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‘I’m just tired.’ Finally it would appear her physiology was starting to limit her once indefatigable attitude. One of her school reports had called her a human dynamo; now she needed a jump start. Sam rested her forehead on her fist and exhaled.

‘What’s with the yawning? Didn’t you sleep at all?’

‘Hmm?’ To her annoyance, Sam was feeling worse since she’d got to the office.

‘Sleep…on the plane?’

‘A bit. Well, I pretended to so I didn’t have to small-talk my way home, but I had a lot on my mind…’ Her masochistic self wanted to confess, but EJ wasn’t really listening. Sam didn’t begrudge her. They were both experts in self-absorption—plus, since their law school days they’d had an unwritten rule that governed their friendship, outlawing negativity and insecurity. Together they perpetuated strength and success. And Sam hadn’t granted this situation crisis status yet.

‘I know what you mean, honey. What are we like—? Oh, my God!’ EJ interrupted herself. ‘I just have to tell you about last night.’ EJ dropped her voice to an almost whisper. ‘Let me tell you there is only one thing worse than a dinner party full of couples at our age, and that is a singles dinner party thrown charitably by a couple of cohabitees attempting to streamline their Christmas card list. I seriously thought about stabbing myself with a fork during the main course so I could pretend I was coming down with meningitis. Seventy per cent of the men were called Ed, only fifty per cent had hair, forty per cent had talked about their serious ex before dessert and, at a guess, one hundred per cent of them would like to screw a thirty-year-old lawyer, if not marry one.’

‘Well, I’m safe for a few more weeks, then.’

‘Why is it now that we’ve hit our thirties we’re suddenly expected to be grateful for any male attention that comes our way? If it wasn’t so fucking hilarious it’d make you want to cry. It’s all about older men. Obviously it’s better if they’re not married, but…’

Sam’s focus returned. ‘Elizabeth-Jane—you’re not, are you?’

‘No…afraid not. Even though it was the best sex I’ve ever had.’

‘La-la-la. Fingers in ears. Not listening.’

‘Oh, yes, you are. Prude. Just because you haven’t had sex in…’

‘Hey, that’s harsh.’

‘Anyway, Nick’s ancient history.’

‘Just ancient.’

‘He’s only forty-eight…and I haven’t seen or spoken to him in weeks…’

‘Weeks? I thought it was January when you…’ Conscience more stabbed than pricked, and Sam swallowed hard as her error dawned on her.

‘Hey, a girl’s got to live a little…’

She’d had nowhere else to turn. But now, thanks to the blank page and Bic biro approach to secret-keeping, it wasn’t only her personal life currently out there on a pale blue feint line. Sam shook her head as her Friday feeling hit an all-time low. She envied EJ. Having a therapist was no stranger than having a hairdresser if you were American. And you couldn’t accidentally leave a therapist in a desk drawer.

‘I really better get on, honey. I need to sort some stuff out before my tele-con with the LA office. I promise I’ll give you the rest of the story tomorrow. I’m planning to run Hyde Park first thing—call me if you’re interested. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’

Sam was miles away, torturing herself silently with details. Now the phone had gone quiet. Bugger. And she hadn’t actually heard EJ say goodbye.

‘Look forward to…’ Sam stopped herself when the dialling tone cut in, confirming that she was talking to herself. Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared at her computer screen, seeing nothing except imaginary tabloid headlines. Despite her desire to come up with a proactive master plan, all roads currently led to Wait Patiently. Not something Sam Washington had been designed to do. Losing things coming a close second.

As if she’d been waiting for a silence, Mel popped her head round the door. Apparently privacy was an outmoded concept.

‘Three file notes for you to proof, and I’ve brought you some tea. Thought you might need pepping up before your meeting.’

Sam was about to request a herbal alternative, but from the wafts of minty steam knew her secretary had anticipated well.

‘Thanks. Meeting?’

‘Your two o’clock. Fifth floor. Conference room 1. Just thought it might have slipped your mind, what with the not having been to bed thing. I mean, I know your seat practically turns into one, but I imagine it’s not the same.’

‘Right. Yes. I’ll be there…thanks.’ Sam picked up a pen and stared at the papers on her desk. She’d been counting on losing herself in a drafting but the words were just taunting her. As for a meeting…

‘No problem.’ Mel turned as she got to the door. ‘Oh, and your mother rang. Please call her when you get a chance. She said it was fairly urgent.’

