True Colours Part 4

'Concierge please.' She was put straight through. 'This is Caroline Audiguet- O'Reilly. I need a limousine for eight o'clock this evening, for two people, but I'd like a large one with a private pa.s.senger area - you know, one with a part.i.tion between the driver and the rear seats.' She paused as the concierge made a note, 'And I need a hamper. Dinner for two and a couple of bottles of Bolly.' She nodded as he made some suggestions, 'Perfect, that sounds lovely.'

She clicked the phone to off, a smile creeping across her face. Perfect. The hotel had its own limousine service for residents the Mercedes S-Cla.s.s would pick them up outside and where would they go? Somewhere they could see the sea, or up the mountains maybe...yes there was a lovely spot up in the Wicklow Mountains that Sebastian had taken her too once, miles away from anywhere.

Perfect. A picnic in the mountains.

She'd better get a move on, decisions had to be made.

Turning back to the wardrobe Caroline leafed through her dresses and pulling one out, inspected it. Too s.e.xy? Could you be too s.e.xy? It was Herve Leger, a black plunge-neck bandage dress, made of wonderful stretchy stuff that clung to her boyish frame, giving her curves that weren't normally there. Sophisticated and flattering. Perfect for meeting your insurance man. Caroline fought a mischievous smile, drawing in a deep breath tingling with antic.i.p.ation. Would anyone see them? What would she tell Sebastian if they were spotted? She could feel a nag of worry pulling at her stomach, but it was positively eclipsed by excitement.

NINE.

Alex's phone began to ring the moment the wheels of her car crunched on the gravel in her drive. For a second, she gripped the steering wheel, sighing deeply, willing it to stop. The sound of the ring tone ramped, positively demanding her attention. Finally, she gave in, and reached for it. Just as it stopped. The story of her life. It was probably Marina wanting to know how the day had gone. Moments later the phone pipped, telling her she had a message. She was right. Marina no doubt desperate to know if her meeting with Venture Capital had been a success. But whatever about pretending to her dad that everything was going great, right now she wasn't ready to lie to Marina and get all enthusiastic about the new project. She'd call her later.

Hauling her briefcase from the footwell of the pa.s.senger seat, Alex climbed out of the car. She'd managed to hold it together for most of the day, but now, yards from the front door of her pale pink Victorian cottage, weariness. .h.i.t her like a hangover. Above her the dense canopy of foliage spilling over the drive from the neighbouring wood caught the breeze, the leaves rustling, whispering their sympathy. And from behind the house, the distant pull of the turning tide added its soothing voice. Thank G.o.d she was home.

Leaving her briefcase on the floor of the black and white tiled hall, closing the front door firmly behind her, she felt like a snail retreating into its sh.e.l.l. A warm pink sh.e.l.l, with central heating and loads of hot water, and at the very end of a leafy lane with woodland all around it, where no one could find her.

Usually, Alex arrived home from work, she set herself up in the kitchen, a gla.s.s of wine at her side, as she pulled together the events of the day, making notes on her meetings, getting the last of her work over and done with so she that could spend what little was left of the evening relaxing, curled up in front of the TV or reading a book. But not tonight. Tonight, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floors, she headed straight up the narrow stairs and into her bedroom at the back of the house. Slipping off her jacket and tossing it onto the bed, she pulled out the tails of her linen shirt, kicked off her shoes and reached for her black velvet track pants and sweatshirt. She pulled out the band tying her ponytail. Right now she needed to relax and unwind.

As she unb.u.t.toned her shirt, she took a moment to look out the tiny sash window and down at the wild garden that hung on the edge of the hillside before falling away to the sea. The water was boiling around the rocky outcrop of a beach below, the crescent moon already high in a sky filling with an invading army of heavy cloud. Alex couldn't remember whether she'd heard the weather forecast, but it looked stormy, the wind whipping the unkempt rhododendron and wild buddleia at the end of the garden into a bizarre dance. Waving or drowning? Running her hand through the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, pulling at the roots, Alex sighed. Was she waving or drowning? She wasn't sure, but at least she was home.

It had taken her a while to find this house in the picturesque seaside village of Dalkey, ideally located only thirty minutes from Dublin city centre. From the moment Senor Marquez had called with the news that he was retaining Impromptu to design the Cultural Inst.i.tute, she'd started looking for somewhere suitable to stay. She had considered hotels and apartments, but after she had got the call about her father's accident, a house seemed a more sensible, more economical proposition in the long run. She knew she needed a property on the DART train line, needed the freedom to leave her rental car at home if she had a meeting in the city. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with her dad, rather than wasting time sitting in traffic jams.

