Page 37 of The Love Letter
‘Now then, I thought I’d let you back in gently. You can either have “My Rottweiler is a kitty-cat really” – even though the dog took a chunk out of an OAP’s leg in the park yesterday – or you can have a nice lunch with Marcus Harrison. He’s starting up some memorial fund in remembrance of his granddad, old Sir James.’
‘I’ll take Marcus,’ said Joanna.
‘I was thinking you might.’ He wrote down the details and handed them to her with a sly grin.
‘What?’ Joanna asked, feeling her face colour.
‘Put it this way, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine, Marcus Harrison is more likely to chew you up and spit you out than the Rottweiler. Take good care, now.’ He waved to her as he briskly walked away.
Joanna went to her desk and dialled Marcus Harrison’s number to arrange where they should meet, pleased at the coincidence. Given this whole thing had begun at James Harrison’s memorial service, perhaps she might find out if his revered grandfather had known a little old lady called Rose.
Surprised by his low, friendly voice on the phone, she agreed to meet him for lunch in a smart restaurant in Notting Hill. Leaning back in her chair, she thought this might be one of the more enjoyable jobs she’d done since arriving on the news desk and wished she’d worn something a little more glamorous than jeans and a jumper.
Marcus ordered a good bottle of wine from the maître d’. Zoe had already said he could charge all expenses associated with the memorial fund to the trust, and had issued him with a float of £500. He sipped the crisp Burgundy, feeling pleasantly mellow. Things did seem on the up.
Every time he had called Zoe in Norfolk about his plans for the fund, she had been sweetness and light, never once alluding to his appalling behaviour of the week before. Something was going on in her life, he just knew it. Whatever it was that had given her that sparkle in her eyes, Marcus was glad of it. It had made his own life so very much easier.
He lit a cigarette and watched the door for Joanna Haslam, the journalist, to arrive.
At three minutes past one, a young woman entered the restaurant. She was wearing a pair of black jeans and a white jumper that clung to her breasts. She was tall and natural looking – hardly any make-up on her clear skin – very unlike the type he normally went for. Her thick, shiny brown hair hung heavy around her face, the curly ends falling beyond her shoulders. She followed the maître d’ to Marcus’s table and he stood up to greet her.
‘Joanna Haslam?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, and he found himself arrested by expressive brown eyes and dimples in her cheeks. It took him a second to recover.
‘I’m Marcus Harrison. Thanks for coming.’
‘Not at all.’ Joanna sat down opposite him.
He felt momentarily dumbstruck – Joanna Haslam was an absolute knockout. ‘A glass of Burgundy?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Here’s to you.’ He raised his glass.
‘Thanks. Er, here’s to the memorial fund,’ she countered.
‘Of course.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Now, before we get down to business, why don’t we order? Get it out of the way so we can chat.’
‘Absolutely.’
From behind the safety of her menu, Joanna studied Marcus. Her stored mental picture had not been inaccurate. In fact, if anything, it had underplayed his attractiveness. Today, instead of the creased ensemble he’d worn to the memorial service, Marcus was wearing a soft wool royal-blue jacket and a black polo-neck sweater.
‘I’ll have the soup and the lamb. How about you?’ he prompted.
‘I’ll have the same.’
‘No baby leaves arranged on a plate and fashionably called a radicchio salad, then? I thought that was all you girls ate these days.’
‘I hate to break it to you, but us “girls” are not all the same. I was raised in Yorkshire. I’m a meat and two veg woman through and through.’
‘Are you now?’ He raised an eyebrow at her over his wine glass, enjoying the hint of a Yorkshire accent in her soft, melodic voice.
‘I mean –’ she blushed, realising what she had just said – ‘I enjoy my food.’
‘I like that in a woman.’
Joanna’s stomach gave a twitch as she realised he was flirting with her. Trying to concentrate on the job at hand, she reached inside her rucksack and took out her tape recorder, notebook and pen.
