Chapter Five

As senior management meetings went, I’d seen worse. But I’d also seen a lot better. My notes could have provided a case study in dictatorial leadership.

For a start, the content bore little resemblance to the official agenda; Jack Smith seemed to think that being chair allowed him to pursue one of his own. Even worse, his dominant style made sure that all communication was channelled through him – a breeding ground for cliques and corridor conversations outside the meeting.

When he introduced me as his executive coach, interest rippled round the table. To my relief, it was short-lived; once the meeting got under way, the other directors soon forgot I was there and I could observe their dysfunctional team behaviours more freely.

The only other woman in the room was Betsy, who took the minutes and made valiant attempts at keeping the meeting on track. This was the homely PA I’d noted on my previous visit, and I watched closely how she and her boss interacted. No sign of any innuendo-filled banter from him, and she was more like a mother hen trying to control her large and demanding chick.

Needless to say, the meeting lasted far too long. Even the lunch did little to revive the flagging energy levels, consisting as it did of stilted informality and two courses of local stodge. I toyed with the steak and potato pie, and refused outright the jam roly-poly pudding. By four o’clock, everyone except Jack Smith seemed exhausted.

I waited until we were back in his office before I spoke to him. ‘When would you like to discuss my observations on the meeting?’

He beamed at me. ‘Went well, didn’t it?’

Had we been in the same room? ‘What specifically do you think went well?’ I said, squeezing some neutrality into my voice.

Not enough, apparently, because his smile faltered. ‘We got through the agenda, didn’t we?’

‘You got through an agenda, but I would dispute whether it was the one everyone had in front of them. Would you like to discuss this now?’

The merest hesitation; then, ‘Sorry, I’ve got to catch up on some paperwork with Betsy. We can have a review over dinner.’

It wasn’t a question, more a statement – an assumption, even – and I felt my face stiffen. ‘I don’t usually—’

‘Oh well, it’s up to you,’ he put in, with a shrug. ‘We can always stay here. There’ll be no one to disturb us, I’m usually the last one to leave the office.’

I gave in to a little sigh of frustration. We definitely needed the review today, while it was all still fresh. Which left me two options to consider: being on my own with him here, or having dinner with him in a public place. With anyone else, I’d have simply stayed where I was and finished the day’s work; but somehow with him that presented a bigger challenge …

‘We’ve both got to eat sometime,’ I said abruptly, ‘so I suppose I’ll have to say yes to dinner.’

He burst out laughing. ‘Such enthusiasm! I’ve a good mind to whisk you off to the local greasy spoon for Grimshaw’s best tripe and onions.’

‘You can take me where you like, I don’t have to eat the food.’

‘Don’t be daft – if you’re not going to eat, we may as well stay here. Anyway, you need a decent meal – you hardly ate a thing earlier.’

‘Ah yes, lunch.’ I grimaced. ‘Or should I say death by carbohydrate.’

‘Never did me any harm.’

That was debatable, but I refrained from saying so.

I spent the next two and a half hours in Betsy’s room, typing up a more detailed note of my observations and checking my emails. From time to time I broke off and listened to the voices next door, Jack’s bass tones alternating with Betsy’s quiet murmur. I’d met her type so often – the ideal PA, smoothing the wrinkles out of her boss’s day before he even noticed them. I suspected, however, that her magic powers didn’t extend to his personal life.

And then the voices stopped altogether. Betsy came back to tidy her desk, and we exchanged goodnights. I’d just packed away my laptop when he sauntered into the room in his shirt sleeves, jacket hooked over one shoulder, smile full on.

‘Ready to go? We’ll take my car – unless you want to follow in yours?’

‘Not really, mine’s two hundred miles away.’

‘How did you get up here, then?’

‘Let me see … My broomstick’s having its MOT, so I must have got the train, mustn’t I?’

A laugh, low and long. ‘Careful, that sense of humour’s showing again. Okay, I’ll run you to your hotel afterwards.’

‘No need, I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Give me a break, Alicia.’

In reply, I picked up my bag and made for the door. Whether his words were a meaningless aside or a serious request, it was best to leave well alone.

