.’
‘Hmmm.’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘And . . . probing you for potential stories.’
‘ Probing ?’ he repeats. ‘I think I’d enjoy that.’ He taps something into the computer on the reception desk.
‘Is this going to take long?’ interrupts Henry.
Sexy Optician smiles. ‘Not too long, no.’ He turns to me again. ‘What do you do when you’re not probing for potential stories?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I smile. ‘This and that.’
He holds my gaze and I can’t resist smiling back, despite my neck starting to feel very hot. ‘This and that sounds enjoyable too.’
‘Right,’ says Henry, clearing his throat. ‘How long before these contacts are ready?’
Sexy Optician drags his eyes away from me. ‘Two to three days, then you’ll need to come back. We’ll give you a ring.’
‘Good. Well, if that’s everything, we need to be going.’ He takes my arm. ‘Come on, Lucy.’
‘So soon?’ smiles Sexy Optician, looking into my eyes again.
‘Yes,’ says Henry decisively.
‘Before you go,’ SO adds, ‘do you think you’d be able to leave your business card? I’d be interested in talking to Peaman-Brown about some opportunities that might be mutually appealing. My name’s Paul.’
‘I’m Lucy,’ I reply, grinning like an idiot. I fumble in my bag before handing over my card.
He looks at it briefly, puts it into his top pocket and pats it protectively. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He opens the door for us.
When we get into daylight I have a spring in my step. ‘Blimey, he was nice, don’t you think?’
‘Hmmm,’ replies Henry non-committally.
‘Lovely eyes,’ I muse. ‘I hope he phones.’
‘They sound like a boring company, if you ask me,’ Henry says. ‘Surely you’d struggle to get PR out of that place. I mean, how would you manage to get an optician on the telly?’
‘If there’s a way, then I’ll do it,’ I tell him indignantly. ‘I’m quite good at my job, you know.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ he replies. ‘But surely even you can’t make a poxy optician shop sound thrilling.’
‘They’re exactly the type of organization that needs us,’ I huff. ‘Anyway, it’s not just the business. I think Paul might have been . . . interested in me.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased. I mean, bloody hell, it’s not like I’ve had much luck with my love-life. You could be a bit more supportive when I get a break like this.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. I hope you and Paul have a wonderful life together.’
‘He hasn’t even phoned yet!’
Henry smiles.
‘Oh, you’re joking. Right, I—’
I’m interrupted because my mobile is ringing.
‘Hello, Lucy Tyler.’
‘ Hi, Lucy. It’s Paul .’
My eyes widen.
‘ I meant what I said about setting up a meeting to discuss PR. How about over a drink next week? ’
Chapter 11
It never ceases to amaze me how little my mum and dad’s house has changed over the years. Mum might have replaced her nets with bamboo blinds from Ikea and the three-bar fire is now a ‘living flame’, but the house still boasts trinkets from the past that, to my bafflement, have never been thrown out. There’s the limited edition soap-on-a-rope in the shape of Kevin Keegan holding up the FA Cup (it’s never been used so the poodle perm is as lustrous as in 1974) and the ‘Green Lady’ picture bequeathed by Great-Auntie Lil – though that’s in the spare room now. There’s also an array of not-very-tasteful ornaments – wedding gifts largely – that Dad took to the Antiques Roadshow last year and discovered that, collectively, they were only slightly more valuable than a used teabag.
‘If it isn’t the family spin doctor,’ says Mum, as I enter the living room. I’ve popped over to say hello as it’s been longer than usual since I last saw my parents.
As ever, Mum’s on her feet, dusting surfaces that are already so pristine an asthmatic could eat their dinner off them. ‘What
‘Hmmm.’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘And . . . probing you for potential stories.’
‘ Probing ?’ he repeats. ‘I think I’d enjoy that.’ He taps something into the computer on the reception desk.
‘Is this going to take long?’ interrupts Henry.
Sexy Optician smiles. ‘Not too long, no.’ He turns to me again. ‘What do you do when you’re not probing for potential stories?’
‘Oh, you know,’ I smile. ‘This and that.’
He holds my gaze and I can’t resist smiling back, despite my neck starting to feel very hot. ‘This and that sounds enjoyable too.’
‘Right,’ says Henry, clearing his throat. ‘How long before these contacts are ready?’
Sexy Optician drags his eyes away from me. ‘Two to three days, then you’ll need to come back. We’ll give you a ring.’
‘Good. Well, if that’s everything, we need to be going.’ He takes my arm. ‘Come on, Lucy.’
‘So soon?’ smiles Sexy Optician, looking into my eyes again.
‘Yes,’ says Henry decisively.
‘Before you go,’ SO adds, ‘do you think you’d be able to leave your business card? I’d be interested in talking to Peaman-Brown about some opportunities that might be mutually appealing. My name’s Paul.’
‘I’m Lucy,’ I reply, grinning like an idiot. I fumble in my bag before handing over my card.
He looks at it briefly, puts it into his top pocket and pats it protectively. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He opens the door for us.
When we get into daylight I have a spring in my step. ‘Blimey, he was nice, don’t you think?’
‘Hmmm,’ replies Henry non-committally.
‘Lovely eyes,’ I muse. ‘I hope he phones.’
‘They sound like a boring company, if you ask me,’ Henry says. ‘Surely you’d struggle to get PR out of that place. I mean, how would you manage to get an optician on the telly?’
‘If there’s a way, then I’ll do it,’ I tell him indignantly. ‘I’m quite good at my job, you know.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ he replies. ‘But surely even you can’t make a poxy optician shop sound thrilling.’
‘They’re exactly the type of organization that needs us,’ I huff. ‘Anyway, it’s not just the business. I think Paul might have been . . . interested in me.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased. I mean, bloody hell, it’s not like I’ve had much luck with my love-life. You could be a bit more supportive when I get a break like this.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. I hope you and Paul have a wonderful life together.’
‘He hasn’t even phoned yet!’
Henry smiles.
‘Oh, you’re joking. Right, I—’
I’m interrupted because my mobile is ringing.
‘Hello, Lucy Tyler.’
‘ Hi, Lucy. It’s Paul .’
My eyes widen.
‘ I meant what I said about setting up a meeting to discuss PR. How about over a drink next week? ’
Chapter 11
It never ceases to amaze me how little my mum and dad’s house has changed over the years. Mum might have replaced her nets with bamboo blinds from Ikea and the three-bar fire is now a ‘living flame’, but the house still boasts trinkets from the past that, to my bafflement, have never been thrown out. There’s the limited edition soap-on-a-rope in the shape of Kevin Keegan holding up the FA Cup (it’s never been used so the poodle perm is as lustrous as in 1974) and the ‘Green Lady’ picture bequeathed by Great-Auntie Lil – though that’s in the spare room now. There’s also an array of not-very-tasteful ornaments – wedding gifts largely – that Dad took to the Antiques Roadshow last year and discovered that, collectively, they were only slightly more valuable than a used teabag.
‘If it isn’t the family spin doctor,’ says Mum, as I enter the living room. I’ve popped over to say hello as it’s been longer than usual since I last saw my parents.
As ever, Mum’s on her feet, dusting surfaces that are already so pristine an asthmatic could eat their dinner off them. ‘What
Similar Books