‘Will do…’

Sam suppressed her irritation. Despite repeated briefings on the subject, her mother still hadn’t grasped that phoning the office was best kept for emergencies and that organising Sunday lunch didn’t deserve ‘fairly urgent’ classification.

‘Oh and Mel?’

‘Yup?’

‘If The Carlyle Hotel call…’

‘I know, I know. I’ll put them straight through.’

‘Right…’

Conversation closed.

Taking a sip of her tea, Sam brushed her hair, applied a little extra Touche Éclat, a fresh coat of powder, lipgloss and a generous squirt of perfume from the bottle she kept in her desk drawer. Restored to at least a superficial level of normality, she smoothed down her skirt as she got to her feet, and checked her appearance in the mirror. Perfect.

Insecurities filed away in an internal drawer somewhere, she strutted towards the lift. She loved the high-profile deals, and she was getting more and more of them. Youngest partner in the City. She dared to dream. As long as EJ didn’t get there first.

Chapter Two

January 24th

Ben hesitated. Ali hadn’t seen the funny side of him reading her journal, and that had been nearly twenty years ago. But there was a high probability that this one might contain more than high school crushes, exam angst and playground politics. Plus, if he didn’t at least try to identify the author, how was he supposed to reunite the two in exchange for eternal gratitude? Perfect justification. He flicked back to the beginning.

If found please return to:

Flat 3,

68 Warwick Road,

Battersea,

London SW11 8HP

Damn. But breakfast wasn’t due for another forty-five minutes, and he only needed to have a quick shower. After all, he was unpacked already.

Jan 1st

Hungover. Should never have gone to Sophie’s dinner party. Food always fantastic—really must learn to cook properly—but midnight was a bit like watching the slow dance at the school disco. Bed at 4:00 a.m. Resolve to wake up next New Year’s Day without having to apologise to liver, stomach and kidneys for immaturity. Brain seems to have developed pulse of its own. Just waiting for it to burst out of my forehead, Alien stylee.

NY Res:

1. a) Run/cycle round Battersea Park at least 3 x week

b) Register for charity half-marathon. Would like to hit 30 at peak of physical fitness

Ben held his two-pack in. What was it with women and exercise? As far as he could make out they spent most of their schooldays avoiding physical education before devoting their late twenties to single-handedly combating the twin forces of evil—cellulite and gravity—determined to make amends.

2. Posture.

Stand and sit up straight.

Don’t want to become hunchbacked old woman

He sat up a little straighter. Round shoulders were the curse of the comfort generation.

Smile while walking fast. Don’t want to be old and fierce-looking with furrowed brow

3. No carbs. (January only) Fresh fruit x 5 daily. Espec. red peppers and tomatoes—antioxidants

4. Read one Penguin Classic every 2 months

5. Keep legs and bikini line hair-free even in depths of winter—remember am doing it for self

6. Be better friend, however busy at work. Owe Sophie and Mark at least five dinners—prob. more

7. Sort out nuclear winter in window boxes and try and keep them alive for more than two months at a time. Replanting is cheating. Water might help. Think last batch of plants were dodgy. Water. Sun. Photosynthesis. How hard can it be?

8. a) Have great sex

b) Have sex more than once

c) Have sex more than once with the same person

d) That person must be someone you have never had sex with before

9. Pilates or yoga? Research difference

Research difference? Ben scoffed. He was sure one was just the new-fangled version of the one before. It was all a gimmick. New millennium women were exhausting.

10. Streamline wardrobe. Be ruthless. Do not need another pair of black trousers, probably ever.

11. Buy anti-wrinkle cream. Is it too late once wrinkles have started to appear? Ask EJ. She seems to have inside track on new products

12. Buy night repair cream—why do repairs have to take place at night? Is it like roadworks? But no one has to dig anything up, do they?

13. Find tennis coach. Am too old to still have a crap serve

14. Try whisky again. May have grown into it now.

Ben grimaced sympathetically. He’d never understood the allure of cough medicine with ice or water, and despite David’s repeated determination to make him a man, Southern Comfort was as close as he’d managed to get to the whole malt zone.

