Simon was coming out of the gents when he saw the dark-haired girl’s companion leaving, slipping out the side door of the wine bar. Simon glanced across the room. She was still at the table. She seemed lost in thought, features in neutral. Simon went back to his friends, but his thoughts stayed with the girl, wondering what had happened, what had gone on between her and the man. He saw her turn and glance in the direction of the gents, and noticed the bill on the table. Then it dawned on Simon. She didn’t realise he’d walked out on her. Cheap bastard, dumping her with the price of a half-bottle of champagne and a plate of sandwiches.
Simon caught the attention of the waiter behind the bar. ‘The girl sitting over there by the pillar. I’d like to settle her bill.’
The waiter nodded. He rang up the tab, and Simon paid with his card. He watched as the waiter went to her table.
Rachel glanced up in surprise as the waiter picked up the bill. ‘Sorry – we haven’t paid yet.’
‘Gentleman over there paid.’ The waiter nodded in the direction of the bar. A tall, lanky man with light-brown hair, who had clearly been waiting for her to catch his eye, came over and sat down.
‘Your friend left, I’m afraid, sticking you with the bill. Not very gentlemanly.’
Rachel’s surprise was only momentary. Of course Andrew Garroway had left. Why wouldn’t he? Clearly for him online dating was just a way of finding lonely, compliant women to sleep with. Still, she felt an icy shock of humiliation.
‘I can pay my own bills, thanks.’ She fished in her bag for her wallet. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing. I was happy to do it. Truly. I’m glad he left. It gives me a chance to get to know you. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you walked in.’ Simon had astonished himself. He hadn’t intended to say what had been in his mind, but looking into her perfect face, her amazing eyes, it seemed easy and obvious.
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t especially want to get to know you.’ Rachel put two twenties on the table, got up, slipped on her coat and left the wine bar. The chilly street air felt cleansing. She strode across Leadenhall Street in the direction of her office, her heart thudding with shame and anger. Did every man in London think she could be bought for the price of a sandwich and a glass of champagne? As soon as she got home tonight she would remove her profile from every single one of those ridiculous dating websites. She must have been mad to let Sophie talk her into it.
She reached her office building and swung open the glass door. Stepping into the vestibule, she headed for the lift and stabbed the button, exchanging a nod with the security guard on the desk.
‘Hold on,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Won’t you at least talk to me?’
She turned round. The tall young man from the wine bar was standing there, wearing a baffled, almost desperate expression.
‘Look,’ said Rachel, ‘I’ve had an encounter I’d rather forget about, and now I just want to get back to work. I suppose you thought you were doing me a favour, paying the bill, but I didn’t ask you to. OK?’ The lift arrived and she stepped into it. Simon put out a hand to stop the doors closing.
‘All I wanted to—’
The security guard came forward and interrupted him. ‘Excuse me, sir. I take it you have business in the building? If so, you’ll need to sign the visitors’ book and get a pass.’
Simon watched as the lift doors closed on the woman of his dreams. ‘No,’ he said to the doorman. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
The lift took Rachel to the fourth floor, where she went to her office and closed the door.
An hour later, Felicity was arriving at Vince’s mum’s council house in Deptford. Denise lived in a shabby, pebble-dashed box opposite a villainous-looking comprehensive school surrounded by a high wire fence. Most of the small front gardens of the houses in the street were overgrown, weedy repositories for discarded household items, but Vince’s mum’s front garden was tidy and well tended, with a low, plastic-linked chain fence. As she stood on the doorstep, Felicity wondered how many people were likely to turn up to a welcome-home party for an ex-con on a weekday. In Vince’s world, maybe more than a few.
Denise answered the doorbell dressed in a short lycra skirt, black tights, and a plum-coloured satin blouse. On her feet she wore fluffy house slippers. Her hair was dyed an extravagant orange-red, and her long, square-cut fingernails were intricately painted and studded with tiny jewels. She was still good-looking for a woman in her mid fifties, but the clothes were too young, and the make-up too much.