Love to Hate You (21 page)

“I'll leave you to it,” says George, adding, “Remember to ask him!” before disappearing. “Ask me what?” asks Ian, positioning himself right in front of me.

“Ah, yes – is there any chance you could ask Tamara to give George a hand with some balance sheets we've received? He says he can't manage on his own because there are too many.”

He is visibly disappointed for an instant, but Ian is an old hand at pretending, so he quickly pulls himself back together and looks at me calmly. “Ok, I'll ask her.”

“Thank you,” I answer, trying to maintain a professional tone. “Did you want to talk to me? Is it about Beverly?”

Ian's face is inscrutable. “Beverly did indeed get in touch, to ask for a lunch meeting with both of us next week.”

“No problem,” I re-assure him, happy to change the subject and talk business.

“But I wanted to talk to you about something else,” he says, lowering his voice. “Do you have time for a drink after work?” he asks, staring at me with his blue eyes. He definitely knows how to make them work for him. If he starts fluttering his eyelashes too, I'm done for.

“No,” I answer curtly and frightened.

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No.” This time my tone is even more determined. I could make up a lie or an excuse, but I don't feel that I owe him one.

“How about dinner then?” he asks, starting to show signs of being slightly irritated.

“No,” I say in the same determined tone.

He looks at me in astonishment. “Just ‘no'?” he asks, looking almost offended.

“Exactly.” I haven't had enough sleep to make conversation with him today.

“Why not?” he asks, grabbing my arm. His grip isn't tight, but he clearly doesn't want to let me go.

I break free though. “Have you lost your mind?” I say, looking worriedly over his shoulder at Colin's secretary, who is spying on us. Doesn't that woman have anything better to do? Hasn't she got a job?

Ian snaps out of his daze. “I'm sorry,” he says, “but you're making me lose my patience.”

So it's
my
fault now? I'd like to tell him everything that's on my mind, but somehow I manage to keep my mouth shut. I've got a feeling that our relationship will remain this tense until we find a way to manage our problematic mutual attraction.

“I need to talk to you, I really do. I won't bother you any more after this.” His expression is determined, and I realise I'll never be able to talk him out of it.

“Ok, then,” I say, unwillingly giving up, “let's have dinner together.” At the end of the day, I think, this is probably the lesser evil.

“Friday evening at my place,” he proposes, “since I owe you an invitation anyway.”

“But let's get one thing clear,” I say, “this will be our first and last dinner date.” He nods. “Fine, great,” I say nervously, trying to find a way to escape.

“Jenny, there's someone for you on the phone,” a girl in the open space calls over. “Put them through to my office! I'm coming!”

I've never been happier to have an excuse for disappearing!

This is not a date, I tell myself nervously as I observe my reflection in the mirror, this is simply dinner with a friend. Although Ian isn't really a friend, I think. Ok, so this is just dinner with a colleague.

Yes, put that way it sounds reassuring. I like it.

“You're not going out looking like that, I hope?” asks Vera reproachfully from the doorway.

“What's wrong with it?” I ask innocently, looking at myself in the mirror.

“What's wrong with it is that you're covered up from head to toe!” she points out as she enters the room.

“Perfect! In case you hadn't realised, that was exactly my intention,” I confirm.

She snorts and sits down on the bed. “You can't go out looking like that. I won't let you. Over my dead body!” she threatens, folding her arms. “Look, forget about all your past history – you are going for dinner at the home of a man who is charming, good-looking, aristocratic, rich—”

“Obnoxious, arrogant, spoiled—” I add, “and plenty of other adjectives. And?” I ask, a little irked by the intrusion. I'd been thinking for quite a while now that I no longer had to answer to anyone about how I wanted to dress.

“You can't go to his house looking worse than my bloody mother!” she says loudly.

“That's not a very nice way to talk about your mother,” I retort, untroubled by her accusations.

