The Baby Scandal. Cathy Williams
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slammed it shut.
‘Now that’s all settled,’ he said, standing up and shrugging on his jacket, ‘just one or two suggestions before we start work on Wednesday.’
‘On Wednesday?’ she squeaked.
‘Why waste valuable time? No point meeting here. Meet me at The Breakfast Bar in Soho. Here’s the address.’ He scribbled it down for her and she took the paper from him. ‘Eight p.m. sharp. I gather it’s where a lot of young girls hang out when they hit London for the first time. It’s cheap, in the centre of things, and has a reputation for being a useful place to meet people.’
‘How on earth did you find all that out?’
‘I’m clever and talented. Hadn’t you noticed?’ he said in a silky voice, addressing, as it turned out, her downturned head. ‘Anyway,’ he continued crisply, ‘just a couple of suggestions.’
That got her attention. She looked up at him with her peach-smooth skin and wide grey eyes, now holding a hint of a question in them.
‘Dress casually. Jeans, trainers, nothing too…formal. If anything, you’ll want to blend in with some of the girls we’ll be meeting…that way they’ll be more relaxed and more expansive about revealing themselves to a couple of reporters…’
‘How do you know they won’t laugh in our faces and walk away?’
‘I think, actually, they’ll either be flattered or relieved that someone’s taking an interest in them.’ He was by the door now, hand on the doorknob. ‘The way we’ll play this is: questions in the night, and the following evening we’ll debrief over dinner before we start again.’ He smiled at her. ‘And don’t be scared. I’ll look after you.’
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