From the moment she had started clicking on the McKenna and Co website, and spotted the two-bedroom house, it had seemed perfect. Sitting in her office in a very cloudy Barcelona, she could almost hear the chill waves of the Irish Sea breaking on the sh.o.r.e behind it, the birds calling through her open bedroom window each morning. Wonderful.

In her parents' tiny cottage on the estate in Kildare, she'd woken up every day to a cuckoo heralding the dawn, joined by blackbirds and thrushes in a cacophony of sound that you couldn't hope to sleep through. Not that she'd slept much that last summer, her mind and body awakened by much more than birdsong. She adored her apartment in Tarragona, its thick plastered walls rising from Roman foundations, but she missed the Irish songbirds, found herself grateful for the sound of pigeons cooing on the rooftops, their soft calls like the overhead conversation of old friends.

In Dalkey, as the letting agent had shown her around, the wood pigeons welcoming her enthusiastically from the top of the chimney, Alex had known for sure that this was the house for her. With its tiny front garden bordered by a low whitewashed wall, the tangle of wild roses, their blowsy heads magenta against the baby pink walls of the house, it had wooden floors, a warm reclaimed pine kitchen with a huge refectory table and an Aga; a log-burning stove in the living room, bright rag rugs flung between the mismatched squishy sofa and two formal wing-backed armchairs. A perfect place for her to hide out in peace after a busy day on the road, and a perfect place for her father to convalesce.

Thoughts of her father brought Alex back down to earth, to reality, with a b.u.mp.

Stripping off her shirt, pulling her sweatshirt on over her head, shaking out her curls as she retraced her steps to the kitchen, the fridge, and a large gla.s.s of Chardonnay. As she sloshed the wine into the gla.s.s, her mind focused on her dad, on St Vincent's Hospital and, more importantly, on exactly what they were going to do when he came out of hospital. He'd hardly be able to go back to work.

He was on sick leave at the moment, but Kilfenora needed a gamekeeper who was fit and healthy and able to manage the estate and its workers, and from what the doctors had implied, Tom Ryan's knee was going to be dodgy for a long time, if indeed he ever recovered completely. Plus it was spring, one of the busiest times on the estate. The sheep would be lambing soon; after that they would need dipping and shearing hard physical work where everyone was expected to lend a hand. The shooting season would be underway before they knew it; someone had to settle the chicks into the rearing pens, check them every night, ensure the foxes were kept out and that the valuable birds were kept disease-free and healthy until they were fully grown when the season began in November. Who would organise the beaters? Take the guns up to the shoot? Spend the day managing the corporate eejits who paid through the nose for a day's activity, their kills more often than not bagged by her father and his men? Alex knew Tom hated to see a bird wounded by a bad shot like every sportsman he ensured that the injured birds winged by the paying guests were tracked down and killed cleanly. But that took a lot of time, sometimes requiring his staff to spend hours trudging across the estate with their dogs searching for the injured birds.

Deep down, Alex knew her father could never go back to work in his previous capacity, and what use was a part-time gamekeeper with a limp to Lord Kilfenora? Deliberately stopping short of dwelling on Sebastian's notoriously tough grandfather, Alex swirled her wine around her gla.s.s and took a large sip. It was time her dad faced the issue of retiring seriously this time. But how on earth would he cope without work? And, more importantly, where on earth was he going to live? The cottage he'd called home for almost twenty years was tied to the estate. If the job went, so did the cottage. And with property prices the way they were in Ireland, his army pension and savings wouldn't be sufficient for him to be able to buy anything anywhere near the estate, near the friends he had made since he'd begun working there. The rent on this house in Dalkey would be too high for him on his own when she went back to Spain. Alex took another mouthful of her wine.

There was one obvious solution: persuade him to go with her, move to Spain, live with her until he found somewhere of his own nearby. Pulling a stray curl behind her ear, Alex grimaced at what she knew would be her father's reaction. She could hear his objections now: he didn't speak Spanish; didn't know anyone in Barcelona, or Tarragona for that matter; and the English speakers who were already there, ex-pat Brits, weren't his idea of company, wouldn't know how to enjoy themselves if you gave them a numbered guide.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Alex refilled her gla.s.s. This house was ideal; it would do them both for a while. There was a study on the ground floor that could be converted into a bedroom, a shower in the downstairs bathroom, plenty of s.p.a.ce in the kitchen and conservatory ideal for two. With thoughts of the size of the house and how they would manage jostling for attention, Alex suddenly realised she was starving. She knew she'd better eat something before she had any more wine; otherwise she'd wake up with the headache from h.e.l.l.