We went down the monstrous staircase and out into the sticky evening air. I’d have picked out his big flashy car instantly, even if it hadn’t been parked in the chief executive’s designated space. He opened the passenger door and held out his hand for my bag. I gave him my jacket, too – but felt no cooler in my long-sleeved, high-necked shirt. I almost suggested we went back to my hotel so that I could change – except that he might take that as blatant encouragement. I fastened my belt, settled back into the leather seat – and found that it reclined a little too much for my liking. I searched quickly for a lever to adjust it.

‘Need some help?’ The black velvet was back, and threaded with amusement. ‘Which way do you want me to adjust it?’

‘Upright, of course,’ I said edgily, banishing any thoughts of the alternative. As a further precaution, I slanted my legs away from him – just in case he had to reach over and fumble under my seat. But it was all done with the press of a button.

Once he’d accelerated away from Leo Components, he loosened his tie and turned up the air conditioning. ‘Not too breezy?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ We left the industrial estate behind and took an unfamiliar route among terraces of red-brick houses, their scraps of garden struggling into summer bloom. ‘Where are we going?’

‘The best Italian this side of Manchester.’ He glanced across at me. ‘Do you like pasta? I meant to check.’

‘That's fine,’ I said, wondering what constituted a good Italian restaurant in Grimshaw. And when we drew up outside an unassuming little place in the middle of a row of shops, it looked as though my worst fears were realised. Especially since its name, Corleone’s, rang a bell – and not just because I’d sat through three Godfather films. I recalled something from my research, an incident involving Jack Smith, a model called Tracey Turnbull and Tracey’s ex, a Manchester United player. The ex had eventually been escorted off the premises; shortly afterwards Jack had left with Tracey – and a black eye.

Once we were inside, however, I couldn’t help warming to the place: cream walls, dark wooden floor and furniture – a sort of rustic chic. We were greeted cordially by the manager and shown to a large alcove, with some mumbling about ‘Signor Jack’s usual table’. Surprise, surprise. Here the lighting was more subdued, the ambience more intimate: a scene set for seduction.

As we sat down, I saw that we were lucky to get in; the restaurant was packed. A thought crossed my mind, and my lips tightened. ‘Had you already booked this table for tonight?’

He pretended to study the wine list. ‘Do you prefer red or white? I can recommend—’

‘I prefer you to be straight with me.’

That made him look up. ‘Do you? I wonder.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘Which means?’

‘Which means yes, I booked the table last week.’

That wasn’t what my second question referred to, but I let it pass. ‘So this was all planned?’

‘Not exactly, more on the off chance.’ He bent his head over the wine list again. ‘Do you fancy sharing a bottle of Chianti?’

The off chance – of what? That dinner in his usual restaurant at his usual table would result in the usual outcome?

‘No, thank you,’ I said coldly.

‘Don’t you drink alcohol?’

‘Not while I’m working.’

‘Fair enough.’

We ordered drinks: a beer for him, a lime and soda for me. The waiter greeted him like an old friend, and me with undisguised curiosity. To show that this was a business meeting and nothing more, I took out my notebook and placed it on the table in a prominent position.

We reviewed our menus in silence. When the waiter returned, I looked up – and found Jack staring at me.

A shiver coursed through me. This was just like the first dinner with Troy, long ago in LA. Oh, not in every detail – for a start, the restaurant had been Peruvian, not Italian – but the eyes holding mine in the candlelight were equally magnetic, the scrutiny of a stranger equally unnerving. Or perhaps, as then, it was more a feeling of intoxication …

‘Everything okay? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’ Jack’s voice was soft, almost tender.

I shrank back in my chair, and shut the menu with a snap. ‘I’ll have the rigatoni, with a side salad.’

The waiter nodded. ‘Thank you, Signorina. And for you, Signor Jack?’

‘The usual, please, Luigi.’

As soon as we were on our own again, he said, ‘Did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘See a ghost.’

‘There’s no point in asking me anything personal, because I won’t give you an answer. It’s one of my ground rules for coaching. Speaking of which,’ – I opened my notebook – ‘I’ve made a list of what we need to discuss.’