Vera looks at me angrily. “If you
must
wear trousers, at least put on your skinny jeans! And change that horrible T-shirt! What kind of colour
is
that, anyway?” she asks indignantly.

“It's brown,” I reply.

“Exactly! It's
brown
!” she repeats, sounding exasperated. “And you seriously think it's ok to wear a horrible brown T-shirt on a Friday night?”

“Is there a rule that says you can't wear brown on a Friday? It's just dinner with a colleague, so I can wear my horrible brown T-shirt,” I say with conviction.

“Darling, for the record, you shouldn't even wear that t-shirt to go to your
mother's
for dinner, because even
she
would have something to say about it.”

That's low!

“Okay, okay, this t-shirt might not be the nicest thing I've got in my wardrobe—” I admit, finally deciding to take it off.

Vera grabs it in a flash. “I'll take that – it'll make a brilliant duster! Knowing you, sooner or later, you might decide to wear it again.”

I try to look offended but she doesn't even look at me.

“Now change those bloody trousers!” she orders.

When Vera is in this aggressive mood, you've no choice but to give in, and so I grab the jeans she has decided I should wear, and begin to get changed. I haven't worn a pair of jeans this tight in donkey's years and I find them quite uncomfortable.

“Can't I just wear my usual ones?” I beg.

“No, you can't – these are perfect,” she informs me, decisively.

“As long as I don't pass out—” I grumble. But my friend isn't even listening.

“Now we have to find you a decent top,” she says, and starts rummaging about in the wardrobe. A few minutes, and several tops later, she emerges from the pile with a satisfied expression. “This is perfect!” She says, holding up a black top covered in sequins and with a plunging neckline.

“When did I buy a top like that?” I ask, bewildered.

Vera chuckles. “You didn't – we gave it to you for Christmas a couple of years ago.” Obviously I've never worn it. “Come on, put it on,” my friend says to me.

“It's too low-cut!” I protest, but she doesn't seem to feel the same way.

“It's just low-cut enough. Put it on,” she orders. Her tone implies that I'd be unwise to argue, so I follow her orders.

“Perfect,” she tells me with satisfaction. “Now your black ballerinas with the flowers on.”

“But it's cold outside!” I complain.

“And so you'll suffer! Just like the rest of the female population.”

Sulkily, I put on my shoes. “You're not a librarian, you're Cruella De-bloody-Vil.”

She passes me a black sweater which I use to try and cover myself up a bit. “Can I put this on, at least?” I ask sarcastically, as I slip into my coat.

“I've always loved that coat, so you have my approval.”

Vera gets up from the bed and follows me to the door. “One last thing: for God's sake, don't be horrible to him! A man who cooks for you – when will
that
ever happen again?”

I let out a chuckle. “Don't be so gullible,” I say out loud, “a man like that doesn't cook – he orders in, dear.” And with that, I rush out to get the tube.

*

It takes me half an hour to get to the centre. Coming out of the underground I meet a flood of tourists who are wandering around Piccadilly, and, shivering, walk towards Hyde Park, moving closer and closer to Trafalgar Square. That's the power of money, I reflect with amusement: an apartment in the city centre.

The main entrance is majestic, exactly what you would expect from a building round here.

Ian sent me an e-mail this afternoon with the address and the code for the intercom. Hesitantly, I type in one and seven and it starts ringing, and a few moments later the door opens with a click. I walk into a marble hall, polished and clean, climb a few steps and wait patiently for the lift to arrive. I find myself on the fifth floor far too quickly. Up till now, this evening has only given me stomach ache and nothing else.

The hypothesis of a possible last minute escape, however, is thwarted by the appearance of Ian, who has opened the door of his apartment and is watching me come out of the lift.

“Hello,” he greets me warmly, as if my presence was the most natural thing in the world. He seems so at ease that it almost gets my back up.