15. Exfoliate

Liver now feels like is trying to burrow its way out of my back cavity. Sure in desperation it has borrowed water from other vital organs. Can’t rehydrate fast enough and have officially run out of soap operas, Australian, American and otherwise, to watch on apparently numerous digital television channels that I pay for. Hangovers definitely getting worse.

EJ says we have passed physical peak. Wish I’d known when I was reaching the summit. Should’ve had more random sexual encounters. Anyway, who says I need man to rescue me? Am perfectly happy. Wonder how Paul is? Oh, no. Usual downward hangover spiral and selective memory kicking in. Always wouldn’t mind having boyfriend, however unsuitable, on days like today. And if alcohol is a depressant why did I feel so good last night? Lonely. No one has called. Not even Mum. Don’t know why I bother to have answer-machine and call-waiting.

Ben shook his head. If she had just got off her toned arse and headed down to the pub for a couple of Bloody Marys with a buddy or two she’d have been feeling a lot better, he was sure of it.

Must call Sophie and Mark and say thank you. Not now. Probably still in bed. Not sure will make it out of house today. Maybe should add atrophy to list of skills to perfect this year.

All out of empathy, he flicked forward a handful of pages.

Jan 16th

Bad day. 1—Caught myself counting faint lines on forehead in lift mirror at 7:00 a.m. before remembering CCTV memo. 2—Richard called twice about having lunch to discuss my progress—more like his progress. 3— Departmental drinks tonight—decision to have onions in salad at lunch was wrong one. 4—Monster spot brewing on lipline, with roots in central nervous system and fast-track link to tear ducts. Have drenched in tea-tree oil and now whole office smells like aromatherapy zone. Have despatched Mel to buy industrial strength cover-up and air-freshener.

Ben yawned. Just reading her life was exhausting, but no wonder Adrian Mole and Bridget Jones were world-famous. It was mundanely addictive stuff, and without thinking he’d conjured up a mental picture of a black-trousered, ageing, hyper-active hunchback in need of chill-out, pilates and serve lessons.

Hope that someone laughs at early attempt to be witty before I lose will to live or they notice spot. Definitely should not have attempted pre-emptory squeeze. Lip must not swell. Are there genuinely confident people out there or are they just better at bluffing than the rest of us?

Sam sat in the conference room and watched the bubbles in her mineral water lose their battle to cling to the bottom of the glass before forcing herself to concentrate by diligently taking copious notes. Doing her utmost to avoid Richard’s gaze, even though she could feel him observing her from the other side of the table, she channelled all her positive mental powers of retrieval to the other side of the Atlantic.

Jan 21st—Edinburgh

Freezing my tits off despite two fleeces and long sleeved T-shirt. Perfect skiing weather, only there’s no snow and no piste. If I ever have hen weekend it will be somewhere hot and will not involve being hungover in hiking boots. Sunshine is glorious. Wind-chill is positively Scandinavian. Thank God Sophie has opted for London-based traditional drinks, dinner and nightclub approach. Hope Gemma not having some sort of travellers reunion on Designers Guild sofa and has remembered to feed George.

Hard to share after months alone, and probably impossible to ever find someone totally compatible post-Soph. Can’t believe G caught me waxing legs in front of Dolly Parton documentary on Thursday night. Now probably thinks I am some bluegrass nut. And all because I couldn’t face Newsnight. Miss the anonymity. And do miss topless cup of coffee first thing, pre-shower. Maybe am secretly some sort of naturist? Will actively discourage that tendency.

Deal should close next week. Hope EJ is still up for skiing. Can’t believe she is still sleeping with NG after everything he’s put her through. But apparently sex is awesome.

Ben stopped skimming. This was the Holy Grail of diary snooping.

Fact he is so well known has got to be recipe for disaster…not to mention the takeover. Have had serious chat and she’s adamant he’s got more to lose than she has. Therefore she’s safe. She didn’t even buckle at the Hello! spread. Perfect home, perfect children, perfect wife. But you can’t just go shagging the other side. Even if he did make the first move, how could she ever prove it?

A surge of adrenaline powered up Ben’s hard drive as he began to scour his archives. NG… NG…

Can’t believe it’s been on and off for 5 months.

Ben counted back on his fingers to August/September and added the details to his search. Still nothing.

