The Account

Her face set, she walked towards him.

He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.

He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’

The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.

He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’

‘Will you be staying in London long?’

‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’

Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’

‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’

Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.

In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.

‘You’re looking glum.’

‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.

Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’

‘Arrived yesterday.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’

‘You’re sure he recognized you?’

‘Of course.’

Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’

‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.

‘How did he ever hear of him?’

‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’

Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’

‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’

She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.

‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.

‘I brought a dress with me.’

She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.

Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.

Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.

By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.

Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy young man was playing forties melodies on the piano. Blue-jacketed waiters moved among the guests offering canapés and drinks. The buzz of conversation was very loud.

‘Don’t just stand there. Mingle.’

Julia turned. Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s Director of Sales and Marketing, was standing beside her. She smiled. She and Penrose were friends.

‘You’re looking spectacular,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

She nodded.

‘I never want to see you in anything else,’ he said.

He winked at Julia and moved away. Left alone, Julia scanned the room for familiar faces. Someone waved to her from the bar by the window. She recognized Bobby Koenig, an American screenwriter and frequent visitor to the hotel. He was standing talking to an impressive-looking man with grey hair. Julia moved towards him, nodding to people she knew.

‘Julia.’ Koenig grasped her hand warmly. ‘You know this gentleman, of course. He’s paying a fortune for the privilege of staying here. Julia Lang … Robert Brand.’

She was faintly surprised to see Brand there. Although he was not registered under his own name and had requested no publicity, word had soon filtered down through the hotel grapevine that the secretive American billionaire had checked into the Empire Suite.

‘Julia is Publicity Director for the hotel,’ Koenig said. ‘And one of the most eligible women in London.’ He retrieved his champagne glass. ‘She’s single, she speaks fluent Italian and she once got a love letter from Marcello Mastroianni.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’re impossible,’ Julia laughed. ‘Revealing all my secrets. Anyway, it was Alain Delon.’

‘Close enough,’ Koenig said. ‘Both actors.’

During this banter Brand had not taken his eyes from her. She felt vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, she decided, were the darkest she had ever seen. He was an impressive figure in his beautifully cut dark suit. Impressive and handsome.

‘Bobby tells me you have a new manager,’ Brand said.

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘He died. He was the one who brought me here. Andrew Lattimer. A lovely man.’

‘Where were you before?’