“Thanks,” I say, walking towards him. He moves aside to let me in. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a blue shirt that fits him like a glove, with the sleeves rolled up. To complete the look, there is a leather belt and loafers that look as if they cost a small fortune. Good job Vera made me get changed: coming here dressed totally inappropriately wouldn't have helped me feel any better.

The first thing I notice is that his apartment is extremely bright, modern and perhaps smaller than I'd expected. The living room is very spartan, with a lot of contrast: the minimalist furniture is black and glossy, while the sofas and armchairs are white. If I'd ever owned anything like those they would have been covered with stains before the week was out!

The only thing that's old in here is the carpet, but that doesn't spoil the overall effect. Indeed, if possible, it softens it.

At the back of the room, a very elegant table has been set: white tablecloth, square plates of the same colour and crystal glasses.

Ian leads me over to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink?” he asks immediately, just as you might expect from the perfect host.

“Better not,” I murmur, relaxing. Alcohol might not be wise.

“Come on, Jenny, keep me company,” he says, smiling, “you wouldn't want me to drink alone.”

One of the reasons I detest this man so much is that with the right expression he can get pretty much anything he wants. And he knows it.

“Just a drop, then,” I agree reluctantly, shifting nervously on his immaculate couch. Will he ask me to pay for the cleaning bill if a drop of red wine should dare spill from the glass? I stroke the fabric on which I'm sitting: it must be some rare linen, I think, nervously.

Seconds later Ian re-appears at my side with a glass of white wine. Thank god it's white…

I thank him with a nod and take a sip: sparkling and dry, just the way I like it. Surely this is not a coincidence. If I've learned anything in recent weeks it's that with Ian nothing is left to chance. You might think it is, but it's all been planned to put you at a disadvantage.

“Great wine. And nice apartment,” I say sincerely, “even though I was expecting something a bit grander, it belonging to someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” he asks, sitting down and looking at me.

“Yes – nobility, the family home, and all that.”

“This flat's got a lounge, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom. I don't need anything else, given the amount of time I spend here,” he says. “Anyway, it's rented.”

I'm actually surprised. “Rented?”

“Yes – even though it is from my own grandfather,” he admits, blushing slightly.

I look at him doubtfully. “Then you're on holiday, so to speak, rent free.”

“If he could, my grandfather would make me pay double,” he says seriously, “so I'm just lucky I get to pay the same amount as the others.”

“What others?”

“The other tenants.”

“You mean, he owns the whole building?” I ask, impressed.

Ian seems to be struggling. “Well, yes,” he admits, “one of several.”

“Then why doesn't he just give you an apartment?” I ask. I mean, if I had a grandson and a thousand apartments, I would happily give one up.

“He did try, after I finished university, but he never gives something for nothing. Sooner or later he always sends you the bill. And I'd rather pay the rent than owe him anything.”

I really wasn't expecting this. Sure, Ian earns enough to be able to pay the rent, but it's still strange. Not many people, I think to myself, would have done the same in his shoes.

“Anyway, I'm not going to stay here long,” he reveals, putting down his glass on the table. “I'm looking around for a flat to buy with what I've managed to put aside. What about you, why do you rent?” he asks.

“I've been thinking of buying something, but the truth is that I don't like living alone. And I certainly can't afford a house with three bedrooms in the centre of town to put my friends up in. I thought about it when I first moved in with them, but then time passed, and in the end I mothballed the idea. For the moment.”

“I understand,” says Ian, though I doubt he does understand what it really means to have to worry about having a roof over your head. The truth is that at any time he can change his mind and be given a home worthy of his illustrious surname.

“So it's all over with your boyfriend, then?” he asks.

It's a strange question, and has nothing to do with this evening. “Absolutely,” I confirm, watching his reaction carefully, “but you knew that already.”

“Oh, you know. People change their minds sometimes,” he says, cryptically.

“Yes, but if I had I would have told you. I mean, as your
fake girlfriend
—” I remind him.

“Well maybe you're a
fake girlfriend
who likes keeping one foot in two shoes—” he replies.