The maître d’ fussed over her, shaking out her napkin and handing them each a menu as if it were the Holy Grail. Sophie took hers, conscious that there was a slight tremble in her hand. It had been a long time since she’d done this and the way her stomach was behaving, she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to eat anything. Relax, Sophie. Relax. She nodded her thanks to the hovering man before looking over at Paul and giving him a smile.
‘This is very nice.’ It was the sort of restaurant that shimmered with quiet elegance and understated style and you knew the prices would be ferociously high. Classic formality was etched on every table with their crisp white cloths which were impeccably laid out with a collection of long-stemmed crystal glassware, starched napkins and silvery cutlery arranged with parallel precision. None of which was helping her to feel at ease.
‘Yes, it’s French. I figured being from Europe you’d be OK with French food.’ Paul looked worried for a moment.
‘As long as it’s not escargot,’ said Sophie, feeling that perhaps he was as anxious as she was. Talking snails was always a good ice-breaker. ‘Really not my favourite thing.’
‘The chef here is renowned,’ Paul said, his face impassive as he picked up the menu. ‘It’s a very good restaurant.’
Under the table she pleated the edge of her napkin. OK, say perhaps Paul didn’t know what escargot were, rather than missing her opening cue for more light-hearted conversation.
‘Have you been here before?’ she asked, gazing around at the other smartly dressed diners talking in hushed tones. For a minute she wondered how expensive the menu was.
‘Yes, a few times. Mainly for business lunches. It’s the first time,’ he paused, his eyes meeting and holding hers with charming intent, ‘I’ve brought a date here.’
Sophie shifted in her chair, crossing her legs, suddenly unsure how she felt about that. Ignoring the flicker of what-the-hell-am-I-doing unease, she said, ‘I’m honoured,’ adding a big smile to show she was teasing. She wasn’t ready for this. James had taken her for dinner the first time they’d been out. To a restaurant not dissimilar to this.
‘You look very nice, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ Now she was glad, despite the very quick turnaround, that she’d dashed home after work to change into a dress and heels before travelling back to Manhattan to meet him. The quick pep talk from Bella had helped too, although as yet she hadn’t held up her end of the bargain. ‘So do you,’ she said with a quick smile. The man definitely wore a suit well. ‘Nice tie.’
He peeled the tie from his shirt and held it up, looking slightly bemused, as if he’d forgotten he owned it. ‘Oh, thanks. I’ve had it a while.’
‘It’s not your special going-out-to-dinner tie, then?’ asked Sophie, desperate to lighten things up.
For a minute Paul wavered, as if it might go either way – take himself seriously or give in to Sophie’s teasing. Thankfully his face relaxed. ‘Busted. I was too busy to go home and change before dinner. It’s been another mad day in the office. I almost envy you down on your floor. It always seems so laid back down there. I guess you’re all more creative.’
Relieved that they’d moved onto easier ground, Sophie stopped fiddling with her napkin.
‘I think we’re more like ducks, it looks like we’re gliding along on the surface but underneath we’re paddling like mad. We’re always chasing a deadline. But when you’re writing copy you tend to hunker down and keep quiet. That’s probably why you think it’s laid back. All the noise and commotion takes place in the test kitchens.’
Paul shuddered. ‘I never go in there. That really does look like chaos!’
‘It is,’ said Sophie, ‘but it’s great fun.’
‘You enjoy your work, then?’
‘Yeah, I love food. Writing about food. Eating food. Sharing my knowledge about it. Educating people. Getting people to try new things.’
‘Wow.’ Paul seemed taken aback by her sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘I meant being a journalist. Writing copy. I mean, presumably you trained and you can write about anything?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘Not really. I was lucky. I kind of fell into food writing. I don’t really see myself as a journalist. Food is my passion and what I know. I can’t imagine writing about anything else.’
‘But where do you see yourself in ten years’ time? If you want to be an editor, you’re going to have to branch out. I guess you could go into broadcasting.’ His blue eyes softened. ‘You’re certainly pretty enough.’
Sophie blushed and picked at the tines of the fork on the table in front of her. ‘Gosh, not something I’d thought of. At the moment, I’m taking things one day at a time.’ She gave him a direct look. ‘Last time I thought I’d got things all mapped out, they went drastically wrong.’
