front of the fire with a glass of wine and a good book, but no - they all had to troop out to whatever restaurant was in vogue and boast about their bravery on the piste.
‘Do you ski?’ she asked Oliver tentatively.
‘Yes, but I don’t spend three months talking about it beforehand.’ He gave her an impish grin, then adopted a mock pompous voice. ‘We always go to St Anton. Bloody marvellous - can’t beat it. Take the same chalet every year . . .’
Sarah snorted into her wine glass.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself. No - hang on a minute. Let me guess.’
He put his head to one side and studied her. Then put out his hand.
‘Messy hair.’ He touched one of the strands of dark copper that framed her face. ‘Interesting jewellery.’ He set one of her long beaded earrings swinging with the tip of his finger. ‘Not too much make-up. Just enough . . .’
The back of his knuckle hovered by her bare cheek.
Sarah realised she was standing stock-still, holding her breath.
‘I’d say something arty.’
She nodded.
‘I’m an illustrator.’
He spread his hands and gave a modest nod as if acknowledging to himself how clever he was. ‘So - what do you illustrate?’
‘Well, anything. Brochures, packaging. And I’ve done a couple of children’s books.’
‘Wow. I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be. It’s not exactly The Very Hungry Caterpillar .’
He looked bemused.
‘Best-selling children’s book of all time?’ She looked at him archly. ‘I take it you don’t have kids?’
‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not usually at home for story-time. I’m away a lot.’
For some reason this made her blush.
‘Well, that’s a shame. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures, reading to your kids.’ She sounded so prim. She wasn’t prim. Why was she coming over like a school-teacher all of a sudden?
‘Mmm-hmm.’ He was looking at her, nodding earnestly, but with a smile. He was teasing her. She felt warm again. Inside her heart was lolloping along at a slightly faster rate than usual.
‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘What do you think I do?’
Sarah rolled her eyes. He was making this into a game, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to play. But she went along with it. She scrutinised him. His hair was messy too, but the sort of messy that comes from an expensive haircut, not just unkempt, like hers. His jeans were faded, he had on black baseball boots, his shirt was untucked, white but with square mother-of-pearl buttons that meant it was expensive. Nice watch - square copper face, roman numerals, dark brown crocodile-skin strap. Definitely Watches of Switzerland, not Ratners.
Wealthy. Maverick. Slightly rebellious. Not a corporate man.
‘Something to do with the web?’ she guessed. ‘Or PR?’
He shook his head.
‘Not even warm.’
‘Dentist? Car salesman? Chef?’ Her guesses were random now.
He frowned.
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘But I’ve got no idea. You could be anything!’
‘I’m a barrister.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t look like one.’
‘You mean I’m not a corpulent, red-faced buffoon?’ He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. Naturally perfect, not cosmetically enhanced. ‘So is your husband here?’
‘Yeah.’ Sarah’s heart sank. For some reason, she didn’t want to point Ian out.
‘Is he an artist too?’
‘No. He’s a chartered accountant.’ She made a face. ‘What about your wife?’
She saw a flicker of something before he answered.
‘Divorce lawyer.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Buyer beware.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You probably saw her in there. She’s the life and soul of the party. Big networker, my wife. Always on the lookout for potential clients.’
Sarah wrinkled her nose.
‘That’s awful.’
‘That’s business.’
They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Sarah felt a little unnerved. In that short exchange she felt a sense of camaraderie with this
‘Do you ski?’ she asked Oliver tentatively.
‘Yes, but I don’t spend three months talking about it beforehand.’ He gave her an impish grin, then adopted a mock pompous voice. ‘We always go to St Anton. Bloody marvellous - can’t beat it. Take the same chalet every year . . .’
Sarah snorted into her wine glass.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Tell me about yourself. No - hang on a minute. Let me guess.’
He put his head to one side and studied her. Then put out his hand.
‘Messy hair.’ He touched one of the strands of dark copper that framed her face. ‘Interesting jewellery.’ He set one of her long beaded earrings swinging with the tip of his finger. ‘Not too much make-up. Just enough . . .’
The back of his knuckle hovered by her bare cheek.
Sarah realised she was standing stock-still, holding her breath.
‘I’d say something arty.’
She nodded.
‘I’m an illustrator.’
He spread his hands and gave a modest nod as if acknowledging to himself how clever he was. ‘So - what do you illustrate?’
‘Well, anything. Brochures, packaging. And I’ve done a couple of children’s books.’
‘Wow. I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be. It’s not exactly The Very Hungry Caterpillar .’
He looked bemused.
‘Best-selling children’s book of all time?’ She looked at him archly. ‘I take it you don’t have kids?’
‘I do,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not usually at home for story-time. I’m away a lot.’
For some reason this made her blush.
‘Well, that’s a shame. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures, reading to your kids.’ She sounded so prim. She wasn’t prim. Why was she coming over like a school-teacher all of a sudden?
‘Mmm-hmm.’ He was looking at her, nodding earnestly, but with a smile. He was teasing her. She felt warm again. Inside her heart was lolloping along at a slightly faster rate than usual.
‘And what about me?’ he asked. ‘What do you think I do?’
Sarah rolled her eyes. He was making this into a game, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to play. But she went along with it. She scrutinised him. His hair was messy too, but the sort of messy that comes from an expensive haircut, not just unkempt, like hers. His jeans were faded, he had on black baseball boots, his shirt was untucked, white but with square mother-of-pearl buttons that meant it was expensive. Nice watch - square copper face, roman numerals, dark brown crocodile-skin strap. Definitely Watches of Switzerland, not Ratners.
Wealthy. Maverick. Slightly rebellious. Not a corporate man.
‘Something to do with the web?’ she guessed. ‘Or PR?’
He shook his head.
‘Not even warm.’
‘Dentist? Car salesman? Chef?’ Her guesses were random now.
He frowned.
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘But I’ve got no idea. You could be anything!’
‘I’m a barrister.’
‘You’re kidding?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t look like one.’
‘You mean I’m not a corpulent, red-faced buffoon?’ He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. Naturally perfect, not cosmetically enhanced. ‘So is your husband here?’
‘Yeah.’ Sarah’s heart sank. For some reason, she didn’t want to point Ian out.
‘Is he an artist too?’
‘No. He’s a chartered accountant.’ She made a face. ‘What about your wife?’
She saw a flicker of something before he answered.
‘Divorce lawyer.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Buyer beware.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You probably saw her in there. She’s the life and soul of the party. Big networker, my wife. Always on the lookout for potential clients.’
Sarah wrinkled her nose.
‘That’s awful.’
‘That’s business.’
They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Sarah felt a little unnerved. In that short exchange she felt a sense of camaraderie with this
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