A Vintage Affair: A page-turning romance full of mystery and secrets from the bestselling author

Maybe this chap Guy would be a better bet, I thought as I rummaged in a drawer for Emma’s napkins.

‘Guy is perfect,’ she said as she opened the oven, releasing a burst of steam and an aroma of roasting lamb. ‘He’s the one, Phoebe,’ she said happily.

‘That’s what you always say.’ I began folding the napkins.

‘Well, this time it’s true. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t work out,’ she added gaily.

I stopped mid-fold. ‘Don’t be so silly, Em. It’s not even as though you’ve known him that long.’

‘True – though I know what I feel. But he’s late,’ she wailed as she took the lamb out to rest it. She thumped the Le Creuset meat dish down on to the table, her face a mask of anxiety. ‘Do you think he’s going to turn up?’

‘Of course he is,’ I said. ‘It’s only eight forty-five – he’s probably just been held up at work.’

Emma kicked shut the oven door. ‘Then why didn’t he phone?’

‘Maybe he’s stuck on the tube …’ Anxiety contorted her features again. ‘Em – don’t worry …’

She began basting the meat. ‘I can’t help it. I’d love to be calm and collected like you usually are, but I’ve never had your poise.’ She straightened up. ‘How do I look?’

‘Beautiful.’

She smiled with relief. ‘Thanks – not that I believe you, as you always say that.’

‘Because it’s always true,’ I said firmly.

Emma was dressed in her usually eclectic way, in a Betsey Johnson floral silk dress, with canary yellow fishnets and black ankle boots. Her wavy auburn hair was held off her face by a silver band.

‘And does this dress definitely suit me?’ she asked.

‘Definitely. I like the sweetheart neckline, and the silhouette’s flattering,’ I added, then instantly regretted it.

‘Are you saying I’m fat?’ Emma’s face fell. ‘Please don’t say that, Phoebe – not today of all days. I know I could do with losing a few pounds, but –’

‘No, no – I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re not fat, Em, you’re lovely, I just meant –’

‘Oh God!’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I haven’t done the blinis!’

‘I’ll do them.’ I opened the fridge and got out the smoked salmon and the tub of crème fraîche.

‘You’re a fabulous friend, Phoebe,’ I heard Emma say. ‘What would I do without you,’ she added as she began sticking bits of rosemary into the lamb. ‘Do you know’ – she waved a sprig at me – ‘we’ve now known each other for a quarter of a century.’

‘Is it that long?’ I murmured as I began to chop the smoked salmon.

‘It is. And we’ll probably know each other for, what, another fifty?’

‘If we drink the right brand of coffee.’

‘We’ll have to go into the same old people’s home!’ Emma giggled.

‘Where you’ll still be getting me to check out your boyfriends. “Oh, Phoebe,”’ I said in a crotchety voice, ‘“he’s ninety-three – do you think he’s a bit old for me?”’

Emma snorted with laughter then chucked the bunch of rosemary at me.

Now I began grilling the blinis, trying not to burn my fingers as I quickly turned them over. Emma’s friends were talking so loudly – and someone was playing the piano – that I’d only dimly registered the ring of the door bell, but the sound electrified Emma.

‘He’s here!’ She checked her appearance in a small mirror, adjusting her hair-band; then she ran down the narrow staircase. ‘Hi! Oh, thanks,’ I heard her squeal. ‘They’re gorgeous. Come on up – you know the way.’ I’d registered the fact that Guy had been to the house before – that was a good sign. ‘Everyone’s here,’ I heard Emma say as they came up the stairs. ‘Were you stuck on the tube?’ By now I’d assembled the first batch of blinis. Then I reached for the peppermill and vigorously turned the top. Nothing. Damn. Where did Em keep the peppercorns? I began to look, opening a couple of cupboards before spotting a new tub of them on top of her spice rack.

