‘Once this damn court case is over, win or lose, I’m going to start my own business. Cranley’s right about one thing, there’s bugger-all money in teaching.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Marco. ‘Two good mates of mine were first-round investors in Avenues. They both made a fucking mint.’
‘Avenues?’ Tati looked blank.
‘You know. The new hot school in Manhattan? Suri Cruise goes there. They’ve got a waiting list as long as your arm. I’m telling you, the guys who started that thing are printing money.’
It was a throwaway line, and the conversation had swiftly moved on. But Tati had thought a lot about Marco’s comment since that night – almost as much as she’d thought about his hot body underneath that bespoke Savile Row business suit. This evening was a date, but she saw no harm in killing two birds with one stone.
Happily, neither did Marco. ‘All right,’ he said obligingly. ‘What do you want to know?’
Tati wanted to know everything. Whose idea was it to start the school, how much seed money had they needed, did anyone have a background in education, what fees did they charge, how had they come up with that number, what was their marketing strategy? By the time they’d finished the oysters and their first courses had arrived, Marco had got the message.
‘You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re thinking of setting up a school?’
‘I’m curious,’ Tati said cautiously. ‘I won’t know what the future holds till after September. But it’s something I’m considering.’
Marco took a slug of champagne. ‘You need a concept. It’s a bit like opening a restaurant. You need something that sets you apart from all your competitors.’
Tati nodded.
‘Do you have one?’
‘I might.’ A small smile flickered flirtatiously across her lips.
‘You also need money. A lot of money.’
‘Ah.’ Tati’s smile faded.
‘That’s the biggest drawback, I think,’ said Marco. ‘It’s not like other ventures where you can put your toe in the water for a couple of hundred grand. There’s no way to get into the schools business without a whopping initial investment. You need the real estate, the facilities, the staff, the insurance – all of that jazz – before you even think about the marketing strategy. And marketing’s the key, of course. If you don’t hit the ground running and fill all your places from the day you open the doors, you’ve had it. You’re deep in the hole, right off the bat.’
‘Hmm.’ Tatiana fell silent. Marco watched her mind working while she toyed with her seabass and thought for the hundredth time how badly he wanted to get her into bed. He appreciated intelligent, ambitious women. His last two girlfriends had been models – gorgeous girls, and very sweet, both of them, but ultimately the lack of challenge had bored him. Katia had assured him that Tati Flint-Hamilton did not fit this mould.
‘The last chap I knew who dated her said it was like putting your dick in a honey-pot and your heart in a shredder.’
‘Better than the other way around,’ Marco observed drily.
‘She’ll eat you for breakfast.’
‘When?’ Marco asked hopefully. He’d waited the better part of four weeks. That was quite long enough.
‘That’s enough business talk,’ he announced firmly, declining the dessert menus and signalling for the bill. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘And go where?’ Tati asked archly.
‘You’ll see.’
‘Salsa?’
At the grand old age of twenty-four, Tatiana liked to think it took a lot to surprise her. But when Marco asked the cab driver to stop outside a basement bar and club just off Kensington High Street, she looked at him in astonishment.
‘Not just salsa. They do all kinds of dance here – flamenco, you name it.’ He paid the cabbie and bundled her onto the street. It was ten thirty and cold for a summer’s night. There was no moon but the streetlights burned too brightly to see any stars. You’d see all of them in Fittlescombe, Tati thought briefly. Not that she wanted to be anywhere but here, with Marco.
‘I thought we were going to bed.’ She leaned into him, relaxed at last after half a bottle of Bollinger.
‘We are. Later. Come on.’