Falling for you

‘I’ve been too busy to cook anything. We’ll have to eat out.’

He pulled a face, gesturing towards his pockets. ‘I’m a bit..

‘My treat,’ Estelle said hurriedly.

Well, Oliver’s treat. Better still.

‘Let me just grab a shower first.’ Will gave her a quick kiss. ‘Hey,’ he yelled minutes later from the bathroom. ‘Posh soap!’

Estelle smiled to herself, because it was only Camay. Then again, compared with Will’s beloved Wright’s Coal Tar, presumably any soap was posh. ‘Kate’s missing you,’ said Will. ‘She’s on your side.’

His words brought a lump to Estelle’s throat. It was eight o’clock and they’d come to an Italian restaurant a couple of streets away from Will’s flat. Over fettuccine alla marinara and a bottle of Barolo, he had brought her up to date with the goings-on in Ashcombe.

‘I should ring her, let her know I’m OK.’ Estelle was overcome with guilt.

‘No hurry. Call her in the morning,’ said Will. ‘It won’t do them any harm to worry about you for a change.’

He was right. And he was so lovely. Wondering if she’d ever felt happier, or naughtier, Estelle sat back, heaved a sigh of satisfaction and finished her glass of red wine. Beneath the table, under cover of the cobalt-blue tablecloth, she slipped off one of her shoes and wiggled her bare toes along the inside of Will’s jean-clad thigh.

‘You’re a wicked, shameless woman.’ Will shook his head. ‘I’m being corrupted. Are we having pudding?’

For once, tiramisu wasn’t exerting its irresistible pull. Her toes still wiggling, Estelle murmured,

‘You know, I think I’d rather get back to the flat.’

‘And count cushions?’ Wasting no time, Will signalled the waiter to bring their bill.

Estelle reached happily for her purse. ‘Well, something like that.’

Estelle revelled in the feel of Will’s arm slung around her shoulders as they made their way out of the restaurant. In her whole life, Oliver had never slung an arm around her shoulders in public; it was an altogether too casual gesture for him. Impulsively, she turned and planted a warm, loving kiss on Will’s mouth.

Flash, went a camera somewhere nearby. Well, that was London for you, heaving with tourists snapping away nonstop-

‘What the hell ... ?’ Will, his head jerking back, gazed in disbelief at the man who’d appeared from nowhere on the pavement in front of them. Flash flash flash went the long-lensed camera.

Bewildered, Estelle clung to Will’s arm. Her first thought was that Oliver had hired a private investigator to track her down and spy on her, but how could he possibly have known where to find her? How could anyone have known?

‘What’s this about?’ Will was every bit as flummoxed as Estelle.

‘You’re Will Gifford, right? And that’s Estelle Taylor- Trent,’ said the photographer with a grin.

‘Neat twist, making a documentary about some big-shot businessman then running off with his wife.’

The next moment he was gone, vanished into the crowds thronging the pavement.

‘Shit. Shit,’ Will seethed.

Estelle, shaken up but thinking fast, said, ‘Hey, it’s OK, it’s not as if you stole me away from Oliver. He’s the one with the mistress and the baby.’

For some reason Will wasn’t reassured. ‘But how could this happen?’

Estelle exhaled, fairly sure she knew the answer. ‘I forgot to tell you. A tape arrived for you this morning. It was delivered by someone who works at the editing place. Tall and skinny, in his twenties, funny teeth ...’

‘Garth,’ Will said grimly.

‘Anyway, he recognised me from the tape. I was still in my dressing gown.’ Estelle searched Will’s face. ‘Could that be it?’

‘Oh yes.’ He nodded, unamused. ‘That could definitely be it.’

‘But it doesn’t matter,’ Estelle insisted. ‘I mean, so what if Oliver does find out? It’s not the end of the world!’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Will after a long pause. ‘It’s hardly going to do my career the world of good, but never mind about that. Come on.’ With a rueful nod he took her hand in his. ‘Let’s go home. Ever been on the front pages of the national press before?’

A jolt like electricity zapped through Estelle’s body. ‘Oh God, will I be?’

‘Duh,’ Will teased. ‘My name’s Will Gifford, not Jude Law.’

Estelle squeezed his hand. Feeling ridiculously happy, she said, ‘I’m glad you’re not Jude Law.’

She wasn’t on the front pages of the national press. Will eventually found the photograph the next morning on page seventeen of the Islington and Barnsbury Observer.

‘ Well, that’s OK,’ said Estelle, peering over his shoulder to read the accompanying article.

‘Nobody I know is going to see this.’

‘So long as it doesn’t get picked up. Bloody Garth,’ Will shook his head, ‘blabbing to everyone at work. He thought it was funny, I suppose. I’m sure they had a good laugh about it down at the pub. Then word spreads and some keen young journalist gets to hear about it ... it just doesn’t occur to them that something like this could have consequences.’