Ten minutes later, a saucepan of fresh pasta bubbling on the stove, Alex leaned back against the counter again and took a long sip of her wine; it was. .h.i.tting the spot, just what she needed to loosen her up. What a day. For the first time since she had come face to face with Sebastian that morning, she felt safe, secure, the tension in her shoulders dissipating but leaving behind a dull ache, a reminder, if she needed it, of everything that had happened.

Everything.

Lord Kilfenora's rugged scowl materialised before her, his cut-gla.s.s British public school accent echoing like a foghorn through the mists in her mind. d.a.m.n him. Even here she couldn't get away from him, couldn't get away from the grip he had on her life. Her hatred rose like bile, knotting her shoulders all over again. Determined not to let it get the better of her, she put down her gla.s.s with a crack and hauled open the freezer, grabbed a handful of frozen peas and slung them into the saucepan with her pasta. She watched the water calm and swirl for a while, before it began bubbling again. Just like her life periods of turmoil punctuated by periods of stasis. She should have known her life in Tarragona was too good to be true, that things were going just a little too smoothly.

In the sitting room Alex reached for the TV remote. Pulling one foot in underneath her, she sat back on the worn navy sofa resting her dinner on her knee, trying to lose herself in a repeat of Friends. No good. As she twirled her fork through tangled strands of tagliatelle liberally dusted with black pepper, a k.n.o.b of b.u.t.ter melting over them, she could feel the dull ache of worry growing, not helped she was sure by the pasta. It was really too late to eat. Too late for a lot of things. Like apologies. Like turning back the clock. Like telling Sebastian Wingfield she was too busy to take on his job. She ran her hand over her face, pulling her hair back, twirling it around into a knot at the nape of her neck. The truth was they needed the work, weren't in a position to turn down anything in Ireland. They were investing a huge amount of money in opening an office here, and after all their hard work over the years, Alex couldn't afford to let the business suffer because of a glitch in her past.

A glitch? What an understatement.

Suddenly, her phone rang. For a second, the sound didn't register, then realising what it was, she leaped off the sofa cursing and dived for the kitchen counter where she'd left it. Despite her best intentions, she'd completely forgotten to phone Marina back.

'Alex, how are you? I was worried.' At the sound of her Spanish accent, Alex suddenly longed to be back in Tarragona, sitting at a table in their favourite restaurant eating tapas and tiger prawns laced with garlic straight from the oven, still bubbling in a round terracotta dish.

'I'm grand, just had a long day. I was going to call you.' Forcing herself to sound upbeat, Alex twiddled with the ties on her sweatshirt as she continued, 'I'm only in from the hospital.'

'How's your papa?'

'Better I think, definitely much better. They're talking about letting him out next week.'

'Ooh that's great Alex. And you've found a nurse for him?'

'I've found an agency who can supply someone part time they'll be able to change his dressings every day and make him a cup of tea. He's going to go nuts if he has someone fussing about him much more than that. He's putting on a brave face, but the nurses are driving him mad in the hospital. He's used to his s.p.a.ce.'

Marina laughed; she'd met Tom Ryan several times when he'd visited Barcelona, and knew exactly what Alex meant, 'The nurse you find will need to be very thick-skinned. Have you thought about getting a male nurse? Someone he can do the crossword with and talk about the rugby?'

Alex couldn't resist a smile. She knew it was a stereotype, but the few male nurses she'd met had all been 'rear gunners' as her dad would have put it; she could imagine the fireworks now. 'I'll ask them. I'm going to interview whoever they suggest early next week.'

'Very sensible. I've been in touch with a couple of recruitment agencies to see if we can get someone to help you out as soon as possible. I'll narrow it down and email you the CVs; you won't have time to do any of that.' Alex could hear a note of excitement building in her voice. 'I got a fax from Venture Capital this morning. Jocelyn was very impressed with you. They want you to start immediately.'

Alex knew the fax was just a formality, legal confirmation that the contract was theirs. She cleared her throat, 'they want preliminary ideas by Monday.'

