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not, but my face burned just thinking about the Christmas party.

      Everyone had looked forward to it. Our company, Nutritious, always put on a fantastic party whether it was a record year or a terrible one. Ostensibly it started after work at the pub on the corner, but most of us went out for a very long lunch beforehand. By the time I saw Alex sitting alone at the table, it was latish and the room was a bit spinny.

      He looked amazing. But then he always looked amazing to me. An unbiased observer might have noted that his shirt was untucked and he was wearing that fixed smile he got when trying to look sober. I’d seen it enough over the years. It never put me off. He’d have to soil himself unrepentantly to fall in my estimation. And even then I’m sure I’d find an excuse to love him again.

      I’d had Rory-like feelings for Alex for years. They started nearly the first time we spoke, a few weeks after Nutritious hired me. When he asked me out to lunch I could barely eat (proof of my feelings if ever there was any). But I sussed pretty quickly that it wasn’t a date. As the company’s finance director, he was also on the board of directors. They took it in turns to welcome the new recruits with lunch. It was simply the luck of the draw that I got Alex instead of our balding middle-aged CEO.

      Alex wasn’t balding or middle aged. He was thirty-six (birthday November 4th), from a middle-class family in Surrey (only child), and had a two-bedroom flat in Pimlico where he lived alone (the address of which I knew by heart). To me he was perfection on legs. Tall, but not too tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His strong jawline suited the stubble he usually wore. He had swoon-making thick dark eyelashes that framed his vivid blue eyes. His skin was sun-kissed even in February thanks to his skiing obsession, and his big straight teeth were practically American. I fantasised about getting my hands into his thick, straight, flaxen hair. I’d never tire of looking at him.

      So when I noticed him sitting in that booth, alone as the rest of our colleagues danced and drank, naturally I went over to say hello.

      He smiled when he saw me, and patted the bench beside him. ‘Katie. Katie Katie Katie. Happy Christmas,’ he slurred. ‘It’s not been a bad year, eh, considering? Still a lot of work to do though, tough nuts to crack and all that.’

      I laughed, thinking of my problem client, Jenny. ‘I will get Philips Pharmacy on board next year,’ I declared. ‘In fact I called Jenny before lunch.’ I didn’t need to tell him who Jenny was. She was a company legend.

      ‘Hoping for some last-minute Christmas cheer?’ he said.

      ‘False hope. She told me not to stuff my face full of mince pies because the extra pounds would be hard to shift come January.’ In other words, a typical conversation with Jenny.

      ‘Ouch. Still, at least you know it’s not personal. She’s never met any of us.’ He leaned forward. ‘So all you want for Christmas is a deal with Jenny. I wonder what else Father Christmas will put in your stocking this year, eh? Have you been a good girl?’

      Was he actually flirting with me? I could barely breathe. Maybe my support pants were too tight. We sat awkwardly facing each other in the booth.

      ‘I’ve been pretty good,’ I said, leaving room for interpretation.

      ‘Oh? Have you been a little bit bad, too?’ He leaned closer.

      I wasn’t sure where he was going with his line of questioning, but tonight, I was going to find out. I took a deep breath and raised the stakes. ‘I’m so bad that I’m sometimes very good.’

      He smiled. It was a filthy smile, full of the kind of promises I dreamed about. He leaned still closer. He closed his eyes. I closed mine too, leaning in to meet him. Our lips met. His were warm, soft and as perfect as I imagined. We stayed like that for a second, two, three … five, six … ten. He didn’t move. I peeked. His eyes were still closed. Slowly I broke our kiss. He remained motionless. Then, slowly, he leaned forward until his head rested on the edge of the table.

      Frantically I looked around to see if anyone had spotted us. But they were too drunk. As was Alex, apparently. He slept peacefully on the table. With humiliation flaming my cheeks, I fled the party. I could only hope he really had been too drunk to remember anything.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘Do I look okay?’ asked Ellie, making a face at her electric blue jersey dress.

      ‘You look lovely. Now please hurry, we’re late as it is!’ We had less than an hour to get to the theatre to meet Pixie and Jane.

      ‘Don’t the leggings look funny with these shoes?’

      ‘How about boots then?’

      ‘Ah, of course!’ She rushed off to find her boots.

      It was useless trying to rush Ellie when she got like this. She approached dressing like Sir Edmund Hillary approached Everest. I was her Tenzing Norgay, there for critical support.

      Eventually we emerged from Piccadilly Circus Tube into a swirling throng of people. Girls in various states of undress despite the frigid January air teetered in shoes that would keep chiropodists in business for years. The boys swaggered with bravado and lager. Excitement coursed through me at the thought of the night ahead.

      ‘There’s Pixie and Jane,’ Ellie said, quickening her step as we approached the red-brick-fronted theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was mobbed.

      ‘You look pretty!’ I said, admiring Pixie’s striking eye makeup and sheer lips. I was glad to see her making an effort. She rarely bothered any more.

      ‘Well, it’s not every night we get to go out on the town. Will you look at this? It’s a proper Saturday night out! I’m well excited.’

      We joined the buzzing crowd to make our way inside, where the usher directed us to the stalls.

      ‘Wow,’ whispered Jane as we walked down the side aisle toward our seats. ‘This is grand.’

      ‘I’m glad we’re not up there,’ Ellie said, nodding to the three ornately painted gold and burgundy balconies above us. ‘It looks cramped.’

      ‘I’m not sure this is much better,’ I said as I realised where our seats were. It was pretty clear that four large ladies weren’t going to be able to squeeze past the theatregoers already in their seats. ‘Erm, excuse me,’ I said to the couple on the end. ‘It might be easier if you …’

      The older woman took a split second to take in the situation before her eyes slid away and she shifted into the aisle with her husband.

      ‘Oh,’ said Pixie behind me, a look of uncertainty flashing across her face.

      The next couple realised they’d need to come out into the aisle too. Apologetic murmurs escaped us as we shuffled along. Then, again, we were at an impasse.

      ‘What should we do?’ Ellie asked with dismay.

      ‘Should we see if there are seats at the back?’ Jane wondered. She hated making a scene.

      ‘At the back?’ Pixie said. ‘We paid sixty bloody pounds for these tickets! I’m not sitting at the back.’

      She was right. Of course she was right. That didn’t make the situation any easier.

      ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said to the couple who were shuffling along the row towards us. ‘Could you possibly ask the people next to you to come out too? And maybe ask them to tell the people next to them? We’re seats eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen.’ In other words, directly in the middle of the blooming row.

      I felt my face go hot. Of course everyone around us noticed the commotion. How could they not? Some avoided eye contact. A few whispered. Others smiled in commiseration. Those embarrassed looks of sympathy were the worst.

      Perhaps we should have turned at the first hurdle and cut our losses. But how were we to know that

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