I don’t want to follow him when he’s on the phone, he’d definitely think that rude, so I sit at the empty table and twiddle my ring, wishing us back into his studio.

When Miller re-enters the room, he’s still on his phone. He walks with purpose to a stack of drawers and pulls the top one open, removing a leather-bound organiser before flicking through the pages. ‘Short notice, yes, but like I said, it’s not a problem.’ He takes a pen from the drawer and starts writing across the page. ‘Look forward to it.’ He hangs up and quickly flips his organiser shut, placing it back in the drawer. He doesn’t sound like he’s looking forward to it at all.

It’s a few moments before he faces me, but when he does, I see immediately that he’s not happy, even if his face is completely straight. ‘I’ll take you home.’

My back lengthens as I sit up. ‘Now?’ I ask, slighted and annoyed.

‘Yes, I apologise.’ He strides out of the kitchen. ‘Last-minute meeting at the club,’ he mutters, and then he’s gone.

Upset, irritated and wounded, I return to face the perfectly empty table, but then curiosity makes me stand and before I can stop myself, I’m by the drawers, pulling the top one open. The leather-bound organiser is tucked in the bottom right-hand corner, screaming for me to peek, so I study its exact positioning before lifting it out and glancing over my shoulder. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m snooping when I have no right to . . . but I can’t help it. Damn curiosity. And damn Miller Hart for spiking it.

I flick the pages, seeing various notes, but conscious that Miller could rumble me prying at any moment I hastily skip them all until I reach today’s date. And there, in that perfect handwriting, is a note.

Quaglino’s 9:00.

C.

Black suit. Black tie.

I frown and jump all at once, hearing the shutting of a door. Panicked and with a thundering heart, I make a terrible attempt of putting Miller’s organiser back just right. I don’t have time. I dart to the table and sit back down, using every modicum of strength to stop shaking and look normal. C? Cassie?

‘Your clothes are on the bed.’

I turn and find Miller standing in just his boxer shorts, but my mind is too busy racing to appreciate the view. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he says as he leaves me again. ‘Chop-chop.’

Something isn’t right. He’s turned back into the masked gentleman, being all formal and clipped, which is an insult after our time together, especially the past few days. He’s shared something very private and special, and now he’s treating me like a business deal again. Or a hooker. I wince at my own thoughts, knocking the flat of my balled fist on my forehead. What’s Quaglino’s, and why has he lied about it? Uncertainty and mistrust plague me as I fail to prevent my mind from wandering.

I find my phone and pray it hasn’t died. I have two bars, and I also have two missed calls . . . from Luke. He’s called me? Whatever for? He didn’t reply to my text, and that was days ago. I don’t have time to think about it. I clear them and load Google, typing in ‘Quaglino’s’ as I make my way back to the kitchen. When my Internet connection finally decides to give me the information I want, I don’t like what I see: a fancy restaurant in Mayfair, with a cocktail bar to boot. I’m even more wary when Miller strides into the room wearing a black suit and a black tie.

‘Livy, I need to go,’ he says shortly, standing in the mirror and messing with his pesky tie. It was perfect already.

I leave him behind, perfecting on perfect, and hurry to his room, throwing on my jeans and Converse. I’m suspicious, and I’ve never been suspicious because I’ve never had anything to be suspicious about. I don’t like it.

‘Ready?’

I look up and bitterly register how spectacular he looks. He always does, but a three-piece black suit for a meeting at the club? ‘Great,’ I mutter.

‘Are you okay?’ He takes his customary hold of my nape and directs me from the room.

‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, confidence oozing in my tone.

‘Olivia, you’ll be bored to tears.’ He’s not in the least bit fazed by my demand.

‘I won’t be bored.’

‘Trust me, you will.’ He leans down and kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll be drained by the time I’m done. I’ll need you to cuddle, so I’ll come and get you and you can stay with me tonight.’

‘I may as well wait here.’

‘No, you can pack some clothes and I’ll take you straight to work in the morning.’

I scowl to myself. ‘What time will you be done?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll call you.’

I give up and let him push me onward, down the masses of stairs until we arrive at his car in the underground car park. The silence is deathly the whole way home, and when he pulls up outside Nan’s, he undoes his belt and shifts in his seat so he’s facing me.

‘You’re upset,’ he says, reaching over and giving my cheek a gentle brush with his thumb. ‘I have to work, Livy.’

‘I’m not upset,’ I argue, but it’s plainly obvious that I am, although for different reasons than Miller thinks.

‘I beg to differ.’

‘I’ll speak to you later.’

‘You will.’ He leans over and spends a few moments refreshing my memory on what I’ll be missing for the next few hours. It doesn’t improve my mood.

I get out and walk up the path to my house, mind racing, quickly letting myself in and shutting the door behind me. As I knew she would be, Nan’s standing at the bottom of the stairs with the biggest smile on her face.

‘Have you had a nice time?’ she asks. ‘With Miller, I mean.’

‘Great.’ I try to match her smile, but suspicion and uneasiness are crippling me. If it’s work, then why is he meeting her at a fancy restaurant?