'Good G.o.d, that only gives you the weekend, and...'

Alex interrupted her, trying to sound rea.s.suring, despite her stomach tying itself into a knot that would have held a liner securely to a quay. How was she going to face him after that kiss?

'I know, they want the colour scheme to reflect their corporate colours, so that takes the pain out of it. And I was at the fabric wholesalers this afternoon. I've got some really strong samples, florals and geometric prints. I've already got carpet samples for Senor Marquez, so I don't have to traipse about collecting them. I'm sure they'll go for a neutral colour scheme. I was thinking cream with aubergine maybe with some navy highlights. I'm going make up some mood boards on Sunday.'

'You mustn't work too hard Alex, you must leave time for yourself you know.' Marina paused, saying brightly, 'At least you'll have more time to do the apartment.'

Alex was about to reply, but stopped as panic flared in her chest was there another project she had forgotten about, her mind so occupied with her personal problems? Rapidly back-tracking through their last meeting in Barcelona, through her last meeting with Senor Marquez, she couldn't think of anything. So what on earth was Marina talking about?

'What apartment?'

'The Venture Capital MD's apartment. What is he called?' Alex could hear Marina searching through her file for the fax, knew the answer before she said it, 'Wingfield, Sebastian Wingfield. Jocelyn said in her fax that they want us to include it in our quote. He's getting married at the beginning of June but he wants to surprise his fiancee, so the actual work needs to be carried out while he's away on his honeymoon. He's going to discuss the details with you at your next meeting.'

For once Alex was lost for words.

TEN.

Wrapped in her beaver coat, dyed a deep revolution red, the silver grey chinchilla collar tickling her nose, hands thrust deep into the pockets, Caroline stepped out of the lift that connected the Four Seasons apartments to the gilded lobby of the hotel at exactly eight o'clock. Polished gla.s.s and deep grey granite sparkled under the discreet designer lighting, the air heavy with scent emanating from a ma.s.sive bowl of yellow lilies on an antique table. Her stomach churning, she could feel a nervous sweat p.r.i.c.king her back. But it was a good nervousness, one that was making her feel more than a tiny bit giddy. Thankfully, the inner lobby was almost empty, a man sitting reading a newspaper near the reception desk the only occupant. Caroline glanced around anxiously just to be sure, catching the receptionist's eye in the process. Hiding her nervousness, she smiled a confident greeting and headed for the main door.

What was she doing? How the h.e.l.l was she going to manage this what if someone saw them? Thoughts flashed through her head like the Sky News headlines at the bottom of a TV screen.

Peter was already waiting for her, standing alone looking out the plate gla.s.s doors at the fountain in the forecourt, his hands in his pockets. He must have been watching for her reflection in the gla.s.s, because he turned as she walked towards him. He'd changed into a charcoal grey suit, hand-tailored, Italian she was quite sure, and, as he moved, she could see it was lined with claret silk, setting off his silk tie. His look was approving. And hungry.

Catching her breath, she stopped a couple of feet from him, opened her mouth to speak, but he was there ahead of her, 'I hope you've got something on under that coat.'

'Pardon?' Shocked, Caroline opened her eyes wide, found herself rooted to the spot. Thank G.o.d no one could hear him.

'It's the sort that drops to the floor in movies, isn't it? The kind of coat you dream about when you're stuck in the snow in a dug-out in Chechnya with a gang of s.h.i.t-scared kids for company.'

'Is it?' It wasn't often Caroline was stuck for words but right now she really was.

'It is. Definitely.' Peter took a step towards her, narrowing the gap between them, filling it with an electrical charge that almost made her jump backwards. 'So where do you want to eat? You suggest somewhere, it's ages since I was in Dublin.'

Move. Caroline willed herself to move, to close the gap a little further. There was something she had to tell him. She pulled her hands out of her pockets to smooth the collar of her coat away from her face, cleared her throat, braved a step forward. She needed to get this next bit out of the way as fast as possible.

'I have a small confession. I should have mentioned it earlier.'

Peter raised one sandy eyebrow and looked at her down his nose, the bridge of which, she realised, was twisted slightly like it had been broken, making him look even more interesting. His mouth pursed, he was looking at her half-amused like she was a precocious child, waited for her to continue.

Caroline glanced nervously at the huge entrance doors. She had to get this over with before someone she knew walked in and blurted it out for her.

