her modelling career was something else altogether. Always cheerful, always punctual, she worked like a trooper and never complained about anything. No supermodel, after all, was ever that indispensable. Hurling insults at chat-show hosts, journalists and horrible hangers-on, and generally acting the drama queen, was a strictly after-hours occupation.
It worked, too, like a dream. She was famous for being a beautiful, acid-tongued bitch, and only the people she cared about knew any different.
And although she’d only just met Guy Cassidy, she had already placed him on the list of people she cared about. They had worked well together, she felt, but it was the tantalizing distance he’d kept which intrigued her more than anything else. Even during the shoot itself —
during which she’d been wearing not very much at all — he hadn’t seemed to notice the lush perfection of her body in the way most top photographers did. The end results had been faultless of course, but as far as Valentina was concerned there was a certain amount of unfinished business to be taken care of. With two short-lived marriages and seven broken engagements behind her, she also felt she had plenty of experience. She’d met her share of Mr Wrongs and got them out of her system. Now, at twenty-five, she was ready for Mr Right. And Guy Cassidy, with his talent, toe-curling good looks and enigmatic personality, was without a doubt right up her street. Better still, he had unceremoniously dumped her arch rival Serena Charlton. It therefore stood to reason, she thought happily, that the man had impeccable taste.
If Guy was surprised to receive her phone call, he didn’t show it. He was, however, curious to know how she had managed to track him down to a small hotel in Leicester Square.
‘Ah, you’re talking to a girl with two and a half GCSEs,’ said Valentina. She wasn’t entirely brainless. Not like Serena, she thought with a smirk of pride.
‘I’m still intrigued.’
‘I knew you were a friend of Mac Mackenzie,’ she explained. ‘So I rang him. He gave me your home phone number. Then I phoned your home and spoke to someone called Maxine. She told me you were staying at the Randolph and gave me the number for that. I called the Randolph, asked to speak to you ... and here I am!’ She giggled. ‘There, does that put you out of your misery?’
Guy, sounding amused, said, ‘Oh, absolutely. Thanks.’
‘Which is nice, because ‘I didn’t even expect you to be here in London,’ Valentina continued, her tone artless. ‘But since you are, how would you feel about having dinner with me?’
He hesitated for a second. ‘You mean tonight?’
‘No, New Year’s Eve, 2005.’ This time she laughed. ‘Of course, tonight. What’s the problem, are you already booked? Tell them you’ve had a better offer ...’
Guy had run across more than his fair share of upfront women in his time, but even he was taken aback. Valentina, he thought, was forward with a capital ‘F’.
‘I know, I know,’ she said good-naturedly, reading his mind. ‘I’m a pushy cow. Go on, you can say no if you want to. My ego will be crushed but I dare say I’ll get over it. In a few years or so.’
It had been a long day. Guy hadn’t been planning anything more arduous than a hot bath and maybe a quick drink in the bar downstairs before grabbing the opportunity of an early night and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But Maxine’s joking remark the other day, that what he needed was a woman in his life, had stayed in his mind. Faintly put out at the time to think that she and Janey had been discussing his imperfect love life, it had nevertheless struck a semi-painful chord. Maybe he should be making more of an effort. All he had to do, after all, was say yes.
‘OK,’ he said, before she started to wonder if he had hung up. ‘Dinner sounds good. Where would you like to go?’
Bed, thought Valentina with a triumphant smile. But even she wasn’t that blatant.
‘The Ivy,’ she replied. ‘Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll meet you outside.’
‘I’d better give them a ring first.’ Reaching across the bed, Guy picked up the phone directory. ‘They may be fully booked.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Valentina laughed, because she was practically their resident tourist attraction. ‘They always find room, for me.’
Heads turned when Valentina di Angelo entered the restaurant. Heralded all over the world as the new Audrey Hepburn, she took the expression ‘gamine’ to its limits. Despite having been born and raised in Tooting, her southern Italian parentage clearly showed; skilfully cropped black hair framed an immaculate, olive-skinned face, conker-brown eyes three times bigger than Bambi’s and possibly the most sensual red mouth on the planet. Around her long, impossibly slender neck she wore a narrow satin choker, a Valentina trademark copied by teenagers everywhere. And if anyone had ever thought it was impossible to look fabulous in a pink leather jacket, lime green Lycra cycling shorts and red trainers, Valentina proved otherwise.
She looked positively angelic, thought Guy, despite the bizarre, Mimi-esque outfit.
Everyone else in the room was covertly watching her. He only hoped she didn’t takeit into her head to object and start creating her usual mayhem.
But Valentina was in high spirits. She was hungry, too. Over a dinner of watercress soup, lamb cutlets and sinfully rich chocolate pudding she set out to prove to Guy Cassidy just how much of a perfect partner she could be. The sense of distance she had noted last week was still there, but it was definitely lessening. Another bottle of Chablis, she felt, could well be all that was needed to do the trick.
‘So how old are your kids?’ she asked, resting her chin in her cupped palm and fixing him with her liquid brown eyes. When a man looked this good in a plain white linen shirt and dark blue chinos the prospect of checking out the body underneath was positively enthralling. ‘It’s a boy and a girl, isn’t it? Have you got any photos I can see?’
‘Josh is nine. Ella’s nearly eight. And photographs of other people’s children are boring.’
Guy, who had a couple in his wallet, kept them there.
‘Don’t be so defensive,’ Valentina scolded, almost disappearing under the table as she reached for her bag. After rummaging energetically, she pulled out a battered leather wallet of her own. ‘Come along now, don’t be shy. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
He smiled. ‘You don’t have any children.’
‘Ah, but I do have an extremely fertile family. Two brothers, three sisters, five nephews and eleven nieces. So grit your teeth,’ said Valentina happily, ‘and
