Thought I’d introduce myself to the Paris team while I’m here.’
More schmoozing. ‘No. I’m going shopping.’ She wasn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to encourage him to underestimate her. After what she’d just heard, she had to get
her hands on that report from Bob as soon as possible. At the very least, he was flexible with the industry’s governing rules.
‘Well, would you like to meet up later? In the interests of trying to’ – he gave a small sigh – ‘clear the air, start over, make amends? We could go for
dinner.’
The taxi stopped in front of her and she stared at him for a long moment, wishing she’d never been on that damned plane. ‘Fine.’
‘Great. I’ll pick you up from your hotel.’
‘No, I’ll meet you there.’
‘Where?’
‘The Ritz. Book a table for eight p.m.’
‘OK, then.’ He flashed her a smile that belonged on a Diet Coke model and which she refused to return. She slid into the seat and shut the door.
‘
Où?
’ asked the driver over his shoulder.
‘
L’aéroport Charles de Gaulle, tout de suite
.’
Chapter Eight
Day Ten:
Lavender Sachet
‘You can go in now.’
Allegra looked across at the PA – redhead with a designer ponytail and a first in modern languages from Bristol – who was the last line of defence to the inner sanctum.
She stood up and walked briskly across the carpet without a word. Nothing of the outside world permeated the executive suite – the walls were soundproofed, the windows bulletproof,
everything around here armoured up, Allegra thought, to deliberately heighten your sense of human vulnerability, of flesh-and-blood fragility, to feel like Daniel as he walked into the lion’s
den.
She gave a quick tug on the hem of her Saint Laurent jacket – the only armour in her arsenal besides her extraordinary ability to decode numbers – before firmly rapping once on the
door and walking in.
Pierre was sitting behind his desk at the far end of the room. He didn’t look up as she entered, continuing to write whatever he was writing, but she wasn’t fazed. They had had these
state-of-the-nation chats many times before and they were like old warhorses hoofing the ground before they went into battle.
‘Pierre,’ she said in greeting, crossing the cherry-wood floor that was so highly polished she half wondered whether he used it to look up his PA’s skirt.
‘Allegra,’ Pierre continued, still writing. ‘A drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ She stood beside the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his, waiting to be told to sit, her eyes admiring the intensity on his face as he wrote.
After another minute or so, he threw – actually threw – the pen across the desk in front of him and looked up. His smile was cold. Her heart flipped a beat.
‘I think we do need a drink,’ he said, getting up and pouring them each a brandy, even though it was only four in the afternoon. He handed one to her. ‘Take a seat.’
She did as instructed, watching as he walked towards the long, tall windows that afforded commanding views over the Wharf and back towards London proper. His silhouette was as sharply cut as the
London skyline. Like her, he was a triathlon freak, and his PB was only eighteen minutes faster than hers – they had even run together on several occasions – and they had spent many
evenings alone in his office, the last ones to leave, discussing carbon-fibre bikes and skinsuits.
But it wasn’t his fitness or success or drive that she respected most. It was his intellect – a cool, rational brain that she could predict and understand, and which silenced the
braggadocio of the look-at-me traders. It had brought him a personal fortune of £7 billion, homes on almost every continent in the world (had he wanted a ski lodge in Antarctica, he could
have had one there too), a model wife (third) and, better than any of that put together, a reputation as a City goliath that saw CEOs of FTSE 100s stand even when he entered
More schmoozing. ‘No. I’m going shopping.’ She wasn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to encourage him to underestimate her. After what she’d just heard, she had to get
her hands on that report from Bob as soon as possible. At the very least, he was flexible with the industry’s governing rules.
‘Well, would you like to meet up later? In the interests of trying to’ – he gave a small sigh – ‘clear the air, start over, make amends? We could go for
dinner.’
The taxi stopped in front of her and she stared at him for a long moment, wishing she’d never been on that damned plane. ‘Fine.’
‘Great. I’ll pick you up from your hotel.’
‘No, I’ll meet you there.’
‘Where?’
‘The Ritz. Book a table for eight p.m.’
‘OK, then.’ He flashed her a smile that belonged on a Diet Coke model and which she refused to return. She slid into the seat and shut the door.
‘
Où?
’ asked the driver over his shoulder.
‘
L’aéroport Charles de Gaulle, tout de suite
.’
Chapter Eight
Day Ten:
Lavender Sachet
‘You can go in now.’
Allegra looked across at the PA – redhead with a designer ponytail and a first in modern languages from Bristol – who was the last line of defence to the inner sanctum.
She stood up and walked briskly across the carpet without a word. Nothing of the outside world permeated the executive suite – the walls were soundproofed, the windows bulletproof,
everything around here armoured up, Allegra thought, to deliberately heighten your sense of human vulnerability, of flesh-and-blood fragility, to feel like Daniel as he walked into the lion’s
den.
She gave a quick tug on the hem of her Saint Laurent jacket – the only armour in her arsenal besides her extraordinary ability to decode numbers – before firmly rapping once on the
door and walking in.
Pierre was sitting behind his desk at the far end of the room. He didn’t look up as she entered, continuing to write whatever he was writing, but she wasn’t fazed. They had had these
state-of-the-nation chats many times before and they were like old warhorses hoofing the ground before they went into battle.
‘Pierre,’ she said in greeting, crossing the cherry-wood floor that was so highly polished she half wondered whether he used it to look up his PA’s skirt.
‘Allegra,’ Pierre continued, still writing. ‘A drink?’
‘No, thank you.’ She stood beside the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his, waiting to be told to sit, her eyes admiring the intensity on his face as he wrote.
After another minute or so, he threw – actually threw – the pen across the desk in front of him and looked up. His smile was cold. Her heart flipped a beat.
‘I think we do need a drink,’ he said, getting up and pouring them each a brandy, even though it was only four in the afternoon. He handed one to her. ‘Take a seat.’
She did as instructed, watching as he walked towards the long, tall windows that afforded commanding views over the Wharf and back towards London proper. His silhouette was as sharply cut as the
London skyline. Like her, he was a triathlon freak, and his PB was only eighteen minutes faster than hers – they had even run together on several occasions – and they had spent many
evenings alone in his office, the last ones to leave, discussing carbon-fibre bikes and skinsuits.
But it wasn’t his fitness or success or drive that she respected most. It was his intellect – a cool, rational brain that she could predict and understand, and which silenced the
braggadocio of the look-at-me traders. It had brought him a personal fortune of £7 billion, homes on almost every continent in the world (had he wanted a ski lodge in Antarctica, he could
have had one there too), a model wife (third) and, better than any of that put together, a reputation as a City goliath that saw CEOs of FTSE 100s stand even when he entered
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