answered it. The next moment, grinning, he rang off.
‘That was Dan, one of the directors of BilCom. Seems they spent last night celebrating being in London away from their wives. They got totally plastered, ended up in some strip joint and ate some dodgy chicken. Apparently they’ve all spent the night bringing their boots up. So the meeting’s cancelled.’ He dropped the phone back on the bed and pinched Liza’s bottom.
‘Hooray for dodgy chicken.’
‘What’ll you do instead?’ She darted out of his way as he began unfastening her skirt.
‘Ah well.’ Kit’s yellow eyes regarded her with teasing amusement. ‘Since I’m not allowed to do what I really want to do, I may as well come to Beaujolais with you.’
‘I’ve only booked a table for one.’
Her copy of the latest MICHELIN GUIDE lay open on the dressing table. Kit found the number of the restaurant and dialled it. When he switched off the phone he said, ‘There, no problem.
Table for two.’
Liza did up her zip.
‘Better put some clothes on first.’
Beaujolais was red and white, big and brash, and sported the obligatory volatile chef. A hugely popular meeting place for models and actresses, it was never without its share of paparazzi.
Every so often the surly chef would erupt from his kitchen to hurl abuse at them, which kept everyone entertained. If they ever showed signs of defecting to the pavements outside other celebrity restaurants, he wooed them back with free meals.
Liza recognised the maitre d’ from her editor’s curt description: ‘Middle-aged. Ugly too. Looks like he’s got a wasp down the back of his shirt and a poker up his bum.’ Her brief concern, however, that he might be sufficiently appalled by her drabness to refuse her entry, was soon swept away. He couldn’t have been more welcoming.
Confused, Liza murmured, ‘He can’t possibly have recognised me,’ as they were seated.
Kit grinned.
‘He hasn’t recognised you.’
She looked at Kit, so handsome in an indigo shirt and beige chinos and with his dark hair still damp from the shower. ‘I know,’ said Liza. ‘He fancies you.’
‘Wrong again.’ Kit grinned. He reached across and patted the tweedy sleeve of Liza’s jacket. ‘He fancies you.’
‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my editor,’ said Liza an hour later. Not only had the maitre d’ been charm itself, she had barely been able to find fault with their lunch. The menu was unpretentious, the food expertly cooked and presented with understated elegance.
‘I hope the meal is to your satisfaction,’ murmured the maitre d’, materialising at their side.
Somehow he managed to ignore Kit completely.
‘He was looking at your hand, to see if you’re wearing a wedding ring.’
Liza didn’t find it as amusing as Kit. She was beginning to get a complex about looking old.
Damn, she really wished she hadn’t worn her disguise today. Even being recognised would be preferable to this.
‘He’s still not sure about me,’ Kit confided in a whisper. ‘Next time he comes over I’ll call you Auntie. Then he’ll know the coast’s clear. Bet you a tenner he asks for your phone number before we leave.’
The next moment they both turned as a girl’s breathless voice squealed, ‘Kit Berenger! What are you doing here?’
Recognising her, Kit started to laugh. Liza’s heart sank. The girl, brown-eyed and with hair cut in a glossy burgundy bob, was as thin as a bit of spaghetti. She was wearing pink shorts, a minuscule black rubber waistcoat, black lacy tights and patent leather boots with spiked heels.
‘Never mind what I’m doing here,’ Kit told her, as she threw her arms around him, ‘what are you doing wearing stuff like that?’
‘Bloody old fogey,’ retorted the girl, undaunted. ‘What do you want me to wear, a tweed skirt and lace-ups? Oh ... sorry.’ She turned and grinned at Liza, a friendly, uncomplicated grin revealing flawless white teeth. ‘Foot-in- mouth time again! I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal. I was at college with Kit.’ Holding out her hand she added, ‘I’m Abby. Hi.’
The maitre d’ was hovering within earshot.
Kit said, ‘Abby, this is my Aunt Elizabeth.’
As Liza dealt with the bill, Abby rushed up again.
‘Hey, you two! Listen, Oliver has to get back to his office, but I’m free. How about catching up on old times over a drink? We could go to the Pyramid bar, it’s just round the corner.’
As the maitre d’ had managed to exclude Kit earlier, so Liza found herself being ignored now.
She willed him to say no.
But Kit, clearly tempted, gave Liza a ‘shall we?’ look in return.
‘Come on, let’s go for it!’ This time Abby touched Liza’s arm. ‘They do brilliant cocktails.’
Laughing, she added, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you, won’t we, Kit? We won’t let you get squiffy!’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Kit, ‘a couple of cocktails and Aunt Elizabeth’s a different person.’