She insists monogamy is flawed. I just don’t want to see her get hurt. Of course if you never over-estimate a man then he’ll never let you down, but she deserves so much more, and it’s not like she needs to be checking in and out of hotels midweek, even if they are all five-star. She claims it’s all on her terms, but how can it be when he dictates where and when? She says this is the future. I am still hoping for more. Seems impossible that is now six years since my last, okay my only serious relationship ended. Wanted period of being single, but not necessarily a lifetime. And what if that was the best I—

A knock, followed by—what was that?—the doorbell?

As he crash-landed back in his world, Ben’s amusement at the fact their room was large enough to merit a bell was only momentary as he heard a key slice into the lock.

‘Coming…’

Momentarily forgetting the breakfast order, he wondered whether this could have been a set-up. The curse of a vivid imagination coupled with mild paranoia. One of the many side effects of being a true creative…along with lower than average salary, propensity towards messiness, predilection for alcohol and the inability to look truly smart even in a suit.

‘I’ll be with you in a second.’ Stuffing the diary under his pillows, Ben strode across the fitted carpet to answer the door.

Disappointingly there was no sign of any food. Instead, a woman power-dressed in a black suit, who looked as if she had been made up enthusiastically by Picasso using a trowel, was waiting patiently, hands clasped to display her freshly manicured nails.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you, sir…’

Ben loved the formality of hotels. Being a paying guest was a prostitution of sorts. Instant respect without having to earn it so long as you had a valid credit card number. Where else would a thirty-something producer for a mediocre television production company, dressed in his underwear, be addressed with such deference? Although somewhat disappointingly she had resisted the urge to bob a curtsey. It wasn’t until he felt her gaze wander to his midriff and back that Ben realised he was only wearing boxer shorts. A cursory glance due south confirmed that nothing was gaping and everything was exactly where it was supposed to be, albeit shrinking rapidly.

‘I can come back a little later if this is a bad time?’ This time she looked him squarely and unblinkingly in the eye, the directness of her stare more than a little unnerving.

‘Really, it’s no problem. What can I help you with?’ Ben folded his arms across his chest to remove the likelihood of his hands accidentally straying to his groin area for a morning scratch. It was either that or hands on hips, which would have looked even stranger and much camper, if not like a little teapot. He would have pulled on yesterday’s jeans if he’d been able to see them. Obviously they were hanging in a wardrobe for the first time in their life. There were advantages to having an interfering older sister, but this wasn’t one of them.

‘It really shouldn’t take a minute.’

‘I was just getting up anyway…’ To his relief, Ben spotted a bathrobe and belted it round him to reduce his increasing feeling of semi-nakedness. But now, with his underwear still on underneath, he might have appeared more decent but he felt like a cross between Hugh Hefner and Lily Savage.

She was still hesitating on the threshold.

‘Really. Come in.’ Taking a step to one side, and with a hospitable sweep of his arm, he finally persuaded her to enter the room and, shoulders back, she strode past him to the bedroom.

Retreating to the sitting room, Ben pulled back a curtain, flooding the room with light. It had been dark when they’d arrived, but now a patchwork of power stretched out below, the long green rectangle of Central Park a perfect contrast to the density of towers midtown that made the New York skyline one of the most distinctive in the world.

The sky was a perfect high-pressure blue, and as the sun reflected off cars and windows, with glimpses of handkerchief-sized stars and stripes blowing in the crosstown breeze over twenty floors below, it was as if the city was twinkling. Surveying the scene, he was overtaken by a sense of pride. He loved London—its quirkiness, its history, its architecture—but the British just couldn’t do skyscrapers. Canary Wharf wasn’t in the same league.

‘I’ve just got to check a couple of drawers.’

‘No problem.’

‘The previous guest thinks she may have left something behind…’

‘Really?’ Ben silenced himself. Each word on the subject only deepened his deception. Picking up the New York Times he forced himself to sit down and act natural. He was an oxy-moron in action. Maybe just a moron. And he might as well have been holding the Times upside down for all the information he was gleaning.

Ben watched and listened over the top of the paper, half expecting the book to fling itself into open view from its inadequate hiding place. But on Tuesday he’d be back in London—or he could hand it in to Reception later. It was a win-win situation.

