Page 3 of The Girlfriend

Two days earlier

M AY BE HAVING THE BEST OF EVERYTHING WHEN HE WAS A CHILD meant that he never yearned for anything, at least nothing that money could buy.

Daniel had been bought a superb education and was clever—a fortunate combination that meant he liked school and school liked him.

He’d shown a particular aptitude for science, which had delighted his parents and professors, particularly when he’d been invited to study medicine at Cambridge.

To complement his academic cultivation, he’d had the holidays that were considered necessary: He’d learned to ski, to dive, and to appraise the world.

He’d done all of this with an enjoyment and interest that had reassured and pleased his parents; but despite being lavished with everything a boy could want, Daniel had somehow managed to remain unspoiled.

His response to the Great Wall of China was one of genuine wonder, and he was grateful for the comfort of the first-class flight home.

However, when he’d arrived at Heathrow, he’d jumped on the tube rather than call his father’s driver to come and pick him up.

His laid-back attitude extended to clothes and he grew perversely attached to items that had long since passed their best. Once, he’d retrieved a pair of briefs from the trash that Mrs. Moore had thrown out on one of his trips home from university.

He’d then hidden them, holes and all, in the side pocket of his holdall.

Those briefs were old friends and he would not be parted from them.

And so it was that he set foot in a real estate agency on one of the most expensive roads in London that represented some of the most exclusive properties, while he was dressed in a faded T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts with holes where the seams met at the pockets.

“I need a flat,” he said, smiling to the hesitant girl who politely approached him as he came in the door.

“To buy or rent?”

“Buy.” And he was directed to the back where a dark head was bent forward over a large, gleaming wooden desk, scrutinizing some papers.

“Can I help you?” When she looked up and smiled her client-welcoming smile, he felt himself respond in kind. Suddenly the job of flat hunting seemed a whole lot more pleasant. She had a cap of straight raven hair, which danced as it moved around her face.

“I’m looking for a flat.”

Her eyes were dark too, deep pools with fathomless depths. In them, he caught the mental calculations as she subtly took in his frayed shorts and T-shirt.

“How many bedrooms? Did you have a particular location in mind?”

“Two bedrooms,” he decided instantly, thinking the second would be useful as a study.

He hadn’t had much time to think about what he needed as he’d driven back from Cambridge early that morning.

Wandering around his parents’ house, he’d been aware of the likely pressure from his mother to stay if he became too comfortable.

It was best to start the ball rolling straight away; it wouldn’t be fair to let her get her hopes up.

“And location?” Once again, he detected suspicion about what he was doing here. No streets around Kensington and Chelsea were cheap, but some were prohibitively expensive. He knew he didn’t look the sort to have a couple of million to spend. Which in theory, he didn’t.

“Cherry Laine?”

Her face smiled tightly. Irritated, but trying to remain professional. “There’s no such street in the area.”

“God no, I wasn’t winding you up.” He pointed to her nameplate, black letters on brass background, and smiled. “You should be in an agency in a village in the Cotswolds or something.”

She stared at him long and hard, then turned her iPad to face him. “Depending on your price category, we have four properties that match what you’re looking for. This one is just two minutes from Knightsbridge station—”

“I’ll go and see it.”

She paused and tapped her screen. “Okay. This next one—”

“I’ll see that too.”

“But I haven’t even told you about it.”

He enjoyed watching her uncertainty about how to take him.

No doubt, most people who came in here were stuffed with the importance of how a property should be, how it should rightfully fit their needs.

They probably put great energy and effort into finding the perfect place, something that seemed to Daniel a colossal waste of time.

The quicker he got it settled, the better. “And the others.”

“In a hurry?”

“I should imagine for the price, they’re all pretty nice? How much are they, anyway?”

“These particular properties range from between two and a half and four million—”

“Wow!”

“And, yes, they’re exceptional—”

“There you are then. I need somewhere to live and I’m sure I’d be extremely fortunate to live in any of those you’ve selected. So, shall we go and take a look?”

Her hands fluttered over the screen. “I need to make appointments.”

“Later today then?” He smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be your easiest client. I’ll have one picked by teatime. It is you showing me around, isn’t it?”

