LITMIR.BIZ

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meetings. As for his behaviour last night—she was generously going to attribute it to the martinis. Yet he was sitting next to her. For the next seven hours. Twenty-first century purgatory.

      ‘Couldn’t you squeeze in one glass? We’re not billing them for this hour.’

      Now he was trying lawyer jokes. ‘No, thanks.’ Champagne invariably gave her a headache at sea level. ‘Just the water.’ She exchanged an esoteric smile with the flight attendant as another waft of his Eau de Testosterone threatened to choke them both.

      ‘Great work this week. Very impressive. You know how highly I rate you.’

      Typical ambiguity on the personal-professional line. But, while Sam could feel her flesh starting to crawl, her demeanour gave nothing away.

      ‘They were always going to take our recommendations.’

      Determined to avoid prolonged eye contact, Sam rummaged in her bag for her lip balm and wished she could be teleported back to London. Business trips were one thing, but a night in New York with Richard Blakely was in a different league altogether. Especially given that the only merger she was working on didn’t involve him.

      ‘Maybe, but I’d forgotten how good you are round the table…’

      ‘I enjoy it. Especially when things go our way.’

      Wallet, passport, make-up, hairbrush, mobile phone, PalmPilot, perfume, chewing gum, hand cream, dental floss—come on, come on. If her lips were to survive the brutal in-flight air-conditioning she couldn’t give up now. She was sure she could actually feel cracks forming.

      ‘…and you’ve always been a bit of a ball-breaker. I wouldn’t trust you with mine…’

      Definitely not the impression he’d given her last night.

      ‘Cheers…’

      Richard raised his glass and, hang on, was that a wink? Sam wasn’t sure. Watching as he tipped his head back åand took a long sip, she forced herself to think positive. Maybe a stray beam of light had caught the edge of his trophy Rolex as it peeped out from underneath his stiff made-to-measure Jermyn Street cuff. Not a glimmer of embarrassment from him. Nor any sign of a hangover. Amazing.

      Picking her bag up from the floor, Sam continued her search in the upright position just in case he thought she’d been aiming for his lap. She’d never so much as given him a modicum of encouragement—unless wearing a just-above-the-knee-length skirt to her final interview at City law firm Lucas, Lex, Lawton six years ago could be cited as foreplay—but her lack of interest didn’t seem to bear any relevance to his level of enthusiasm or dedication to her cause. His confidence levels were as unnaturally high as the balance of his current account.

      ‘…we could teach them a thing or two about drinking, though.’

      ‘Mmm.’ Sam wasn’t listening. She’d heard it all before. But she knew she should be grateful that at least she wasn’t expected to provide the in-flight entertainment.

      ‘So, what have you got planned for the weekend?’ Richard’s tenacity on the conversation front was commendable. ‘What does one of London’s most eligible women get up to when I let her out of the office?’

      ‘Oh, not much…’

      Her choice. Sam refocused on the methodical check of the pockets of her bag, which should have been a dedicated site of special scientific interest. It would appear that they were breeding Biros and tampons.

      ‘I haven’t had a clear weekend at home in…’ she paused ‘…well, with the three-ringed circus of hen weekends, weddings and work, we’re probably talking months…’

      Still sifting through the contents of her shoulder Tardis, Sam squinted at the screen showing their route across the Atlantic. To her dismay the computer-generated plane had barely left the Eastern seaboard, and was creeping north at the sort of pace that had given snails a bad name.

      ‘…and I’ve got loads to sort out—you know, all that life laundry that always has to take a back seat…’

      She was craving a marathon gym session followed by an evening in and a long soak in an aromatherapy bath with the current men in her life: Paul Mitchell, Charles Worthington, John Frieda and, of course, her oldest and most loyal shampooing partner Tim O’Tei. Candles. Chill-out CD. No more having to make polite chit-chat. A bowl of bran flakes. Bliss.

      Sam’s bathtime bubble burst and her stomach knotted instantly as she realised her bag was emptier than normal. The plight of her lips paled into insignificance as, uninvited, a cold sweat crept up the back of her neck.

      A furtive glance to her left. To her relief Richard appeared to have finally taken the hint and was now staring out of the perspex window, apparently mesmerised by the blackness of the night sky. Or perhaps checking his too-perfect teeth in the reflection. Sam peered into the dark folds of her bag before unzipping the myriad compartments one more time, just in case she might have misfiled or overlooked it. Not that she did ‘over-look.’ Fuck.

      ‘Everything Okay?’ Richard sensed a change in the force. A tell-tale furrow had appeared in her brow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.

      ‘Fine.’ Sam forced a smile and, leaning back stiffly in her seat, closed her eyes to create a few seconds of personal space. Maybe it was in her laptop case? A spark of hope followed by a dash of reality. She knew it wasn’t. And none of this would be happening if he hadn’t interrupted her routinely obsessive check of drawers and cupboards earlier.

      She had to move fast. Only right now she was on a plane which, even with a complementary tailwind, was hours from Tarmac and a private telephone opportunity. Forcing herself to take a sip of her water, she reclined her seat, headphones on, volume off, pretending to watch the screen sprouting from the end of her armrest. But while the images flickered enticingly, they failed to penetrate her thoughts. The water felt like a river of neat acid as it burned its path down to her stomach. Internal turbulence. But in nineteen years her diary had never let her down, never told her it was too busy, never not been there for her…until now.

      Ben refused to open his eyes. Having tossed and turned for most of the night, typically he’d only finally managed to drift into a proper sleep moments before the alarm had gone off. Yet it appeared, from the generally high activity levels going on around him, that his sister was well and truly up. On a Friday morning. On vacation. He must have been adopted; there was no way they could share genes.

      Doing his utmost to pretend he was still asleep, he willed the steady hum of the air-conditioning to lull him back into unconsciousness, and was practically knocking on nirvana’s door when a very familiar voice started up right next to his ear. He should have read the small print. This had been sold to him as a free weekend away, not some sort of boot camp. But there was always a catch.

      ‘Ben…jy.’ The sing-song pre-school approach to his name was quickly cast aside in favour of an impatient bark. ‘Ben… Come on.’ If he’d had four legs he’d have known he was in trouble. ‘Look, I know you’re awake—your breathing’s changed. Come on, will you?’ No wonder David hadn’t minded him taking his place. Ben wondered whether his clients really were in town this weekend.

      Ali poked his arm and Ben faked a somnolent shrug and murmur before opening one eye—partially and deliberately obstructed by his arm over his face—giving him a restricted view of his sister, who was squatting down at the edge of the bed. He tried not to smile. Things hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Then on Sunday mornings she’d physically prised his eyelids apart to prove that he was awake before forcing him to play stupid games—usually involving dressing up in clothes their mother had charitably donated to their cause—he suspected now, merely so that she hadn’t had to actually throw or give them away.

      ‘Ha! Stop pretending. I just saw you open your eye. Your arm shield needs work.’

      Ben stretched indulgently before propping himself up on the pillows. ‘Give me a break.’

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