Romily recalled her own relationship with a much older man all those years ago and thought of the many people who had believed that she married Jack for his money. She smiled to herself thinking of the old biddies in Melstead St Mary, long since dead, who had considered her a scarlet woman. They had most assuredly assumed the worst of her. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
God how she had loved Jack! And what a passionate romance they had shared together. There had been no one like him since. Yes, she had been involved with a number of men in the intervening years, but no man had possessed her heart, body and soul the way Jack had. Now, at the age of fifty-five, she was content to live as a single and carefree woman. She had her work and her friends and a family whom she loved; what more did she need?
As though in answer to that question, the young waiter who had been assigned the task of bringing her vodka martini took that moment to materialise. ‘Signora,’ he said deferentially, setting down the tray containing her drink, along with a dish of plump olives and salted almonds.
‘Grazie,’ she responded, although she could see with his pale freckled complexion he was about as Italian as she was.
Her drink had been perfectly mixed with just the right amount of vodka and she relished the sublime dryness of it while reading the menu.
Her glass was almost empty, and she was contemplating ordering a second drink, when she was aware that she was no longer alone.
‘I bet you’ve been sitting there wondering what kind of a worthless fellow has the audacity to keep you waiting so long.’
From behind her sunglasses, she raised her gaze to the man before her. He was so tall and broad in the chest and shoulders he eclipsed everything around him. ‘And you would be who exactly?’ she asked.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, that is somewhat ingenuous of you, but just so as you know, I’d get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness if I could.’ He held out an oversized hand. ‘Red St Clair at your service. Can you forgive an ignorant Yank such appalling behaviour?’
She shook hands, her own disappearing into his. ‘If you really are such an ignorant Yank,’ she said, ‘I doubt we have any business to conduct.’
He smiled and pulled out the chair to the right of hers. His enormous body instantly dominated the space, making her back away from him.
‘Have you decided what to eat?’ he asked, indicating the menu in front of her. ‘I can recommend the sardines followed by the linguine al frutta di mare. They’re both favourites of mine.’
‘I thought I’d have the ravioli e limone followed by the veal escalope,’ she said, perversely changing her mind from her first choice of sardines and linguine.
‘An excellent choice too.’ He raised a large hand into the air, instantly attracting the attention of the waiter who’d brought Romily’s drink to her.
‘Hi Danny,’ Red said to him, ‘how’re you doing?’
‘I’m very well, sir.’ The young waiter beamed, his pen and pad poised to take their order.
Red glanced at Romily and indicated her glass with his finger. ‘Another of the same?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he turned back to the waiter. ‘Make that two, I have some catching up to do.’
‘Certainly, sir. Have you chosen what to eat?’
Red rattled off their order, along with the request for a bottle of Barolo Marchesi.
If there was one thing Romily could not abide, it was a brash, self-important man treating her as though she wasn’t capable of ordering her own meal, or deciding which wine to drink with it. If this was how it was going to be, working alongside Mr Red St Clair, Gabe and Melyvn Correll would have to think again! What was more, she was going to have to make things very clear to the man himself. She drank what remained of her martini and very slowly counted to five. Then: ‘Mr St Clair,’ she began, ‘I think we need to—’
‘Hey, please, call me Red.’ He shifted his chair so that he was sitting at a ninety-degree angle to the table, an elbow resting on it, his legs stretched out languidly in front of him; they seemed to go on for ever, like a pair of Red Wood trees. ‘Go on,’ he said, leaning back in his seat, causing her to wonder if it could bear his weight. He wasn’t fat, simply a colossus of a man. ‘What do we need to do?’ he asked. ‘Other than write a cracking script. Have you ever co-written anything before?’
‘No, and I’m really not convinced that—’
‘That it’s a good idea?’ He laughed. ‘You may well be right.’
‘Then why are we—’
‘Sitting here at all?’
She stared at him hard. ‘Are you going to interrupt me all the time by finishing what I’m about to say?’
Drawing his thick brows together, he frowned, as though having to tease out the meaning of her question. ‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ he said, at length. ‘It means we’re tuned in to each other, that we’re on the same wavelength.’
She pursed her lips. ‘I think that highly unlikely.’
Their young waiter appeared with their martinis and after he’d placed them on the table and they were alone again, Red drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this wrong, but I suspect we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?’
She gave him a pitying look. ‘Goodness, do you really think so? You delay our meeting by several hours and then can’t even be bothered to turn up for lunch on time. What kept you, a round of golf, or a game of tennis at the Racquet Club?’
‘I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?’
‘So you did. But it didn’t have the slightest ring of sincerity to it. And if that’s how it would be for our working relationship, then I’m afraid there’s little point in us continuing with this conversation.’ She stood up abruptly. ‘Good day to you, Mr St Clair. I believe we’ve said all we need to say to each other.’
‘Wait,’ he called after her.
But she didn’t. She kept on walking, right out of the restaurant until she realised she was on the street and with not a taxi in sight. Damn and blast, she would have to go back inside and ask for somebody to order her a car.
She pushed open the door and found Mr St Clair blocking her way. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘would you give me the chance to explain why I was late?’
‘It won’t make any difference,’ she said, ‘I can’t imagine for one moment that we could work together.’
‘That might be true, but I’d like the opportunity to apologise properly to you.’
Reluctantly she followed him back through the restaurant and outside to the garden area. Other diners were looking at them curiously. Over on the far side of the pergola, tucked away in a discreet corner, she spotted Lucille Ball and her husband, comedian Gary Morton staring directly at her. And was that Dinah Shore on the table next to them? She suddenly felt mortified at the spectacle she had made of herself, and with such an illustrious audience. Dear God, what had got into her?