Paul frowned. ‘But you need a plan, don’t you? Especially when things have gone wrong. Otherwise how else are you going to pick yourself back up? You’ll end up drifting. I mean, you must have a plan. You’re here for what … a couple of months? And then you’ll go back to London. So you know what you’re doing then, right?’
Sophie stared at him, a wry smile coming to her face. ‘At the moment, I’m the girl without a plan. I’m here for six months and then I go back to London. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do when I get back.’ She put out a hand and patted his on the opposite side of the table. ‘You’ve gone white.’
He laughed. ‘Too right. I’ve got my career mapped out for the next seven years.’
‘Wow. Seven. That’s very precise.’
‘I’ve built in some contingency,’ he gave a nonchalant shrug, ‘it could be five.’
‘And will you still be in magazines by then? New York? I mean, how do you know? I’ve got a friend who was aiming high in PR but gave it all up to run her own café in London. And she’s much happier.’
‘Never going to happen.’ With a shake of his head, he picked up his menu. ‘I’m going to be sales director of the company in the next two years, move to a major news outlet in the two years after that, and ultimately I’ll be on the board of a major media conglomerate in the next ten years. I’m not planning on leaving New York anytime soon.’
‘Gosh, I admire your determination,’ she said, following suit and taking a look at the list of dishes. ‘Now, Mr Hotshot, what do you recommend?’
‘Depends what you like.’ He looked worried for a moment. ‘I should have checked your dietary preferences.’
Sophie let out a shout of laughter. ‘I’m a food writer, remember. We like everything.’
‘That’s a relief. I should have asked before. One girl I took out was a vegetarian and every restaurant we went to, she was so picky. I mean, if there’s no vegetarian dishes on the menu, why not have a plate of vegetables? Or a fish dish. I’m glad you’re so easy … I mean, you, er, like everything.’
She wanted to tease him again but he’d ducked his head and was studying the menu for all he was worth.
‘Right.’ She focused on a couple of entrées that sounded interesting: a crayfish-and-prawn timbale and a tarte flambé of Alsatian bacon and onion. Mind made up, she folded her menu.
‘I think I’m going to have two starters.’
‘Two starters?’ Paul glanced over his shoulder as if he expected the menu police to pounce on such maverick behaviour. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, one instead of a main course. They both sound delicious and I can’t decide between either of them. I always like to try new things whenever I get the chance.’
‘Now, that sounds like a good plan,’ said Paul, propping his elbows on the table and putting his chin in his hands. ‘I like that idea. Expand your horizons. That sort of thing is always going to be useful in business. You never know who you’re going to have to meet and impress. Sophie, you are full of surprises.’
When they’d ordered, the maître d’ not so much blinking an eyelid at Sophie’s request, and the wine waiter had opened an expensive bottle of wine, Paul lifted his glass in toast.
‘To you, Sophie. A belated welcome to New York. Maybe I could show you around sometime? I’d like to spend some time with you. Get to know you.’
Sophie sucked in a careful breath and played with her glass for a minute, taking a long slow sip of wine. ‘That … that would be nice. To be honest, I’ve recently come out of a long relationship.’ She gave a self-deprecating sigh. ‘I did have a plan, actually. To steer clear of men for the next five hundred years.’ She took another swallow of wine and looked down at the pristine white tablecloth.
She felt Paul’s warm hand laid on top of hers.
‘Now that would be a terrible shame. You deserve to have some fun. Enjoy the city while you’re here. New York can be a pretty lonely place, especially at the weekends. I could show you round.’
It was the mention of the weekends. Sharing Sunday with Todd had been the best day since she’d arrived. It would be awful to go back to London and not have seen New York properly. And exploring it with a native was going to be so much more fun than doing it on her own. She couldn’t imagine Todd would have too many more free weekends, what with his harem of girls on the go.
Sophie lifted a cheeky eyebrow. ‘How do you feel about taking me to the Empire State Building?’
Paul looked nonplussed for a second. ‘Is that a trick question? I’d love to. When would you like to go?’
‘And I said to Ed, that we wouldn’t let him have our bread again.’ Edie finished her story and put her coffee cup down with a decisive flourish to demonstrate her assertiveness.