'You see...' how should she put this? Inwardly Caroline winced, there was only one way....'I'm actually seeing someone. Well, we're engaged. So...'

'So, you don't want to have dinner?'

'Oh no!' Her reaction was instantaneous, surprised them both, 'No, I'd love to have dinner with you, but you just need to know, that's all. You might not want to have dinner with me.' Caroline emphasised the last word, managed to make it sound arch.

Peter shrugged. 'I'm on my own in the big city, why would I not want to have dinner with a beautiful woman, even an engaged one?' It was the way he said woman. She could feel herself melting, dissolving like an ice sculpture into a pool on the floor.

She nodded, 'Okay. So that's fine then.'

'It is. Fine.' Was he teasing her?

Outside there was a flash of headlights as the long, sleek shape of a silver Mercedes S550 pulled around in front of the doors. The car...

'It does mean though that going to a restaurant could be a bit tricky.'

'Tricky.' He was nodding. He was definitely teasing her. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes and, dear G.o.d, he was looking at her like all he was interested in was what was under her coat. If things continued like this, she really would be in a puddle on the floor before they even got into the car. Drawing a breath, Caroline tried to pull herself together 'So, I took the liberty of ordering a car. Have you seen the Wicklow Mountains? They really are rather lovely at night.'

'The Garden of Ireland isn't that what they call them?' He made it sound like the Garden of Eden, 'Sounds good to me.' He took another step towards her, closing the gap between them, put out his elbow so she could slip her arm through his, 'Show me the way... I'm all yours.'

Now that was an offer she couldn't refuse...

ELEVEN.

'So that's for Thursday is it? Do you really think you can get back from the factory in Poland in time for the meeting in Cannes on Friday?'

Sitting across the desk from her boss, Jocelyn Blake swished the full skirt of her favourite ruby taffeta dress over her knees, like a hen settling her feathers, and peered at Sebastian with concern over her half-moon gla.s.ses.

They'd had an early start, but he really wasn't with it today, had just put down the phone after speaking to his operative in Poland and had agreed to view their factory in Gdansk and have dinner with him there, when he'd been talking all week about getting over to Cannes and giving their chap a roasting before they opened for business at nine. It was most unlike him. He was normally so methodical.

Jocelyn knew he relied on her a lot for the minutiae, but he was always so thorough; he was the one who had built one of his grandfather's businesses, a small property development company, into the global concern it was today. Over the years they'd won deals and lost them, but she'd never seen him quite like this, this preoccupied.

For a moment, Jocelyn wondered if the New York deal that Jackson was negotiating was the problem they were buying a bank after all but as she turned it over in her mind she couldn't think of any major acquisition that had ever bothered Sebastian like this before, no matter how big. There was that journalist too, but Jocelyn was pretty sure Sebastian had straightened her out, explained that whoever was giving her information was making it into something it wasn't. The girl was a young slip of a thing, looking for her big break, had arrived scowling, looking like she was going to chew Sebastian up and spit him out, but she'd left the office smiling. There was something else on his mind there had to be.

Most definitely in a world of his own, Sebastian obviously hadn't heard her. Jocelyn watched as he ran his gold fountain pen through his fingers, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle of the leather-bound blotter in the centre of his desk, oblivious not only to her, but to the office, to the heavy rain outside, torrents of water buffeting the floor-to-ceiling windows like a tsunami. Spring in Dublin...rain and more rain. Goodness, she hoped it would be better weather for the wedding.

The wedding.

Suddenly it clicked and Jocelyn almost slapped her forehead in disgust at not recognising the obvious. It had to be the wedding that was bothering him.

Leaning forward, Jocelyn was about to say something helpful about nerves being completely natural, or that everything would fall into place on the day anything to snap Sebastian out of whatever was occupying his mind so fully, to get him back to the job at hand but she checked herself. The last thing she needed was for him to lose his temper and accuse of her interfering. They both knew she'd never been keen on Cormac's sister Caroline, found her airs and graces hard to stomach on a good day. In fact, from the moment Caroline had first appeared on the scene, Jocelyn had been treading very carefully. The day Sebastian had revealed the news of their engagement, he'd accused her of having a face like a prune, had ranted on about the joyful messages they'd received from Cormac and his family. At the time, secretly, Jocelyn had wondered if he wasn't feeling a bit prune-like himself, was using her reaction as some sort of excuse for his own lack of enthusiasm. After all, she'd made her thoughts abundantly clear that first morning when Caroline had swanned into the office and tried to barge in on a board meeting, so he should hardly have been surprised. Jocelyn paled at the memory.

