‘Yes. He said it was terribly important you came. He’s covering it, said to tell you he’d look after you.’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ said Alice irritably.
‘I know. But Charlie might.’
‘Josh has offered to look after Charlie?’
‘Yes – if he has to.’
Diana was late arriving at the Berkeley. It was not entirely intentional; indeed, she was renowned in her social circle for arriving slightly too early for her hostess’s comfort. But she had spent too long packing, partly because she kept stopping to rehearse what she was going to say to Leo Bennett, and then had trouble getting a taxi. So that by the time she arrived at the restaurant, it was one fifteen rather than the agreed one o’clock and her hair was uncombed, her nose unpowdered. The ma?tre d’ bowed and said the gentleman had only just arrived himself, which was at once soothing and irritating since clearly he would have been late if she had not. The combination of those emotions, combined with the further complications of still not being quite sure what she was going to say, made her mildly cross, and when she was cross her dark eyes became even more brilliant, her lovely mouth a little fuller. Leo Bennett, therefore, found himself almost shocked by her beauty. And she, for her part, taking the hand held out to her, was aware of only one thing: not (as she absorbed later) his dark blonde hair, nor his almost navy blue eyes, nor his height (considerable), nor his suit (grey, perfectly cut), but only that her knees, which had, until that moment, been their normal strong selves, had become strangely weak.
‘Miss Southcott,’ he said, bowing very slightly over her hand, then waiting while she removed her coat and gloves, retaining her hat, and settled herself onto her chair before smiling at him graciously across the table.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I’m flying out to New York this afternoon, as I think I told you, and my packing got the better of me.’
‘How very smart,’ he said. ‘To be flying to New York. Do you know it well?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s my first visit. So I’m very excited.’
‘I expect you are. Where are you staying?’
‘The Pierre.’
‘Ah, New York’s finest. You will suit one another,’ he added, his extraordinary eyes smiling very deeply into hers. ‘Now, would you like a glass of champagne while we order, or are you a cocktail girl?’
‘Both, please,’ she said. ‘That is, a Buck’s Fizz, if I may.’
‘Of course. Now, just so you know, they are called Mimosas in New York.’
‘Oh – thank you. Useful information, as I intend to be drinking quite a lot of them. But I think I should warn you, you might not want me to order anything, because I’ve decided I don’t have a story for you after all. I did consider just cancelling on the telephone, but I decided that would be cowardly and ill-mannered and I do try very hard to be neither.’
Leo Bennett turned to the waiter, who had been listening to this with some interest, and said, ‘One Buck’s Fizz, please, and one vodka Martini,’ then turned back to her and said, ‘I’m sure you are never either cowardly or ill-mannered and I am also sure that we shall enjoy our lunch very much whether you give me a story, or recite nursery rhymes –’
‘Not sure about nursery rhymes,’ she said, ‘but I am rather good at Winnie-the-Pooh –’
‘I too. Maybe we could do a duet; you can be Kanga and I will be the bear of very little brain –’
‘Very well. Although I like Tigger –’
‘But he’s a boy –’
‘He is indeed. I like playing boys. Being tall, I always had to be the boy when we did ballroom dancing at school, and whenever I took part in the pantomime in the village hall, I was principal boy.’
She smiled at him; now that she was sitting down, her legs seemed restored to their normal strength. He was extraordinarily good-looking though, and charming, and fun; bit of a treat for lunch.
While he, for his part, though fairly annoyed, was in no way inclined to tell her so. There was always another story and there was always an alternative route to it, having been given the faintest trail. Had she been plain, or dull, or badly dressed, he would have felt more than fairly annoyed, but it was a long time since he had met someone who was not only beautiful, but charming and intelligent, and she seemed, therefore, to be of more value than her story. Which might, in any case, be of no value at all he reflected (although given her intelligence and obvious sophistication, that seemed unlikely).
‘Well – that’s very nice of you. But you must let me pay for my own lunch; I’m clearly not earning it.’
‘Miss Southcott –’
‘Diana, please.’
‘Diana. I am gentleman enough to find the very thought of a lady buying her own lunch – while sitting at my table, that is – extremely disquieting.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you. Thank you.’
‘I’m sure it will be my pleasure. Now, what would you like to eat?’
Diana really had had no clear idea as she rushed into the restaurant late what she was going to do about her Tom story, but as she followed the ma?tre d’ to the table, she had discovered she knew with absolute clarity. It had nothing to do with her fondness for Tom (considerable), or her concern for his career (negligible), or her sympathy for Alice (debatable); it was all about Ned.
Diana was used to people admiring her looks, her sense of style, her breezy courage, her willingness to work until she was beyond exhaustion, but she was quite unused to them admiring her character. Most people indeed did not admire it at all, she knew; and especially in Yorkshire, where they felt quite the reverse, her self-esteem had plummeted to painfully low levels. But having Ned, good, kind, morally upright Ned, who she genuinely loved and admired so much, tell her he knew she would never do anything bad, never try to hurt anyone, had had a profound effect on her; she had lain awake for a long time, smiling into the darkness, savouring that moment, that pronouncement, and hoping, rather hopelessly, that it was true.