“Hello,” says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can’t shake his hand, because I’m holding the laptop. Flustered, I plunk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side — nearly dropping the FT as I do so — and, with as much poise as possible, hold out my hand.
A flicker of amusement passes over Luke’s face and he solemnly shakes it. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth, all ready for use.
“That’s an impressive machine,” he says. “Very. . high tech.”
“Yes,” I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. “I often use it to take notes at business meetings.”
“Ah,” says Luke, nodding. “Very organized of you.”
He’s obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimentally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.
Casually I press the key again — and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident — and still nothing. Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?
“Is there a problem?” says Luke.
“No!” I say at once, and snap the lid shut. “No, I’ve just— On second thought, I won’t use it today.” I reach into my bag for a notebook. “I’ll jot my notes down in here.”
“Good idea,” says Luke mildly. “Would you like some champagne?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly thrown. “Well. . OK.”
“Excellent,” says Luke. “I hoped you would.”
He glances up, and a beaming waiter scurries forward with a bottle. Gosh, Krug.
But I’m not going to smile, or look pleased or anything. I’m going to stay thoroughly cool and professional. In fact, I’m only going to have one glass, before moving on to still water. I need to keep a clear head, after all.
While the waiter fills my champagne flute, I write down “Meeting between Rebecca Bloomwood and Luke Brandon” in my notebook. I look at it appraisingly, then underline it twice. There. That looks very efficient.
“So,” I say, looking up, and raise my glass. “To business.”
“To business,” echoes Luke, and gives a wry smile. “Assuming I’m still in business, that is. .”
“Really?” I say anxiously. “You mean — after what you said on Morning Coffee? Has it gotten you into trouble?”
He nods and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
I mean, Suze is right — Luke is pretty arrogant. But I actually thought it was really good of him to stick out his neck like that and say publicly what he really thought about Flagstaff Life. And now, if he’s going to be ruined as a result. . well, it just seems all wrong.
“Have you lost. . everything?” I say quietly, and Luke laughs.
“I wouldn’t go that far. But we’ve had to do an awful lot of explaining to our other clients this afternoon.” He grimaces. “It has to be said, insulting one of your major clients on live television isn’t exactly normal PR practice.”
“Well, I think they should respect you!” I retort. “For actually saying what you think! I mean, so few people do that these days. It could be like. . your company motto: ‘We tell the truth.’ ”
I take a gulp of champagne and look up into silence. Luke’s gazing at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Rebecca, you have the uncanniest knack of hitting the nail right on the head,” he says at last. “That’s exactly what some of our clients have said. It’s as though we’ve given ourselves a seal of integrity.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Well, that’s good. So you’re not ruined.”
“I’m not ruined,” agrees Luke, and gives a little smile. “Just slightly dented.”
A waiter appears from nowhere and replenishes my glass, and I take a sip. When I look up, Luke’s staring at me again.
“You know, Rebecca, you’re an extremely perceptive person,” he says. “You see what other people don’t.”
“Oh well.” I wave my champagne glass airily. “Didn’t you hear Zelda? I’m ‘finance guru meets girl next door.’ ” I meet his eye and we both start to laugh.
“You’re informative meets approachable.”
“Knowledgeable meets down-to-earth.”
“You’re intelligent meets charming, meets bright, meets. .” Luke tails off, staring down into his drink, then looks up.
“Rebecca, I want to apologize,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to apologize for a while. That lunch in Harvey Nichols. . you were right. I didn’t treat you with the respect you deserved. The respect you deserve.”
He breaks off into silence and I stare down at the tablecloth, feeling hot with indignation. It’s all very well for him to say this now, I’m thinking furiously. It’s all very well for him to book a table at the Ritz and order champagne and expect me to smile and say “Oh, that’s OK.” But underneath all the bright banter, I still feel wounded by that whole episode.
“My piece in The Daily World had nothing to do with that lunch,” I say without looking up. “Nothing. And for you to insinuate that it did. .”
“I know,” says Luke, and sighs. “I should never have said that. It was a. . a defensive, angry remark on a day when, frankly, you had us all on the hop.”
“Really?” I can’t help a pleased little smile coming to my lips. “I had you all on the hop?”