hipster jeans from Chloe Lane on Main Street, and a matching black mink cropped fur jacket from Alaska Furs that cost more than her last three months’ salary, but that completed the glam-rock look perfectly. Dashing back to the hotel for make-up – smoky eyes were most definitely called for – and her highest pair of Louboutin spiky boots, Lottie finally arrived at Mastro’s twenty minutes late with her adrenaline pumping.
‘I’m here for dinner,’ she announced to the hostess confidently. ‘The table’s booked under Dupree.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Most of your party are already here, if you’d like to follow me.’
Most of my party? Lottie looked confused. Her bewilderment intensified as the hostess led her to a large, round table in the middle of the restaurant. A handsome man in a beanie hat was arguing loudly and pretentiously about art with two very young girls, both of whom looked like models and hung off his every word. Next to him, an older man in a crumpled suit looked up and smiled at Lottie. ‘I’m Francis. I’m a friend of Jackson’s. And you are?’
‘Lottie. Lottie Grainger.’ Lottie shook his hand and sat down, biting her lip hard to stop herself from crying. How could she have misread the situation so badly? Jackson didn’t want to take her out for a romantic dinner. He’d simply invited her along to join a group evening. He probably felt sorry for me, stuck in the hotel on my own. He was being kind. ‘Jackson and I are …’ What were they? ‘… colleagues.’
‘Lucky Jackson.’ Francis smiled wolfishly. ‘And unlucky you. It’s bad enough having to deal with his bullshit as a friend. If I worked with the arrogant son of a bitch, I’d shoot myself. What are you drinking?’
The table was already lavishly supplied with red and white wine, plus a jug of some sweet, fruity-looking cocktail. Lottie was about to say, ‘Nothing thanks, I’m fine,’ but then suddenly changed her mind. Fuck it. Why not? Jackson might not want her, but she was looking drop dead gorgeous tonight, she’d just won Wrexall Dupree a vital piece of business, and someone else was paying. She deserved to celebrate.
‘I’ll take one of those.’ She pointed to the red jug. ‘A large one.’
Francis grinned. Pouring the drink he handed it to Lottie. ‘That’s the spirit. Thank God you’ve arrived. If I had to listen to this idiot spout one more line of crap about Kandinsky’s genius, I swear to God I would have drunk the whole pitcher myself.’ He looked at handsome beanie guy the same way he might look at a cockroach in his soup. ‘They’re all AA you know, this crowd, even the children. Nothing more boring than an ex-addict. I mean, really, who wears a fucking snowcap indoors?’
Lottie giggled. She enjoyed talking to Francis. It turned out he was an architect, rather a famous one, but he had no airs and graces. Tall and thin with an angular, intelligent face and eyes ringed with fans of laughter lines, he was neither handsome nor ugly, but he was so animated it was impossible not to look at him, and laugh with him. Francis met Jackson five years ago, when he designed a chain of boutique hotels for Wrexall Dupree in Polynesia, and he was in Park City for business, hoping to be brought on board as part of the design team for the new resort, if it ever got off the ground.
‘Oh, it’s off the ground,’ said Lottie. ‘It’s flying.’ She told him about her and Jackson’s triumphant meeting with the planning committee today.
‘You star! You actually got Jack Brannigan excited about something other than his own nose hairs?’ Francis poured her another drink, her fourth at least. Lottie was vaguely aware of things around her starting to sway. How late was it? Maybe someone should order some food?
It was after midnight by the time Lottie staggered out of Mastro’s on Francis’s arm. Jackson had failed to show up at all, but after the first hour Lottie didn’t even notice his absence. It was only when Francis had had to foot the entire table’s bill that it occurred to Lottie to be angry at Jackson’s rudeness.
‘I don’t care who he is, ish rude. Ish fuggin’ disgraceful.’
‘That’s Jackson. I’m used to it,’ laughed Francis. ‘Besides, if I get a slice of this resort deal, it’ll be well worth the cost of a few dinners.’
‘Thash not the point,’ slurred Lottie.
‘It was worth it anyway. Meeting you. I had a great time.’ He leaned in and kissed her. Lottie closed her eyes and sank into the sensation. It was rather wonderful, the combination of the chill night air and the warmth of Francis’s body. He tasted of coffee and mints and smelled faintly of patchouli oil. Combined with her drunkenness the sensation was heady and delicious, as if all the pent-up tension of the last three days had been unlocked and was pouring out of her body into his arms.
‘Lesh go to bed.’
Francis’s kind, funny face lit up. ‘Your place or mine?’
Five minutes later they were giggling and kissing their way through the lobby at the Stein Eriksen. Lottie was so drunk she kept bouncing off the walls. ‘Ish these damn shoooooes!’ she kept saying. In the end she sat down on the floor and had Francis pull them off, a process that produced even more fits of giggles.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Jackson, who had just walked in with a used-looking blonde on his arm, marched over to Lottie and Francis.
‘Oh, I remember you,’ Francis teased him. ‘Weren’t you some asshole I agreed to have dinner with once?’ Turning to the blonde he added, deadpan, ‘Don’t sleep with him, love. He’s a martyr to his crabs, is our Jackson.’
Ignoring him, and the girl, Jackson grabbed Lottie by the arm and yanked her painfully to her feet. ‘You’re making a total spectacle of yourself. Look at you. How much have you had to drink? And what the fuck did you do to your hair?’
‘I dyed it,’ said Lottie. ‘I wanted a change.’
‘It looks like shit,’ snapped Jackson.
‘Hey.’ Francis put his arm around Lottie and pulled her close. He was no longer smiling. ‘Take it easy, Lord Capulet. For one thing, Lottie looks fantastic. And for another, what she does with her hair is none of your business.’
‘Don’t give me that protective crap,’ snarled Jackson. ‘You don’t care about Lottie. You don’t even know her.’
‘As it happens, I’ve gotten to know her,’ said Francis angrily. ‘We had a long, long dinner at Mastro’s, waiting for you to be bothered to show up. Where the fuck were you?’
‘Something came up,’ said Jackson dismissively. There wasn’t a hint of apology in his voice. ‘But it’s nice to know I can trust my friends, Francis. You’ve clearly spent the entire evening getting Lottie drunk enough to agree to fuck you. Well, congratulations. It looks like you succeeded. She looks like a hooker, and now she’s acting like …’
The punch was so quick and so forceful, Jackson had no time to react. Before he knew what was happening he was flying backwards across the lobby. Not knowing what else to do, the blonde gave a half-hearted scream, but her heart wasn’t in it.
‘Fuck you, Jackson.’ Francis was shaking with rage. Lottie, who’d observed the whole scene with shocked dismay, felt herself sobering up fast. ‘If anyone made a fool of themselves tonight, it was you.’ Francis took Lottie’s hand and led her towards the elevator. They’d only got a few paces when Jackson got to his feet, let out a roar of primitive rage and hurled himself at Francis from behind, bringing him to the floor in a flying rugby tackle, and knocking Lottie to one side. Seconds later the two men were writhing on the floor like wrestlers, throwing punches wildly.
‘Stop it!’ Lottie shouted. ‘For heaven’s sake. Can’t anybody do something?’ She looked around for any hotel staff. Finally, two barmen and the fat nightshift security guard at reception came over and broke up the fight. Lottie ran straight to Francis, who was bleeding profusely from what looked like a broken nose.
‘We should get you to the