Sophie sipped at her coffee, enjoying the cosy atmosphere of the bakery kitchen as she and Bella took a well-deserved break. They’d been hard at it since seven o’clock, baking and decorating cupcakes for a birthday party and cutting up a Genoese sponge into intricate shapes for a sixtieth wedding anniversary cake. Thankfully Beth and Gina had everything under control in the bakery, managing the mid-morning rush.
It was now apparent that Ed and Edie’s Saturday morning delivery round finished at the bakery in time for coffee and cake, and that invariably Maisie made an appearance at the same time.
‘Go you,’ said Bella. ‘It’s brave turning business down, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do. I might have to turn down a wedding-cake commission.’
‘Why?’ asked Sophie, sitting up straighter and stifling a yawn, brought on by the warm kitchen combined with getting home late the previous evening. ‘Who?’ She knew that every commission counted while Bella was still trying to establish herself as a cake designer.
‘Eleanor Doyle, the interior designer. She’s impossible.’
‘I thought all brides were impossible,’ said Ed.
‘Don’t you go falling for the bridezilla cliché, young man,’ chided Maisie, pretending to clip him around the ear.
‘Remember, Impossible is I’m possible,’ piped up Edie.
‘Thanks for the reminder,’ said Bella, her voice dry. ‘But on this occasion, believe me, I’m struggling to say positive. Most brides are lovely. Excited. Enthusiastic. Sweet.’ Bella shook her head in uncharacteristic despair. ‘Eleanor’s … so cool. Unemotional. I can’t get a handle on what she wants at all. And I need to because she could be a very influential client. Well connected.’
‘Has she given you a brief?’ asked Maisie, patting Bella on the knee. ‘You’re not going to turn this one down.’
‘Only over the phone and it’s so vague. I want something that evokes me, the person, and the man I’m marrying,’ Bella mimicked in a clipped accent.
‘You need to meet her,’ said Sophie so decisively that everyone around the coffee table looked up at her, almost startled by her unexpected firmness.
‘Why?’ asked Bella, looking interested.
‘She said “I want”, “me” – it’s all about her. She talks about the man she’s marrying, not the man I love. Not even his name. I’d say the cake has to be about her, who she is, what she does. And it’s got to be about status. You need to get to know a bit more about her. What makes her tick. What she likes. What makes her feel important.’
‘Whoa! Go Sophie!’ said Maisie. ‘She’s right.’
‘You are,’ said Bella, immediately picking up her mobile. ‘If I fix up a meeting with her, will you come with me?’
Before Sophie even had a chance to nod in agreement, the call was in progress and an appointment was fixed up with Eleanor for the beginning of the following week.
‘Well, that’s sorted out my Tuesday night,’ laughed Sophie.
‘Darn, you haven’t got another date, have you?’
‘Another date?’ Maisie’s warm brown eyes glowed with sudden interest.
‘Yes.’ Bella threw a proud arm across Sophie’s shoulders. ‘She went out last night.’
‘See, I told you,’ Maisie beamed. ‘And what’s he like?’
‘Are you going to see him again?’ asked Edie. ‘And did he take you somewhere nice?’
Sophie laughed and threw up her hands. ‘It’s like the Spanish Inquisition. He’s called Paul. I met him at work. He’s nice. We went for dinner.’
‘And?’ pressed Maisie.
‘And?’ Sophie frowned, looking round at the four faces, unsure what she was supposed to say.
‘The spark. Was it there?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
Maisie shook her head, her mouth crumpling. ‘The first time I laid eyes on Carl, I knew.’
Edie turned to Ed. ‘Did you know?’
His eyes widened. ‘I was terrified of you. If you recall, I’d taken the last sack of bread flour from the shelf and you were spitting.’
Edie’s grin was smug. ‘I knew. There was no way I was letting him get away. I followed him home.’
‘Some people might say that was stalking.’
‘Or that I was desperate for flour.’
He leaned into her and rubbed his nose up against hers. ‘And my body.’
‘That too.’ She kissed him.
‘Oh get a room, you two,’ said Bella in mock disgust. ‘So, Sophie, are you going to see Paul again?’
Sophie’s throat felt tight. Envy flooded her at the easy affection between Ed and Edie. The date with Paul had been perfectly pleasant but for a minute she wondered if it had also been a little dull.