When Freddy arrived at their table with a bottle of fancy imported lager, rather than sitting next to Phoebe, who had plenty of room on the banquette next to her, he grabbed a low stool and sat down in between Johnno and Sophy, his knees almost touching his ears.
‘Do you want to swap?’ Sophy asked. ‘I don’t think that stool is designed for anyone taller than a small child.’
‘No, you’re all right,’ Freddy said with a smile. Except his smile was more of a cheeky grin and, when he shrugged off his jacket, she could see that his arms were covered in tattoos. Not even the regulation-issue tribal armband favoured by Egan and all of his friends but full-colour sleeves featuring a pirate ship, birds of paradise and an exotic sea creature. ‘So, how has it been in the shop?’ He shot a pointed look towards Phoebe’s end of the table. ‘Everyone been treating you all right?’
Sophy wasn’t one to tell tales out of school. Apart from when she got back home each night and would regale her mum and Mike with examples of Phoebe’s extreme beastliness. ‘Oh, everyone’s been great,’ she told Freddy.
Then Chloe pointed out two members of a band who’d been pretty famous a few years ago. Then it was time for another round and by the time she was on her third gin and tonic and they’d decided to order some bowls of chips to mop up the alcohol, Sophy was feeling pleasantly buzzed as she texted Caroline to tell her to put her dinner in the fridge.
It was then that Charles walked in.
He was in another one of his impeccably cut suits. Charcoal grey but paired with a pink floral Liberty print shirt, and he was smiling straight at Sophy. Her stomach did a delicious tip and turn. Or rather he was smiling at the table en masse, because he greeted them all with a cheery, ‘I might have known I’d find you reprobates in here. Who’s ready for another drink?’
Sophy tried not to stare at the long lean line of Charles while he was at the bar. She’d have thought he’d be more comfortable in some exclusive members’ club in the West End, but, like Johnno, he shook Henry’s hand, then stayed to have a chat as if he were a regular too.
As Charles headed to their table Sophy averted her gaze, but there was no one really to talk to except Phoebe, who was staring down at her phone, and Coco Chanel, because everyone else had decamped to the pool table in the lounge bar.
‘Sophy!’ Charles put his drink down, a bottle of the same lager that Freddy was drinking, though Charles didn’t seem like the sort of man who drank lager, especially out of the bottle. Then he was leaning down to brush a kiss on her cheek – and ooh, the other cheek.
He smelled amazing. Of some expensive cologne that was woody and a little bit exotic. Then he sat down next to Sophy so that their knees bumped together.
‘Hi,’ she said, inexplicably shy because there was nothing like drinking three gin and tonics in ninety minutes to really bring out a girl’s crush.
‘You look lovely,’ Charles said. Sophy’s foolish heart leapt. ‘Is that a dress from the shop? Vintage? God, it could have been made for you.’ Her foolish heart sank. He meant that the dress, which she was still wearing because there hadn’t been time to change, looked lovely, rather than the person who was wearing it. Or did he? ‘So, hard day at the office?’
‘Phoebe’s been teaching me about vintage fashion. I’m ninety per cent certain that I know what a bias cut is now,’ Sophy said. At the mention of her name, Phoebe looked up, smiled vaguely, then went back to staring at her phone screen, so it was almost as if Sophy and Charles were alone. Albeit alone in a very busy pub.
‘I know the bias cut is meant to be flattering, but I think it’s very unforgiving,’ Charles said because, of course, he’d know all about bias cuts and dropped hems and kick-pleats.
‘Unless you are whippet thin, it’s going to show up every lump and bump,’ Sophy decided with a shudder. ‘Especially as every bias-cut dress we stock seems to be made of crêpe or satin or some other very clingy fabric.’
She shot a fearful look at Phoebe in case her bias-cut bitching had been overheard, but Phoebe was tucking her phone into her old-fashioned handbag and picking up Coco Chanel’s lead. ‘Right, time to get this young lady home,’ she announced. ‘She needs her beauty sleep.’
It would take many decades of sleep to smooth out Coco Chanel’s crumpled, cross little face, Sophy thought as Phoebe slid out from the banquette and hurried to the door. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she called out, in an uncharacteristically friendly manner, then disappeared into the night.
Phoebe’s exit was the cue for something of an exodus. She hadn’t even been gone two minutes when Freddy, who had been playing pool, rushed out of the door with a hurried wave. Then Chloe and Beatrice came over to say that they were heading to a bar in Soho, a band was playing, and did Sophy want to come too?
Sophy was flattered to be asked but a strange development had taken hold once she’d reached thirty. Now she couldn’t hit bars at gone ten and expect to be home in the wee small hours then get up bright and early for work the next day. Or anyway, she couldn’t do it without industrial amounts of caffeine and a pounding headache. Also, even though she was thirty, she was living back at home and though she didn’t have a curfew like she’d had as a teenager, Caroline intimated very heavily that she couldn’t really settle until Sophy was home so it would be great if she could be in by eleven. ‘But earlier would be good too. Even better, in fact.’
‘I think I’ll pass,’ she said lightly, noting that neither Chloe nor Beatrice looked that devastated. ‘In fact, I should probably be getting home.’
‘Oh, don’t go,’ Charles said with the tiniest of pouts. ‘I’ve only just got here and you’ll be condemning me to tracking down Johnno and having to talk abut boring things like football and welding.’
‘I don’t think Johnno’s that interested in welding,’ Sophy said with a giggle. (There was something about Charles and his pout and now the batting of his annoyingly long eyelashes that made her giggle.)
‘But you’ll stay? I’ll even throw in another bowl of chips,’ Charles said, as Chloe and Beatrice disappeared.
‘One more drink but it’s my round,’ Sophy said firmly, but when she got back from the bar their table had been annexed by a group of quite shouty young men in suits and so she had to sit next to Charles on the small patch of banquette that was left. So close that their thighs were pressed together, and even their elbows were touching when they leaned forward to pick up their glasses or take another chip.
It felt very intimate. Charles was telling her about an engagement ring he was sourcing for a prospective groom. But every time he argued with his soon-to-be-fiancée, the money he wanted to spend on the ring went up or down depending on whose fault the argument was.
‘Do you have a shop then?’ Sophy asked. She could just imagine Charles having a tiny shop crammed full of brilliant jewels somewhere very exclusive but very old-fashioned. Like the Burlington Arcade off Piccadilly, which didn’t seem to have changed much since the days of the Regency. Or maybe a little showroom in one of the mews around Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove. Or even…
‘A little office above a bookie’s in Hatton Garden,’ Charles said, which rather killed the picture that Sophy had of a fancy shop with bowwindows and lots of rings and tiaras and bracelets arranged on satin cushions.
‘Hatton Garden?’ Sophy asked, because she’d only vaguely heard of it.
‘London’s jewellery district. Basically one long road, which stretches from Farringdon down to High Holborn. It’s no Bond Street but if you want a princess cut solitaire diamond on a claw setting, then it’s the best place for it.’