She flicked her eyes across him, reassuring herself she hadn’t just encountered a psycho. “Yes,” she said firmly, “it is.”

* * *

This time, he was smarter, she noticed. Since he’d walked into her office this morning, he’d changed into a pair of navy chinos and a light blue shirt.

So far, he’d followed her obediently around the first-floor apartment with little comment.

She waved a hand toward the ground. “As you can see, there are wooden floors throughout, and one of the benefits of this property is, of course, the hallway.”

He gazed up and down. “What’s so special about it?”

“It’s not so much that it’s special. It’s the fact it’s there.”

He thought: In what world was a hallway considered a perk when you were paying two and a half million pounds? He didn’t want to offend her by saying this, and, after all, he was guilty by association. He was the one looking around it.

“And this is the living room,” she said, indicating the room through a doorway.

He peered in. “Nice sofa. Yellow.”

“Lemon,” she corrected. “Of course, these furnishings will be removed on sale. The owner has left them to present the property.”

“So, it’s vacant?”

“Yes. And there’s no chain.”

“Did the owner not want the sofa at his or her new place?”

Bemused, she looked at him. “I should imagine . . .”

“What?”

“They bought new.”

He smiled, then followed her down the covetable hallway, glancing down to see if there was anything he might be missing, but decided to concentrate on Cherry instead.

He liked the way she walked, with purpose, as if she cared about where she was going and the reason for getting there.

He had a feeling she might extend this determination to other parts of her life, and he found himself wanting to know more about what they might be.

Just then, she turned and caught him staring at her. She stopped and folded her arms.

“The kitchen is in there.” She pointed and it was obvious he was meant to go first.

“Sorry, I wasn’t staring at your bum.”

She raised her eyebrows at his outspokenness.

“Are you really interested in this flat?” As much as there was a certain charm about this man, she couldn’t bear time wasters.

And she had a pretty good eye for spotting them, having been one herself, although that was justified as it was a means to an end.

“Yes,” he said quickly, wanting to reassure her. “I’ll take it!”

“But we haven’t seen the others.”

“This is the cheapest of the ones you have available, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why pay more? Even this seems . . .”

“Yes?”

“Obscene?”

She looked at him.

“Sorry, I just find it a little . . . offensive. All this money. For one flat.”

“But you want to buy it?”

“Yes, please. And I’d like to buy the furniture too.

If it’s for sale.” In fact, Daniel had been told in no uncertain terms by his father that renting was not an option.

It was considered a complete waste of money—his father’s money, really, as Daniel had a trust fund.

If the flat passed his father’s scrutiny, it would become a family investment.

“Anyway, one flat’s much the same as another, isn’t it? ”

Cherry opened her mouth to speak.

“Of course, it’s not! No, no, sorry . . . Consider me very ignorant. But . . . I was just thinking . . . there are better things we could be doing with our time.”

She braced herself, knowing what was coming next.

“Are you free tonight by any chance? Could I take you out for supper? ”

Cherry always found it amusing the way rich people called it “supper,” as if they’d never quite left boarding school.

At least, it gave her a little more confidence that he actually might be able to afford the flat he’d just so casually declared he’d have.

This was actually her last appointment of the day; they were supposed to have seen the others the following morning.

All she needed to do was return the keys to the office and the evening was hers.

She thought about her plans, a ride home on a sweaty tube that delivered other workers to various parts of South London that diminished in salubrity as the seats were emptied.

She always felt left behind, the poor relation by the time they reached Tooting Broadway, but at least, she thought with a shudder, she wasn’t quite at the end of the line.

Then it was a quick stop in Sainsbury’s to get something to eat before returning to her tiny flat with no hallway.

She’d hang up her precious suit with the others, the most valuable things she owned, and then no doubt would spend the evening studying property on the Internet and wondering just when she might be able to get out of there.

She looked up at her client. She liked him, liked his devil-may-care attitude.

It made a change from those who turned a property down because the bathroom fittings were chrome and not brass, and were offended when the seller wouldn’t change them before closing.

Why not go out for supper with this man, she thought.

It was, after all, the reason she’d worked so hard to get a job in this part of town in the first place.