body, lithe and sexy, tilted towards him in her seat. He felt as if Jane was standing outside at the passenger window, watching him.
He sank back in his seat. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. She must have someone too, he thought. A girl like her would have any number of smart university guys chasing after her – she’d have a boyfriend for sure. She’d think him a pushy prat if he hit on to her too quickly.
Kate popped her seatbelt and opened the door. ‘Please do,’ she said, and batted her eyelids at him. How many supermodel girlfriends did he have? she wondered. The chances of hearing from him again were one in a million. A pity, she thought. Jim was a really cool guy. ‘’Bye,’ she said, and closed the door.
Jim watched her walk away, then turned his attention to driving and pulled out. When he called her he’d get her voicemail, and in a way he would be relieved and happy. He still hoped his phone would ring and that the caller would be Jane. He still wished his email would play a fanfare and it would be some terse cryptic message that meant she was back in his life. He’d almost given up hope. Soon he was going to have to admit it was over between them. He was either going to have to write Jane off for good and move on, or find out where the hell she’d got to so he could try crawling back to her. Both paths seemed like an awful punishment, but moving on seemed worse.
They had split on good terms, almost like professionals going their own way at the end of a project. Neither owed the other on aggregate after the danger they had endured. They had saved one another’s skins. She’d seemed to think that splitting up was the sensible thing to do and he’d understood the logic. They knew they were oddballs and it had seemed clear that neither of them could fit into the other’s world.
Yet without her there was still a giant emptiness in his heart, an injury to his brain that could not repair itself. He hungered for her.
There was a flash and he glanced at the speedometer: he was doing seventy in a thirty m.p.h. zone. He groaned. Pretty soon Stafford was going to have to replace the shot-up Maybach limo with one that didn’t look like it had been the subject of a car-bomb attack, because at this rate Jim would end up as a passenger with a driving ban hanging around his neck. Then Stafford, or a newly hired chauffeur, would have to drive him around.
18
Kate had been about to send Jim a flirtatious SMS but thought better of it. Instead she Googled him. ‘Billionaire Jim Evans, Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor Under Thirty,’ said the headline. She clicked on the images and there he was, in a blurred long-distance shot. She couldn’t make out his face but she could tell it was him. ‘Oh dear,’ she said aloud, putting the phone down. Texting no longer seemed such a good idea. She saw him in her mind’s eye. Was he cute or was it just the money? No, he was extremely cute, even with a flaming red eye – which somehow enhanced his appeal with a touch of dash. How had he really got it? ‘Training’? Training for what, exactly? She picked up the phone and reread the message she’d been about to send him: ‘Nice to meet you. I enjoyed lunch.’
Silly. She deleted it, turned the phone upside-down and put it on the table.
She read two other articles about Jim. He was starting to seem a bit sinister. ‘No one knows exactly where his fortune comes from,’ said an article. That was a good reason not to contact him … but the slightly dangerous angle was enticing. She closed the browser. If he liked her, he would call. They all did. Then she would decide whether or not to respond. She turned the phone over and looked at the screen. No, he wouldn’t. Who was she kidding?
It gave him a satisfying thrill to draw up outside his Jacobean mansion in the Veyron. The ancient house oozed mystery, its ornate façade stern yet welcoming. This house and his place in London’s Docklands were his anchors.
He sank back in his seat. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said. She must have someone too, he thought. A girl like her would have any number of smart university guys chasing after her – she’d have a boyfriend for sure. She’d think him a pushy prat if he hit on to her too quickly.
Kate popped her seatbelt and opened the door. ‘Please do,’ she said, and batted her eyelids at him. How many supermodel girlfriends did he have? she wondered. The chances of hearing from him again were one in a million. A pity, she thought. Jim was a really cool guy. ‘’Bye,’ she said, and closed the door.
Jim watched her walk away, then turned his attention to driving and pulled out. When he called her he’d get her voicemail, and in a way he would be relieved and happy. He still hoped his phone would ring and that the caller would be Jane. He still wished his email would play a fanfare and it would be some terse cryptic message that meant she was back in his life. He’d almost given up hope. Soon he was going to have to admit it was over between them. He was either going to have to write Jane off for good and move on, or find out where the hell she’d got to so he could try crawling back to her. Both paths seemed like an awful punishment, but moving on seemed worse.
They had split on good terms, almost like professionals going their own way at the end of a project. Neither owed the other on aggregate after the danger they had endured. They had saved one another’s skins. She’d seemed to think that splitting up was the sensible thing to do and he’d understood the logic. They knew they were oddballs and it had seemed clear that neither of them could fit into the other’s world.
Yet without her there was still a giant emptiness in his heart, an injury to his brain that could not repair itself. He hungered for her.
There was a flash and he glanced at the speedometer: he was doing seventy in a thirty m.p.h. zone. He groaned. Pretty soon Stafford was going to have to replace the shot-up Maybach limo with one that didn’t look like it had been the subject of a car-bomb attack, because at this rate Jim would end up as a passenger with a driving ban hanging around his neck. Then Stafford, or a newly hired chauffeur, would have to drive him around.
18
Kate had been about to send Jim a flirtatious SMS but thought better of it. Instead she Googled him. ‘Billionaire Jim Evans, Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor Under Thirty,’ said the headline. She clicked on the images and there he was, in a blurred long-distance shot. She couldn’t make out his face but she could tell it was him. ‘Oh dear,’ she said aloud, putting the phone down. Texting no longer seemed such a good idea. She saw him in her mind’s eye. Was he cute or was it just the money? No, he was extremely cute, even with a flaming red eye – which somehow enhanced his appeal with a touch of dash. How had he really got it? ‘Training’? Training for what, exactly? She picked up the phone and reread the message she’d been about to send him: ‘Nice to meet you. I enjoyed lunch.’
Silly. She deleted it, turned the phone upside-down and put it on the table.
She read two other articles about Jim. He was starting to seem a bit sinister. ‘No one knows exactly where his fortune comes from,’ said an article. That was a good reason not to contact him … but the slightly dangerous angle was enticing. She closed the browser. If he liked her, he would call. They all did. Then she would decide whether or not to respond. She turned the phone over and looked at the screen. No, he wouldn’t. Who was she kidding?
It gave him a satisfying thrill to draw up outside his Jacobean mansion in the Veyron. The ancient house oozed mystery, its ornate façade stern yet welcoming. This house and his place in London’s Docklands were his anchors.
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