‘I can’t, Ben. I’ve got all this.’ She waved her hand to take in the computer and the stacks of paperwork sitting on her desk, patiently waiting for her to get her act together.
‘You still have to eat. Now, up. We won’t go far. I’ll have you safely delivered back to the grindstone by one. I’m here for a meeting with Parry at one-thirty, anyway.’
‘Honestly, Ben, don’t ruin your plans for me. I know you just popped in to say hi.’ She stood up. ‘But I’m not getting any work done, and lunch out is just what I need. I can’t tell you how miserable it is being the luckiest girl in the world.’
They went to a brasserie round the corner from the office. They could be guaranteed a certain amount of privacy there, because the food was delicious but wildly overpriced and everyone else in the office avoided the place like the plague. It was also the perfect place to have an emotional conversation without risk of being overheard. The tables were helpfully spaced apart and the atmosphere, even at midday, was curiously intimate.
Without too much prompting, Charlotte poured out her heart. Ben provided the handkerchief, and over an expensive, exquisite beefburger listened to her rambling tale of love and panic, and confusion and love, and lust and uncertainty, and more love. He remained stoic when she told him with an anguished groan that she wished to God she could have loved him the way she loved Riccardo. Ben, who had just started seeing another woman, hoped for the adoration Charlotte obviously still felt for her ex-boyfriend and now husband-to-be. To have that would be nice. Standing outside, he was pleased to see that Charlotte looked a lot less teary, even though he had offered no helpful pieces of advice but had just listened. When she hugged him, he freely wrapped her in his arms and gave her a brotherly kiss on her forehead.
Across the road, Riccardo was halted in his tracks. He hadn’t expected this. The girl at the office had told him that Charlotte had gone to lunch at that expensive place round the corner; she couldn’t remember the name but it was something French. She hadn’t said anything about the man Charlotte had gone with, and Riccardo had assumed…What had he assumed? That she was tied to him in some way simply because she had finally given in to her physical attraction? Hadn’t she told him often enough that lust was not the glue that held a relationship together? What the hell had he been thinking?
He watched from a distance as she stood still on the pavement for a few seconds on her own, wrapping her arms around herself. She was smiling, and from where he was standing that smile looked mighty happy indeed.
Riccardo felt the blood which had drained away from his body rush to his head in a burst of jealous, possessive rage. He was shaking as he leant heavily against the wall and drew in one long, shuddering breath. Then he turned away and began walking. He didn’t go near his office. Trying to work would have been impossible. For the first time since he had been living in London, he did the unthinkable and took a taxi to Regent’s Park, which was peaceful and fairly deserted. In his head, he replayed what had confronted him outside the brasserie. His wife to be, his woman, wrapped up in the arms of another man. There was a heavy sensation in the pit of his stomach which felt like concrete.
He should have talked to her before, really talked. But how could he have, when he had known nothing of how he felt about her until an hour ago? When he had witnessed her in the arms of her ex-boyfriend. If indeed he was an ‘ex’.
The prospect of living a life walking in the shadow of someone else filled him with searing rage and now he knew why. He dialled her number on his mobile phone without bothering to torture himself with self-analysis, and got through to her immediately.