‘Let me get you a drink, Guy,’ I heard Emma say. ‘Phoebe.’ I had taken the seal off the peppercorns and was trying to prise off the lid, but it was stuck. ‘Phoebe,’ Emma repeated. I turned round. She was standing in the kitchen, smiling radiantly, clutching a posy of white roses: just behind her, framed in the doorway, was Guy.

I looked at him in dismay. Emma had said that he was ‘gorgeous’, but it had meant nothing to me as she always said that, even if the man was hideous. But Guy was heart-stoppingly handsome. He was tall and broad shouldered, with an open face and fine, evenly spaced features, dark brown hair that was cut endearingly short and dark blue eyes that had an amused expression in them.

‘Phoebe,’ Emma said, ‘this is Guy.’ He smiled at me and I felt a little ‘thud’ in my ribcage. ‘Guy, this is my best friend, Phoebe.’

‘Hi!’ I said, smiling at him like a lunatic as I wrestled with the peppercorns. Why did he have to be so attractive? ‘God!’ The lid suddenly came off the peppercorns and they shot out in a black arc then scattered like gunshot across the worktops and floor. ‘Sorry, Em,’ I breathed. I grabbed a brush and began vigorously sweeping, if only to disguise my turmoil. ‘I’m sorry!’ I laughed. ‘What a twit!’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Emma said. She quickly put the roses into a jug then grabbed the plate of blinis. ‘I’ll take these in. Thanks, Phoebes – they look lovely.’

I’d expected Guy to follow her, instead of which he went to the sink, opened the cupboard underneath and got out the dustpan and brush. I registered with a pang the fact that he knew his way round Emma’s kitchen.

‘Don’t worry,’ I protested.

‘It’s okay – let me help you.’ Guy hitched up the knees of his City trousers then stooped down and began to sweep up the peppercorns.

‘They get everywhere,’ I wittered. ‘So silly of me.’

‘Do you know where pepper comes from?’ he suddenly asked.

‘No idea,’ I replied as I stooped to pick up a few in my fingertips. ‘South America?’

‘Kerala. Until the fifteenth century, pepper was so valuable that it could be used in lieu of money, hence “peppercorn rent”.’

‘Really?’ I said politely. Then I pondered the weirdness of finding myself crouched on the floor with a man I’d met a minute earlier, discussing the finer points of black pepper.

‘Anyway,’ Guy straightened up then emptied the dustpan into the pedal bin. ‘I guess I’d better go in.’

‘Yes …’ I smiled. ‘Emma will be wondering. But … thanks.’

The rest of the dinner party passed in a blur. As promised, Emma had put me next to Guy, and I struggled to control my emotions as I politely chatted to him. I kept praying that he’d say something off-putting – that he’d just come out of re-hab, for example, or that he had two ex-wives and five kids. I’d hoped that I’d find his conversation dull, but he only said things that increased his appeal. He talked interestingly about his work, and of his responsibility to invest his clients’ money in ways that not only were not injurious, they could even be positive in their effect on the environment and on human health and welfare. He spoke of his association with a charity that was working to end child labour. He talked affectionately about his parents and his brother, whom he played squash with at the Chelsea Harbour Club once a week. Lucky Emma, I thought. Guy seemed to be everything she’d claimed him to be. As the meal progressed she frequently glanced at him or made passing references to him.

‘We went to the opening of the Goya exhibition the other night, didn’t we, Guy?’ Guy nodded. ‘And we’re trying to get tickets for Tosca at the Opera House next week, aren’t we?’

‘Yes … that’s right.’

‘It’s been sold out for months,’ she explained, ‘but I’m hoping to get returns online.’

Emma’s friends were gradually picking up on the connection. ‘So how long have you two known each other?’ Charlie asked Guy with a sly smile. The words ‘you two’, which had produced in me a stab of envy, made Emma blush with pleasure.

‘Oh, not that long,’ Guy replied quietly, his reticence seeming only to confirm his interest in her…