‘I thought you were staying the night.’

‘I’m going back out.’ The words fall from my mouth, my subconscious seeming to make the decision for me

‘With Miller?’ she calls hopefully.

‘Yes,’ I reply. Her happiness at the potential news tugs painfully at my fallen heart.

Chapter 23

I slide from the taxi as elegantly as I can, exactly how Gregory showed me. I was torn by how to dress, but having checked Google, it would seem you don’t wear Converse at Quaglino’s, nor do you turn up without making a reservation, but I’m not planning on eating. The cocktail bar, that’s where I’m heading.

The doorman nods and pulls open the glass door by the giant Q-shaped door handle. ‘Good evening.’

‘Hello.’ I straighten my back and pass him, and then go about brushing down the short pale-blue silk dress that Gregory made me buy. Miller may have disdained my hair and make-up, but I specifically remember him saying he liked the dress. And now my hair is back to golden waves and my make-up is natural again, he should be fairly pleased. If he’s with that woman, then I hope he takes one look at me and chokes.

I wince as I take the stairs down to the maître d’, my new nude stilettos pinching my toes. She smiles brightly. ‘Good evening, madam.’

‘Hello.’ I pull a confident tone from nowhere, appearing to be a regular in these types of swanky places.

‘Reservation for?’ She looks down at her list.

‘I’m going to settle at the bar for a cocktail and wait for my date.’ The words roll off my tongue with ease, surprising me.

‘Of course, madam. Please, this way.’ She gestures towards the bar and leads on, taking me around a corner where I have to refrain from letting out an audible gasp.

A marble staircase comes into view, with polished gold handrails and black Qs linking together to form a balustrade on either side, leading down to the huge restaurant, all light and airy, with a stunning glass vaulted ceiling running down the centre. It’s bustling, busy for a Monday night, with groups of people making happy chatter at every table. I’m relieved when I see the cocktail bar is on this level, the glass panels making it easy for me to see below into the restaurant. My eyes are darting around, scanning every corner, but I can’t see him. Have I made a colossal error?

‘May I recommend the cherry and orange Bellini?’ the maître d’ says, indicating a stool at the bar.

I decline her offer of a stool near the back of the bar and take one closer to the end so I can see down below. ‘Thank you. Maybe I’ll try.’ I smile, wondering if I could get away with drinking a glass of water when I’m in such a fancy place wearing a fancy dress.

She nods and leaves me with the barman, who hands me a cocktail menu on a smile. ‘The lavender and lychee martini is so much better.’

‘Thank you.’ I return his smile, feeling more comfortable and at ease now that my body is being supported by the stool.

I cross my legs, keeping my back straight as I peruse the menu, noting the barman’s suggestion has London Dry Gin in the mix, putting it right out of the contest. I smile as I remember my granddad constantly battling with my nan over her gin-drinking habits. He always said that if you wanted a woman to break down on you, feed her gin. Then my smile fades as I recall the last time I drank gin myself.

The cherry and orange Bellini has champagne in it, a clear winner by a mile. I point and glance up at the waiting barman. ‘Thank you, but I’ll have the Bellini.’

‘A man can try.’ He winks and sets about making my drink, while I swivel on my stool and start searching the space below again. A quick scan produces no results, so I begin working my way over each and every table, studying the faces and the backs of heads. It’s silly. I’d spot Miller’s head in a flash mob of a thousand people in Trafalgar Square. He’s not here.

‘Madam?’ The barman pulls my attention back to the bar and hands me a flute, garnished with mint and a maraschino cherry.

‘Thank you.’ I take the glass delicately and take an equally delicate sip under the watchful eye of the barman. ‘Lovely.’ I smile my approval, and he winks again before going to tend to a couple at the other end of the bar.

Turning my back on the bar, I sip the delicious cocktail while considering what on earth I’m going to do. It’s nine-thirty. His meeting was at nine. He’d still be here, surely? And like my phone’s heard my thoughts, it starts ringing from my bag. I panic, quickly setting my drink down and rummaging through my little bag, cringing when I see his name flashing up on my screen. My shoulders meet my ears and every possible muscle in my body tenses as I answer. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m wrapping up shortly. I’ll be with you in an hour.’

I puddle at the bar in relief. I can get my overactive imagination and my overdressed body home within an hour. I’m safe and feeling rather silly. ‘Okay,’ I breathe, taking my drink and having a much-needed slurp. Was I looking at the wrong day in his organiser? In my frantic, rushed state, it’s possible.

‘It’s noisy. Where are you?’

‘Television,’ I blurt. ‘Nan’s going deaf.’

‘Evidently,’ he says drily. ‘Are you ready to de-stress me, my sweet girl?’

I smile. ‘So ready.’

‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Be ready in an hour.’ He hangs up, and I sigh all dreamy and loved up at the bar, quickly necking the rest of my Bellini.

I wave the barman over. ‘Can I settle the bill, please?’

‘Only the one?’ he says, nodding at my empty.

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Shame,’ he muses, passing over a tiny black plate with my bill. I hand over a twenty on a smile. ‘Have a lovely evening, madam.’