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‘Julian?’

‘The very same. He was coming out of the lift and we sort of collided. He was very apologetic about it all. But there was something else.’

‘What?’ I feel like a detective in a TV series.

‘He dropped his room key on the floor.’

‘Room key?’

My chest tightens. I can hear Vanessa’s voice replaying in my ears: ‘I think Julian’s having an affair.’

No, there’s got to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe the meeting was in the room. In fact that must be it. I mean, look at me, I met with Larry Thompson in his room, didn’t I?

‘Uh-huh.’ Beatrice is nodding decisively. ‘I know because I picked it up. Actually, it wasn’t a room key at all. It was for the’ – she lowers her voice to a reverential whisper – ‘Oliver Messel Suite.’

I look at her blankly. ‘What’s that?’

‘Only the most romantic suite at The Dorchester!’ she exclaims.

OK, so now it’s a business meeting in the most romantic suite at The Dorchester. Well, I suppose it’s possible.

‘And what time did you say this was?’

‘I didn’t. But I would guess it was quite late. Probably after ten.’

But not probable. A business meeting that runs until ten o’clock at night? In the Dorchester’s most romantic suite? On a Sunday? When he told Vanessa he had to be at the office?

My stomach churns and flips over. I think about the condoms I spotted in his shopping basket and Vanessa’s admission that they haven’t slept together for ages. I have to admit, the evidence against him seems overwhelming.

‘So come on, tell me.’ I zone back in to see Beatrice looking at me, her eyes wide with curiosity. ‘Why all the questions? Didn’t your friend Vanessa tell you they were staying there?’

‘No … no, she didn’t.’ I shake my head and force a smile. ‘She must have forgotten – she’s terrible like that.’ My mind is whirling. I quickly grab hold of it. ‘Talking of which, has Larry Thompson called yet?’ I say, swiftly changing the subject.

‘First thing,’ nods Beatrice. ‘You’re meeting him at twelve noon at a nail bar in Notting Hill.’ I throw her a quizzical look. ‘He has a manicure appointment at eleven,’ she explains. ‘It must be an LA thing.’

‘Or maybe because he’s a dentist. You know, putting your fingers in other people’s mouths,’ I suggest.

‘Oh, I didn’t think of that.’ She beams. ‘And there I was wondering what colour polish he’d be choosing – you know, whether he was a pillar-box-red man or more a French manicure.’ She starts giggling, then remembers herself. ‘Anyway, afterwards he’s taking you to see the new space.’

Now she’s got my full attention. ‘Oh, so he finally made a decision on the location for the clinic?’

‘Yes, and he said he was sure you’d approve.’

‘Really?’ I feel a glow of pleasure. At least something’s going right. ‘Where is it exactly?’

‘He wouldn’t say. He said he wanted to keep it as a surprise.’ Beatrice hugs herself. ‘Gosh, how fab. I love surprises, don’t you?’

I feel a flicker of trepidation. What was that about not wanting any more surprises? First it was Julian, and now this?

Still, remember to think positive, I tell myself firmly. Everything’s going to be fine. In fact it’s going to be more than fine – it’s going to be great. And looking at Beatrice, I smile brightly. ‘Absolutely!’

Chapter Thirty-two

Larry is having his cuticles trimmed when I arrive.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’ He grins, flashing me his neon smile as I walk into the über-trendy nail bar, filled with ladies who do lunch and very little else. He’s reclining on a massage chair, being attended to by two therapists in white coats. One is doing his manicure; the other is massaging his bare feet.

‘Hi. Great, thanks,’ I reply, hovering uncertainly by some shelves, which are filled with different bottles of polish, and looking for a place to sit. This isn’t the kind of venue I’m used to for a PR meeting, but then Larry Thompson isn’t my usual kind of client.