made a mistake, and now she was just going to have to avoid him.
Even as she veered away she noted the details of hisappearance that most irritated her. Which was worse: the unpolished shoes, the lightly creased chinos, or the rumpled, quite possibly unwashed hair? No, surely the chief offender had to be the jacket, which was one Dan wore often. It was an indeterminate shade of brown reminiscent of nicotine-stained pub walls, its bulging pockets doubtless crammed with notebooks and cigarettes and recording devices.
He was just such a
hack
. Not much of a successor to the Rt. Hon. Justin Dandridge QC, MP (Con.) for Wellerby South and Shepstowe. Justin had always been so dapper – so impeccably well groomed, with his three-piece suits and handmade brogues . . .
How on earth had she let down her guard enough to cry on Dan’s shoulder – let alone to tumble into bed with him? Thank God she’d at least retained the self-discipline not to tell him exactly why she was so upset. She didn’t imagine for one minute that he would have treated pillow talk as confidential information. If she’d given him even the faintest hint that she’d just emerged from a long-running affair with a married MP, he’d almost certainly have seen it as an opportunity to coax the whole story out of her and write it up as a dazzling exclusive.
She hurried away from him towards the stairs and up towards their office on the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. Honestly, what was the point in getting in early if you couldn’t even beat Dan Cargill to it? If he was raising his game, she would just jolly well have to raise hers too. After all, she was the one who had survived the
Post
’s restless newsroom politics,backstabbing and power struggles for a whole decade, and had earned the cachet of her own column. Whereas Dan had only showed up a year ago, fresh from a stint on a medical trade mag; not long before that he’d been covering stories about parking and rubbish collection for a local rag in the West Country. She was an old hand; he was virtually an ingénue.
Which made it all the worse that she had inadvertently slept with him . . . and then, adding insult to self-injury, had deluded herself into thinking that their obviously doomed encounter might be the beginning of a viable relationship! What a fool she’d been . . . inviting him over to dinner, and even going so far as to tell Natalie that she’d met somebody new.
Some date it had turned out to be. They’d barely started on the steaks before Dan began to quiz her about how long she’d worked at the
Post
, and where she’d been before that. She’d filled in the chronology for him happily enough – she’d even been grateful that someone was finally showing an interest in her career. But then, as he continued to press for detail, alarm bells had started ringing, and she’d challenged him: ‘Dan, if you want to know how old I am, why don’t you just come out with it and ask me?’
‘Because that would be rude,’ he’d said.
‘Why? Do you think I’m old enough for it to be a touchy subject? How old do you think I am?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ Dan had said without missing a beat.
‘Oh, spare me – I’m thirty-five.’
‘Really? You look younger.’
She could almost hear the cogs turning:
So she’spanicking about her fertility, in thrall to her biological clock; she’ll be pushing for at least cohabitation, or preferably insemination, within six weeks of starting a relationship . . . tick-tock, tick-tock . . .
‘How about you?’ she’d asked.
‘Me? Thirty-three.’
Then he’d made an awkward crack about cougars, and she had cleared the table and rolled a cigarette and he had lit up too, and they had both sat there smoking and silently cringing. The conversation hadn’t really recovered, and by the time they finished coffee it was clearly game over. She could see it in his eyes: the nervousness, the reluctance, the desire to let her down gently, and
Even as she veered away she noted the details of hisappearance that most irritated her. Which was worse: the unpolished shoes, the lightly creased chinos, or the rumpled, quite possibly unwashed hair? No, surely the chief offender had to be the jacket, which was one Dan wore often. It was an indeterminate shade of brown reminiscent of nicotine-stained pub walls, its bulging pockets doubtless crammed with notebooks and cigarettes and recording devices.
He was just such a
hack
. Not much of a successor to the Rt. Hon. Justin Dandridge QC, MP (Con.) for Wellerby South and Shepstowe. Justin had always been so dapper – so impeccably well groomed, with his three-piece suits and handmade brogues . . .
How on earth had she let down her guard enough to cry on Dan’s shoulder – let alone to tumble into bed with him? Thank God she’d at least retained the self-discipline not to tell him exactly why she was so upset. She didn’t imagine for one minute that he would have treated pillow talk as confidential information. If she’d given him even the faintest hint that she’d just emerged from a long-running affair with a married MP, he’d almost certainly have seen it as an opportunity to coax the whole story out of her and write it up as a dazzling exclusive.
She hurried away from him towards the stairs and up towards their office on the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. Honestly, what was the point in getting in early if you couldn’t even beat Dan Cargill to it? If he was raising his game, she would just jolly well have to raise hers too. After all, she was the one who had survived the
Post
’s restless newsroom politics,backstabbing and power struggles for a whole decade, and had earned the cachet of her own column. Whereas Dan had only showed up a year ago, fresh from a stint on a medical trade mag; not long before that he’d been covering stories about parking and rubbish collection for a local rag in the West Country. She was an old hand; he was virtually an ingénue.
Which made it all the worse that she had inadvertently slept with him . . . and then, adding insult to self-injury, had deluded herself into thinking that their obviously doomed encounter might be the beginning of a viable relationship! What a fool she’d been . . . inviting him over to dinner, and even going so far as to tell Natalie that she’d met somebody new.
Some date it had turned out to be. They’d barely started on the steaks before Dan began to quiz her about how long she’d worked at the
Post
, and where she’d been before that. She’d filled in the chronology for him happily enough – she’d even been grateful that someone was finally showing an interest in her career. But then, as he continued to press for detail, alarm bells had started ringing, and she’d challenged him: ‘Dan, if you want to know how old I am, why don’t you just come out with it and ask me?’
‘Because that would be rude,’ he’d said.
‘Why? Do you think I’m old enough for it to be a touchy subject? How old do you think I am?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ Dan had said without missing a beat.
‘Oh, spare me – I’m thirty-five.’
‘Really? You look younger.’
She could almost hear the cogs turning:
So she’spanicking about her fertility, in thrall to her biological clock; she’ll be pushing for at least cohabitation, or preferably insemination, within six weeks of starting a relationship . . . tick-tock, tick-tock . . .
‘How about you?’ she’d asked.
‘Me? Thirty-three.’
Then he’d made an awkward crack about cougars, and she had cleared the table and rolled a cigarette and he had lit up too, and they had both sat there smoking and silently cringing. The conversation hadn’t really recovered, and by the time they finished coffee it was clearly game over. She could see it in his eyes: the nervousness, the reluctance, the desire to let her down gently, and
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