‘Don’t, Alicia, not yet. Let’s chill out for a moment.’

My lip curled. ‘Chill out? Isn’t there a risk that I might freeze off certain parts of your anatomy, as you so delicately put it to Nick Suggett this morning?’

His sudden laugh made heads turn. ‘Just when I think you’re a lost cause, you come out with something that creases me up.’

‘What do you mean – a lost cause?’

He hesitated, as if choosing his words. ‘You’re all about work, it’s as though you can’t interact with people – with me – on any other level. Don’t take this the wrong way, but—’

I cut in with, ‘Which other way would you like me to take it?’

‘Look, I work hard too – but at least I know how to relax.’

‘And I don’t?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed. I’ve never met a woman like you before, so …’ – he lowered his gaze and traced the tablecloth with his forefinger – ‘… joyless.’

I flinched, but recovered myself instantly. ‘And what’s your definition of joy? Getting laid every five minutes?’

The tracing stopped. ‘Why would you think that?’ he said, not looking up.

‘Oh, come on! In the past month alone you’ve had Lisa, followed by Tracey – although she didn’t last long after that little incident in this very restaurant, did she? Then at least six more whose names I can’t remember. And they’re only the ones that get press coverage, goodness knows how many others you’ve slept with.’

For the first time, I saw him redden; and he still didn’t look at me. ‘You’ve done your homework all right. How far back did you go?’

‘Three or four months. That was enough, it told me all I needed to know.’

He drained his glass and gestured to the waiter; then turned to me, his face hard and set. ‘Why’ve you been digging around my private life? You’ve just told me that yours is off limits, so why isn’t mine?’

I unfolded the cream napkin and spread it over my lap. It was starched, unyielding, the epitome of joylessness … I forced myself to make eye contact with him. ‘I only researched what was publicly and readily available. As there was hardly any information about you or your company in my normal sources, I simply widened the net a little. The relevance of your extracurricular activities is obvious, they give me an insight into your values. If you mess around in your personal life, the chances are you’ll do the same in business.’

Now it was his turn to flinch, just as the waiter returned. ‘Signor Jack?’

‘A bottle of sparkling water, Luigi. To go with the conversation.’ He looked across at me; this time, his expression was blank.

‘And another thing,’ I said, dismissing any qualms about broaching a potentially sensitive subject in a busy restaurant, ‘why is the fact that today should have been your father’s retirement date so significant? Because you were obviously stressed out when you realised you couldn’t reschedule the senior management meeting.’

He shifted in his chair. ‘Have you seen any particular signs of stress today?’

‘Not really—’

‘Then forget it.’ His eyes held mine in a mute appeal for co-operation. ‘Please.’

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence until Luigi brought the water.

When we were on our own again, I opened my notebook and said briskly, ‘Shall we go through my list?’ He nodded, still without speaking.

Such a relief to focus on business; I outlined my observations as succinctly as possible and finished by asking for his comments. Before he could reply, however, our meal arrived. I decided to continue the feedback session tomorrow; he’d probably had enough self-awareness for one day.

The rigatoni primavera looked and smelled inviting. I tasted one mouthful and discovered I was ravenous. Jack’s ‘usual’ turned out to be a hefty steak, with parmesan-sprinkled spaghetti and salad. He pushed it around his plate, then said, ‘I didn’t realise I was doing such a crap job. Looks like it’ll take longer than six months to get me sorted.’

‘You’d be surprised at what coaching can achieve in that time.’ A pang – professional pride, or guilt? – as I remembered that I wouldn’t be around to see the results. ‘This is delicious, by the way. How’s your steak?’

‘I’m not hungry.’ He put down his knife and fork. Sensing danger, I fixed my gaze on my food and braced myself. He said, ‘At our first meeting, you talked about the need for trust between us during the coaching. So why don’t you trust me?’

A sip of lime and soda. ‘What makes you think—’

‘You won’t even let me drive you back to your hotel.’

‘It’s out of your way—’

‘How do you know?’

‘I don’t, but it’s a good ten miles from Grimshaw.’

‘That’s not a problem.’ A short pause. ‘Will you let me give you a lift?’