'Of course he'll see me!' Arching one eyebrow (with emphasis) in response to a woman whom she obviously perceived to be little more than a secretary, Caroline had been marching through Reception towards the lift when Jocelyn had caught her arm, and restrained her very firmly but in the nicest possible way, saying 'he's in a meeting. A crisis meeting with the board of one of his companies. I'm under strict instructions not to interrupt until he calls. I'm very sorry but you'll have to wait.'

Eyeing Jocelyn's hand on her arm, Caroline had been about to deliver one of the cutting remarks she reserved for impertinent staff, to create an opening scene in one of the one-woman dramas she specialised in. But something about Jocelyn's tone stopped her. Rapidly rea.s.sessing the situation, she had paused for a moment, her disdain hanging in a noxious cloud that filled Reception. Then, rooting in her Prada handbag, with not a little glee, she had produced Sebastian's watch. 'Perhaps you could give him this; he left it in the shower.' Smiling sweetly, she then turned on her heel and headed out of the building, throwing as a parting shot over her shoulder. 'Tell him to call when he's free. I'm going shopping in town. I'll be on my mobile.'

Looking at the worn leather strap and scratched silver bevel of Sebastian's beloved Tag Heuer, Jocelyn had suddenly had an alarming flash of impending doom, a startling feeling of precognition that this wasn't going to turn out well. She cursed herself. This was all her fault...

It had been her idea for him to ask Caroline Audiguet-O'Reilly to dinner realising sometime mid-morning that the invitation to the Chinese Amba.s.sador's residence for a private dinner with the visiting Chinese Minister of Trade and the CEO of one of China's largest corporations was for two, and that for Sebastian not to turn up with a date might be considered highly offensive. By chance, moments before, Caroline had called to say she was in town, could collect her brother's binoculars any time before Friday...

Agonizingly, as Jocelyn looked back on it, it had actually taken her some time to persuade Sebastian that a) he really did need a date for the dinner, that in Chinese culture a huge emphasis was placed on family and turning up without a date could be viewed as a slight on the Amba.s.sador's hospitality, and b) that Caroline was perfect. His reaction came back to her like a speeding boomerang: 'what Cormac's little sis? Good G.o.d woman, she's a nightmare!' But, as Jocelyn had explained to him, Caroline had attended the Sorbonne and had made small talk at enough dinners with French prime ministers to know exactly the right etiquette and tone to adopt. So, Jocelyn had reasoned, Caroline was perfect. And, more importantly, there wasn't anyone else available who even came near the mark. Of course, when Sebastian had called to see if she was free, explaining the dilemma, Caroline had revelled in it, her 'but I couldn't possibly, I've nothing to wear,' met with the suggestion that she pop into The Designer Rooms in Brown Thomas and put whatever she needed to buy on his account. That had been the start of it. And if Jocelyn had had any inkling that Caroline would begin to weave a very sticky web around her prey, a man who could offer her all the material benefits she required in life, as well as a hereditary t.i.tle and a castle to boot, Jocelyn would most definitely have suggested she attend the dinner herself instead.

'What?' Sebastian narrowed his eyes and looked at Jocelyn like he was trying to work out why she was there.

Jocelyn raised her eyebrows, 'Gdansk on Thursday, Cannes on Friday. You'll be flying through the night after a heavy dinner. I can't imagine you'll be in the best shape to deliver the bad news to the French at eight o'clock in the morning. And you're at the theatre with Caroline on Friday night. '

Suddenly tuning back in, Sebastian looked startled.

'Am I? d.a.m.n. You're right. Can you fix it? Get me sorted out so I can see everyone. We can't move the meeting on Friday, but see what you can do.' He paused for a moment, 'And just remind me what we're doing today again...'

'Alex Ryan at ten about the decorating, you put her back an hour, actually that's in ten minutes now, and you've a conference call with Jackson in New York at eleven.'

'New York. Of course. Look, we'll have to put off the Polish chap until next week. He was so enthusiastic on the phone about how well things were doing I must have got carried away. Tell him we need to reschedule so I can give him more time. That should do the trick. He's worked d.a.m.n hard out there; I want to give him his due.'

'No problem.' Then tentatively, 'Are you okay today? You seem a bit preoccupied.'