“Jack, you have to order this stuff; it takes time,” my PA said, sounding frazzled. “I can’t just get you one there by tomorrow – it’s not like buying something on Amazon Prime.”
I took the phone away from my ear, made sure that Urvi couldn’t see the screen, then typed for a moment before rolling my eyes and putting it back to my ear.
“Yes, yes you can. Remind me again why I pay you a six-figure salary?”
“Yes youcanorder thesensorsJack, not the bloody reader.”
“Then go back to the manufacturer and get the damn thing. I want it here by tomorrow.”
“Look, she’s made do without one of these for over a year –”
“She is not going to be ‘making do’ any longer. Understand me?”
Graham sighed. “Yes. Fine. I’ll get it there.”
I finished the call and shoved the phone into my pocket.
“What was that about?” Urvi asked.
I could’ve told her, but there were a number of reasons why I didn’t think it would be the best idea. In her concern Kira had broken Urvi’s confidence and I now knew all about her diabetes, how long she’d had it and what system she needed to better monitor it. She may not be completely sure about me but Kira liked the idea of Urvi becoming involved with somebody with the resources to sort some of this stuff out. It was clear Kira had been carrying this worry for her friend for a while. So much so that she even told me the details about Urvi’s parents and how they had disowned her after she had dropped out of medical school to study music. And how, shortly after that crushing blow, Urvi had begun to lose weight and developed an uncontrollable thirst, which led to her diagnosis of diabetes. Kira also made sure I knew that Urvi had student loans up to her eyeballs and tuition fees to pay, seeing as her parents had refused.
All that talent and her parents turned their backs on her? It made me want to strangle someone.
So no, it was probably best not to tell Urvi that I knew which system she needed, or that my PA was in the process of paying for it and having it sent out to Saint-Tropez. She definitely wouldn’t approve of me making impossible demands on her behalf, but I paid Graham bloody well (better than any other PA I knew) and I gave good bonuses precisely so I could get what I wanted, when I wanted.
I flashed her a grin and took her hand to give it a squeeze as we weaved through the colourful stalls, but didn’t answer her question.
Now that I knew she thought I was “impossibly handsome” I’d been using this to my advantage. We’d been to the citadel earlier and I’d watched her rapt face looking out at the view from one of the turrets. I stood to the side, looking at her rather than the view, with my hands shoved in my pockets and my feet scuffing the cobbles. She’d looked so beautiful up there with the wind blowing back her thick dark hair away from her stunning face that the urge to touch her had been almost unbearable. But I didn’t want to push my luck.
I’d decided to try a bit of being Mr Knowledgeable and All Knowing and told her the history of theEglise de Notre-Dame de l'Assomption (not that I knew anything about it, but as an ad exec bullshit was my middle name). I thought I was being a real smooth operator until she started laughing.
“What?” I asked, a bit put out that my charm wasn’t hitting its usual mark.
“It’s nothing,” she said, trying to control her laughter with visible effort and little success. “I just . . .” she’d snorted, “. . . you know that scene inAnchormanwhen he takes her to the viewpoint . . .” she’d lowered her voice in a bad Ron Burgundy impression.
I blinked. Nobody saw through my bullshit normally. It took me a moment to recover before I’d smiled and leaned against the railing, saying: “Well, Iama very important man.” Which made her laugh even harder.
In my experience women didn’t usually laugh at me or tease me: they tended to agree with me with blind adoration. But . . . to my surprise I liked it. And I liked Urvi’s face lit up by humour, something I hadn’t seen since we’d left the UK. I’d liked it so much that I lost my battle with myself and broke my own not-touching-Urvi rule. Like my body was on autopilot I stepped closer to her whilst she was mid-laugh, reached up with one hand to push back her silky hair and wound the other around her waist, pulling her into me - and then I’d touched my lips to hers. I pulled back to check her face and could see her pupils dilate despite the bright sunshine. After a moment she stood on her tiptoes and kissed me back. Fierce victory had shot through me as I deepened the kiss and pushed her against the turret wall. She gave a small moan as my hand found the smooth skin of her stomach and then slid round her back under her t-shirt, and a wave of need had hit me so hard I think if a group of tourists hadn’t interrupted I would have done far more than kissing, right out in one of the most public spots in Saint-Tropez.
She’d been flustered as we broke apart and righted our clothing. I turned her around to look back out at the view and caged her in from behind, so that I could smooth her hair over her shoulder and talk in a low voice into her ear. Forgetting the Rough Guide stuff from earlier, instead I’d told her how, ten years ago, I’d stripped off, jumped naked into one of the fountains below and ended up getting arrested with Ben (never do absinthe on an empty stomach). It worked, she was distracted from her embarrassment as she laughed and relaxed back against me. “That’s the kind of tour guiding I expect from you,” she said. “Not the pretentious twat kind about the history of churches.”
“I made that church stuff up anyway,” I admitted. “They could have built it in the eighties for all I know.”
She snorted and gave another low husky laugh. I couldn’t help but touch my mouth to her neck again and she shivered in my arms.
So, since then I’d kept up my campaign of casual affection and peppered our tour of the old town with self deprecating stories of previous embarrassing scrapes I’d got into on conferences here in years gone by. Vomiting on a certain supermodel’s Louboutins was a particular highlight.
“She spiked my drink,” I told Urvi with mock affronted dignity. “It must have been so that she could have her wicked way with me.”
“Yes,” Urvi returned dryly. “I’m sure international supermodels go around spiking chaps’ drinks all the time in order to ravage their limp, naked bodies. Makescompletesense. Who else would want to have sex with those ladies?”
I’d smiled and pulled her into my side. “Okay, maybe I just drank too much. Maybe. But I was only twenty-two at the time.”
“I’m just over twenty-two now and I don’t drink at all.”
“Well, at twenty-twoIwas a complete twat.”
She’d laughed. Again. I felt more victorious hearing that laugh than I had landing the biggest contract that year. “Complete twatness is not some sort of medical condition that excuses you for vomiting on a woman’s shoes, you know.”
