The Baby Scandal

Or maybe it was just that trace of smugness tugging the corners of his mouth that made her feel just a tad nervous about what she had agreed to. She was very nearly tempted to snatch the piece of paper out of his hands, rip it into a thousand pieces and then hustle back to her desk. But, with a speed that left her wondering whether the man was a mind-reader, he folded the paper in half, stuck it into his open briefcase, which was perched on the side of the desk, and decisively slammed it shut.

‘Now that’s all settled,’ he said, standing up and shrugging on his jacket, ‘just one or two suggestions before we start work on Wednesday.’

‘On Wednesday?’ she squeaked.

‘Why waste valuable time? No point meeting here. Meet me at The Breakfast Bar in Soho. Here’s the address.’ He scribbled it down for her and she took the paper from him. ‘Eight p.m. sharp. I gather it’s where a lot of young girls hang out when they hit London for the first time. It’s cheap, in the centre of things, and has a reputation for being a useful place to meet people.’

‘How on earth did you find all that out?’

‘I’m clever and talented. Hadn’t you noticed?’ he said in a silky voice, addressing, as it turned out, her downturned head. ‘Anyway,’ he continued crisply, ‘just a couple of suggestions.’

That got her attention. She looked up at him with her peach-smooth skin and wide grey eyes, now holding a hint of a question in them.

‘Dress casually. Jeans, trainers, nothing too…formal. If anything, you’ll want to blend in with some of the girls we’ll be meeting…that way they’ll be more relaxed and more expansive about revealing themselves to a couple of reporters…’

‘How do you know they won’t laugh in our faces and walk away?’

‘I think, actually, they’ll either be flattered or relieved that someone’s taking an interest in them.’ He was by the door now, hand on the doorknob. ‘The way we’ll play this is: questions in the night, and the following evening we’ll debrief over dinner before we start again.’ He smiled at her. ‘And don’t be scared. I’ll look after you.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I DON’T know if I’ll be able to handle this.’

She had rehearsed a long speech about this, had even stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practised, making sure to keep her eyes focused, to try and control the temptation to eat her words, and to appear confident and firm.

Now, sliding into the seat opposite Franco for the first of their so called debriefing meetings, she found that all of her painstakingly contrived self-assurance had vanished through the window. Her words came out in a rush, and from the expression on his face she could see that he thought she was deranged.

To be greeted by someone whose opening remark was, I don’t know if I can handle this, must, she conceded, be a little disconcerting.

‘Would you like a drink?’ was his response, and she looked at him, exasperated.

‘No, I would not like a drink. I would like to say what I have to say.’

‘Go ahead, then.’ He sat back in the chair, left ankle resting on right knee, and proceeded to look at her with an interested, patient expression that made her even more nervous.

They had arranged, the night before, to have their debriefing dinner at a pub in Hampstead, which, at six-thirty, was still virtually empty. A few lost souls were perched on bar stools, drinking in a desultory way, and a few more couples occupied tables, but the crowds would not start piling in until later.

Ruth sat very straight on the chair and pressed her hands into her lap. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about this,’ she began. ‘In fact, I’ve spent most of the day thinking about it…’