“I think so.”
“Shoulders back, chin up, Rice. We’re going in.”
The lift bell chimed and they squeezed in amongst a crowd of sweaty colleagues, riding the short drop to the ground floor lobby until they were disgorged onto its tiled floor, spilling and swelling in the crowds.
John’s face lit in a smile as he rose to meet her.
“You look amazing,” he leaned forward to murmur the words into her ear, “but, I hate to tell you, a little overdressed for where we’re going.” His hand landed on her hip, weighing it down, so warm and heavy. He kissed her just beneath her ear, then paused to breathe in the scent of her hair and skin. “I’ve been dreaming of this,” he said softly. “Dreaming of breathing you in.”
Anna struggled not to fall at his feet in a pool of longing.
“Ready then?” John picked up his jacket and swung it over his shoulder, offering his other arm to Anna, who sailed out of the building on it, feeling like the Queen of Sheba in sparkly stilettos, living the moment in its delirious fullness in case it never came again.
It was early in the summer, and the London air was still warm and as fresh as it ever was, not yet heavy and opaque with grime, even though the inevitable humidity clung to Anna’s skin and threatened to make her light silk dress cling in all the wrong places. Luckily, John was not taking her far. They walked to a hidden side street a few hundred yards from the Recorder building, where a sleek silver Aston Martin convertible lay in wait.
“Oh wow, is that your car?”
John laughed as if amused at Anna’s awestruck tone. “You’ve never been in one of these?”
He bleeped the key as if pointing a laser blaster at an adversary, and turned to her with that breathtaking smile of his. “Then I shall give you the grand tour.”
He helped her into the passenger side, where Anna could not help scrunching her hands in her lap and shivering with excitement. The boys she had known had never helped her into a car—not that she needed help, but all the same—how different a man was to those clueless buffoons. After depositing his jacket on the seat behind, John sli
d in beside her, put a strong hand on the gearstick and leaned over to kiss her cheek before attending to the ignition.
“Hold on tight,” he said. “Don’t look so worried. I’m a careful driver really. It just seems like one of those things you’re supposed to say to a beautiful woman in a fast car. Don’t hold on tight if you don’t want to.”
The car prowled out of the side street and nosed into the City traffic, unable to find its feet in the stop-start of the London rush hour, but that didn’t matter to Anna, who sat back and revelled in the admiring glances. She enjoyed her relaxed view of all the famous landmarks she customarily raced past, with eyes to the pavement, on the way to some urgent appointment or other.
“Do you often drive your car around London?” Anna noticed that most of the other traffic consisted of cabs, buses and motorcycle couriers, that hardly any private cars braved these roads.
“No, I usually commute. I don’t live far out of town. Just bring the car in on special occasions.”
Anna beamed and hugged her knees at the “special occasions.” She was still warm and gooey inside from his “beautiful woman” line. Liam might have the face of an angel and the body of a god, but she couldn’t imagine him ever saying anything like that. He’s a “get your coat—you’ve pulled” kind of guy.
They drove on through the West End, past the theatres with the queues just starting to form, around Piccadilly Circus with its transient population of foreign-language students and teenage runaways, along Piccadilly to the south side of Hyde Park, where the traffic freed up and they were able to bowl along, Anna’s hair streaming in the pleasant breeze as she admired the gracious buildings of Knightsbridge.
“If I’d known, I’d have brought a head scarf,” she commented, putting a hand on the top of her head. “I feel like I’m in a James Bond film. It’s so glamorous.”
“A what film? James Bond?” John seemed bemused.
Perhaps he was too busy concentrating on his driving. She decided to help him out. “Yeah, you know, James Bond. Licensed to kill with gun or bare hand or whatever. And always driving the best cars.”
John seemed to approve of the idea. “Do you really think so? I’m afraid I don’t have a license to kill.”
“Well, that’s good. I think. I don’t really want to be killed.”
“I wouldn’t kill my own sidekick, would I? I was just thinking about what I’d do if any serious supervillains came along.”
“Oh, I don’t know any of those. I think we’ll be okay. Where are we going, anyway?”
Anna had been sure that one of the big Mayfair or West End hotels would be their destination, but now they were crossing Kensington and Notting Hill Gate, travelling north-eastwards again until they were at the periphery of Regent’s Park.
“Aha,” was all John would say. “One of the best dining spots in London.”
Anna settled into her seat and watched John drive. He was, as promised, a careful driver, and he negotiated the sometimes hair-raising city traffic with skill and aplomb, though on a couple of occasions he lost his cool and swore viciously at whichever hapless learner or aggressive cab driver crossed his path. Anna could not drive herself, but admired people who found it easy, having abandoned all efforts to learn after the hundred and second failed three-point-turn. John had rolled up his shirtsleeves and Anna was mesmerised by his strong forearm and wrist, with its chunky, heavy watch, turning the wheel as if programmed to do so, while his other hand hovered about the gearstick when the traffic was slow, or landed rather thrillingly on her thigh or neck when it wasn’t.
I know so little about him, she thought with a tiny shock, as they climbed ever higher towards Hampstead. Should I even be in a car with this man? Where is he taking me? All the dating advice tells you to meet men in a neutral setting, or take a friend, or have somebody call or text one at certain points in the evening, so why am I just taking off with this near-stranger whose surname I don’t even know?