The Account

‘So how long are you going to wait?’ he demanded. ‘You’re thirty-three years old. You say you’d like a child. You can’t put it off forever.’

‘Please, Michael, let’s not argue.’ She tried to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Everyone says Sydney is terrific. You’ll have a wonderful time …’

‘Don’t push so hard,’ Michael said. ‘I get the message.’ He looked up sharply as the wine waiter came over with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. ‘That’s not for us.’

‘Compliments of the gentleman over there.’ The wine waiter inclined his head and proceeded to uncork the bottle. Both of them looked across the crowded Grill. In the far window alcove Robert Brand was sitting with a handsome, well-dressed woman who looked to be in her early forties. Brand raised his glass to them.

‘Who’s that?’ Michael demanded stiffly.

Julia felt her face flush. She felt suddenly embarrassed. Why? She had nothing to feel guilty about.

‘Robert Brand,’ she said. As the waiter poured the champagne she raised her glass. ‘Go on,’ she muttered. Michael raised his glass with a bleak smile.

‘How do you know him?’ he asked.

‘He’s at the hotel. I met him at the cocktail party the other night.’

‘Who’s the woman with him?’

‘No idea.’

‘You must have made quite an impression,’ Michael said. ‘This is good champagne.’ He picked up the bottle from the ice bucket and inspected it.

‘For God’s sake,’ Julia said.

‘Cristal. You did make an impression.’ He let the bottle slide noisily back into the ice bucket.

Julia realized Brand must have been sitting there for some time. She felt oddly discomfited. They ate their food in silence. Every time she looked up she was conscious of Brand’s eyes.

‘Look,’ she said finally, ‘I have a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we have an early evening? I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’

‘Fine with me,’ Michael said grimly. He raised his hand for the bill.

On the way out they stopped by Brand’s table to thank him.

‘This is Jill Bannister, my personal assistant,’ he said. ‘I believe you’ve talked.’ The good-looking woman nodded. Brand looked at Julia. ‘Should you be here at the Connaught? Won’t that be construed as consorting with the enemy?’

‘I didn’t expect to be spotted,’ Julia said. ‘Anyway, it’s a good idea to check out the opposition.’ She smiled faintly, aware of Michael sulking by her side. She tried to bring him into the conversation. ‘This is a favourite place of Michael’s.’

‘Well, I trust your dinner was as good as ours,’ Brand said.

‘It was.’ Michael’s tone was stony.

They talked for a moment longer and then went out into Carlos Place. In silence Michael drove Julia back to her flat. At the door he turned to her. ‘You met him just once?’

‘I told you. At the hotel.’

‘He’s interested in you,’ Michael said. ‘Doesn’t try to hide it, either.’

He gave her a brief peck on the cheek before driving off.

When she stepped out of the lift she saw the white box propped against her front door. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed red roses. The card read: Long-stemmed roses for a long-legged lady. R. B.

Julia took them into the kitchen, put them in a vase and placed them on the hall table. If Michael had come up with me he’d have seen the box, she thought. That’s all the evening needed.

But how had Robert Brand found out her address? Careful, Julia, she told herself. Careful …

Two days later Emma walked into Julia’s office with an early edition of the Evening Standard.

‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ she said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Palace requested no publicity when the Queen lunched here yesterday.’

‘That’s normal.’

‘There’s a picture here on page three.’

‘What?’

‘Look for yourself.’

Emma put the paper in front of Julia, open at a picture of the Queen and a man identified in the caption as Sir Miles Cartland leaving the hotel. In the background stood Moscato. The headline ran: Cosy lunch for two at the Burlington. The story accompanying the picture listed what the Queen had eaten for lunch and noted: Afterwards Her Majesty sent her compliments to the chef, Gustave Plesset.

Julia groaned. ‘How did they get this? Moscato must have seen the photographer.’

‘Of course.’

‘You think he did this?’

‘Or his protegée, Miss Ricci?’

‘Whoever it was is a damn fool,’ Julia said. ‘The Queen won’t come here again.’

‘Maybe Mr Moscato thinks it was worth it,’ Emma said. ‘Something for his scrapbook.’

While Emma went out to get sandwiches Julia tried to concentrate on a profile she was updating about the Sultan. Her thoughts kept wandering. She found it hard to believe that Moscato would have been so stupid as to ignore the Palace ruling that the Queen’s private lunches were to be treated as exactly that – private. And yet …

At that moment the phone rang.

‘Hello again, Miss Lang.’ It was Jill Bannister on the line. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you would care to see the new Pinter play, which opens tonight? He has two tickets.’

Julia hesitated. Clearly someone else had let Brand down. ‘I realize it’s short notice,’ Jill Bannister continued, ‘but Mr Brand only returned from Rome an hour ago. I was able to get two cancellations.’

‘He gets around, your boss,’ Julia said.

‘Yes, he does.’