled a pint glass with water from the mixer tap, liberally showering himself in the process.

‘Poor you. Have you had a horrible day?’

‘Not too bad, but it’s Friday so of course there was a large lunch to contend with.’

She should have known. His breath was far too minty for this time of the afternoon.

Mark grabbed at his love handles with a contradictory combination of pride and disgust. ‘These must be worth a fortune. Pure sirloin, frîtes and Fleurie.’ He gulped down his water, wiping his mouth on his forearm in the manner of a true nine-year-old. ‘What time are you off, then?’

‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’

‘Don’t go changing…’

It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.

Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’

Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.