Sam stared at the Post-It in the centre of her desk. Melanie’s curvy writing filled the primrose-yellow. There had to be a logical explanation. But if she didn’t have it and neither did the hotel…

Her chest was tight. Only a diary. Only a diary. Only a diary… It wasn’t working. If anything, hysteria was tiptoeing a little closer. If she’d wanted to expose her soul to an audience she’d have been a talk-show host, not a lawyer. Yet now someone had the fast-track to her unencrypted inner sanctum and, worst of all, it wasn’t only her privacy that had been invaded.

Sam shook her head vehemently and deliberately. She needed a calming influence. There was only one person for the job. She might have moved out in October to start a joint life with Mark in their little house on the Fulham prairie, but thankfully she was still at the end of the phone.

Sophie eyeballed the phone, daring it to ring. She’d only popped out for stamps, and she’d left return messages for Sam everywhere. Something was up. She couldn’t remember the last time Sam had called her at home in the afternoon. All part of the not-needing-anyone-for-anything charade that she seemed to have successfully perpetuated with everyone who hadn’t met her before she’d finally split up with Paul.

Double-checking she had all the photos and samples she needed for her meeting, Sophie made herself another coffee. As the kettle boiled she stared critically into the mirror, pawing at imperfections only she could see before standing back to allow a more soft-focus view and grimacing to tighten the skin of her neck in an attempt to exercise the muscles responsible for keeping her chin in place.

As Mark swept in to the sitting room, pinstriped from head to toe, newspaper tucked under his arm, a bunch of flowers wrapped in the usual pastel paper from the flower stall outside the tube station, Sophie gave her hair a quick flick and hoped he hadn’t noticed her moment of gurning madness. She was never going to stop men in the street with her looks, but she’d always been attractive enough. And happy enough. It was just—well, what with all the planning for the wedding she couldn’t help becoming a little more self-absorbed and self-conscious…

‘Hello, you. Happy weekend. Smells gorgeous in here.’ Mark presented Sophie with the bouquet and planted an enthusiastic kiss on her cheek before striding over to the oven and peering in. ‘Mmm. Cottage pie. My favourite. You are clever. Lucky me. But only a small dish…’ He looked up. ‘So does this mean you’re abandoning me again this evening?’

‘Only for a few hours. And only for another woman.’

‘Excellent.’

Sophie smiled. Mark’s fantasies were as original as his taste in suits.

‘She’s just inherited four floors of Artex and woodchip in Richmond and needs serious help.’

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘Here’s hoping.’ Sophie walked over to her husband-to-be. His five-thirty shadow was giving him an atypically rugged appeal that she really quite liked. ‘It’s just an informal meeting—a chance for me to introduce myself and give her a few knee-jerk ideas—but at least this way I’ve still got the weekend to myself, and if she likes my recommendations it’s potentially my biggest project yet. Apparently her husband’s loaded.’

‘And hopefully devastatingly unattractive.’

‘Hideous, I believe. Anyway, there must be a good four hours of crucial sport for you to watch on cable until I get back.’

‘Well, they’re repeating the one-day cricket from India…’ Sophie pulled a face. She couldn’t understand the point of a sport in which the quick version took a whole day to play. ‘…plus there’ll be the weekend football and rugby previews, and of course essential tractor-pulling on Eurosport. But first I was planning on getting out of my uniform and having a little rest.’ Mark filled a pint glass with water from the mixer tap, liberally showering himself in the process.

‘Poor you. Have you had a horrible day?’

‘Not too bad, but it’s Friday so of course there was a large lunch to contend with.’

She should have known. His breath was far too minty for this time of the afternoon.

Mark grabbed at his love handles with a contradictory combination of pride and disgust. ‘These must be worth a fortune. Pure sirloin, frîtes and Fleurie.’ He gulped down his water, wiping his mouth on his forearm in the manner of a true nine-year-old. ‘What time are you off, then?’

‘Ought to be out of here in less than an hour, and I still have to change.’

‘Don’t go changing…’

It was one of their standard lines, and one that had proved very lucrative for both Billy Joel and Barry White, but it still made her smile.

Wrapping his arms around her curves, Mark pulled his fiancée in for a kiss. ‘Don’t suppose you want a quick lie-down too?’

Minutes later the phone rang, but Sophie didn’t hear it.