Our eyes met; and, once again, his suggested a different, deeper, question than the spoken one. ‘To prove to both of us that you trust me,’ he added, quietly.

If only it was that simple … But I’d got this far unscathed; why not let him drive me back to High Stone Hall? ‘Yes,’ I said, with a smile. And, for the first time, I let the smile reach my eyes. As though, despite my lingering reservations, I needed to show him that I felt at ease in his company.

‘Wow,’ he said.

‘I agree, this is something of a breakthrough in our coaching relationship.’

‘Actually, I was thinking what a great smile you have.’

I blushed, disposed of the smile and took refuge in my rigatoni, irritated that I’d given him any encouragement. But after that his appetite improved, and he finished his meal before I did. Over coffee, we traded careful small talk about Italy. We’d visited the same part of Milan, and spent time in the same gallery between business meetings. I congratulated myself on my handling of this shared interest in art; it had evolved from silent disbelief to almost animated discussion.

And then it all went pear-shaped.

I saw her before he did. A deceptively dishevelled blonde mane, perfect make-up, dazzling jewellery and plunging neckline – making her determined way to our table.

He looked up just as she shimmied to a halt beside him.

‘Well, Jack, fancy seeing you here.’ Her speech was unexpectedly cultured, and slightly slurred.

‘Karina.’

I couldn’t read the expression on his face, but I could hear his intake of breath after speaking her name. And I saw how he closed his eyes when she bent to brand the corner of his mouth with her lips.

Then she straightened up and glanced haughtily in my direction – just long enough, it seemed, to discard me as competition. Resentment surged through me; it wasn’t often that I felt underdressed and overawed.

‘Naughty me,’ she drawled, ‘I didn’t realise you had company.’

Like hell; she’d have spotted me from the other side of the restaurant and, I suspected, staged her little show of playful intimacy purely for my benefit. Was it even authentic? I couldn’t recall reading about anyone by the name of Karina, but perhaps she pre-dated my research.

‘Jack.’ Her tone sharpened. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

His eyes flickered open. ‘Leave it, Karina—’

I held out my hand. ‘Alicia Marlowe.’

Her fingers skimmed mine. ‘You’re not from round here?’ Then, as she spotted my notebook, ‘Are you a reporter?’

My most brilliant smile. ‘More of a behavioural psychologist.’ I couldn’t resist adding, ‘But I’m not working tonight.’ Luckily for her – because I could have filled half the notebook with my observations on her antics so far. I finished with a husky, ‘Jack and I are enjoying getting to know each other.’

I looked across the table to assess the impact of those last few words. Surely he would take them in the right spirit, nothing more? A united front against the woman who’d disturbed our dinner – in very different ways, it seemed.

I needn’t have worried; it was as if he hadn’t even heard me. He said, ‘Is Henrik here?’

She gave a fragile laugh. ‘He was, but we had a row and he left in a bit of a hurry. Was that before we saw you, or after? Can’t remember. Anyway, he ordered me a taxi – it’s here now, but …’ Her voice trailed off and she swayed prettily towards him, as if the very thought of using hired transport had sapped her energy.

He jumped to his feet and caught her in his arms. ‘I’ll drive you home.’ His eyes met mine over the top of her golden head, their expression unfathomable. ‘Alicia, why don’t you take the taxi that’s outside? I’ll pay for the meal.’

‘I’d rather pay my half—’

‘Forget it.’ A pause. ‘Especially since this evening didn’t work out as planned.’ Although I knew he was talking about finishing the feedback session, I wondered if he wanted to give Karina a different impression. Maybe a bit of sexual rivalry turned them both on – and of course I’d added to the intrigue by positioning our dinner as ‘enjoying getting to know each other’. Now I wished I hadn’t, if only to rid myself of this feeling – however ridiculous – that I’d lost out to her. Because there was no doubt in my mind that they’d be spending the night together, Henrik or no Henrik.

Back in my hotel room, I managed to refrain from surfing the net for references to Jack and Karina. After all, he meant nothing to me, absolutely nothing.

But the word ‘joyless’ hounded my thoughts, until at last I fell into an exhausted sleep.