Bachelor Boys by Kate Saunders Page B

life—and was wearing a gorgeous dark red linen jacket. Designer glasses had replaced the unflattering specs.
    I was vindicated. The egghead was beautiful. Cinderella had emerged from her dusty library. There had to be a man in the picture, and I was desperate to hear the details. Within seconds, I had mentally composed e-mails to Annabel and Hazel.
    â€œHonor!” I waved her over excitedly. “How are you? Your hair’s wonderful!”
    When Honor saw us, she flushed almost as red as her jacket. “Cassie—hello—what are you doing here?”
    â€œI work in Dover Street.”
    â€œOh God—of course.”
    â€œYou remember Ben,” I said happily. “Come and join us.”
    â€œOh no, I’m not exactly—I can’t—actually, I’m meeting my publisher.”
    I couldn’t think why she was so flustered. “Do you have time for a glass of wine?”
    â€œI’d love to, but I really can’t.” Honor stiffly shook hands with Ben. “Nice to see you.”
    â€œHope it goes well,” I offered.
    â€œThanks.” She scuttled to the back of the restaurant. An elderly man in a corduroy suit (academic publishers are not known for their elegance) rose to meet her.
    â€œShe looks great,” Ben said.
    â€œI told you, didn’t I? But I think you’re probably too late.” I was laughing softly. “Honor only gets into a state like that when she’s in lurve .
Now I’m totally intrigued. Maybe she’s seeing some famous married novelist, and knew I’d recognize him.”
    â€œI should have listened to you,” Ben said, attacking the large wedge of cheesecake that had just arrived. “Next time you chuck a girl at me, I’ll pay more attention. Fritz might think he can do it without you—but I obviously need all the help I can get.”
    Â 
    On the packed Northern Line, standing all the way up to Hampstead, I mentally ran through my select list of suitable females. Honor Chappell appeared to be spoken for, but you never knew, and I didn’t want to cross her off entirely. And there was always Annabel, whom I considered my Star Buy. The Darlings had known her for years, but I was sure she could be presented to them in a new way, like a secretary in an old film who suddenly takes off her glasses (“Why, Miss Levett—you’re lovely!”). Hazel was another obvious winner.
    Hazel Flynn, as I believe I’ve mentioned, was the youngest-ever editor of a glossy magazine. I’d met her at college. For the first five minutes, I thought she was ghastly—loud, brassy and assertive, with tons too much makeup. And then I noticed the bank of steady warmth behind her swaggering confidence, and the intelligence of her raucous humor. In a matter of days she had become one of my essential friends. Hazel had a deep, sexy northern drawl and a pneumatic figure, and was always knee-deep in boyfriends.
    These days, she was sleeker and more angular, an immaculate assisted blonde in conspicuous designer clothes. She was still surrounded by men, but none of them had stuck for more than a few months. She was devoted to her job, and besides this, Annabel and I thought she had dreadful taste in boyfriends. The worst of it was, you couldn’t pin it down to just one taste—she had been through every type of dreadful boyfriend, from a dreadful titled guy at one end of the scale to a dreadful street busker at the other. She was constantly lamenting her single state, and she had fancied Fritz from afar at Oxford. She was a fabulous candidate.
    Annabel and Hazel were my top girls, but I also had two of Matthew’s female colleagues up my sleeve, and a couple of excellent names from my old school. The Darling boys would soon see that I
meant business. In fact, I was so sure of my success that I was even slightly worried about being beaten to the altar by one of my friends.
    As I approached the