‘Mr Valentine-’He turned at the hushed urgency in the maître d’s voice ‘-we’ve got a bit of a problem.’

No. Not tonight…

‘I’m just leaving, Jane. See Stephanie.’ Nothing, no one, would stop him from putting Louise first tonight.

‘It’s not…please…’

She looked as if she might faint. ‘Steady, now. What is it? What’s the matter?’

‘Table five. Charles Prideaux. The actor?’ she added, in case he didn’t know. ‘He’s not well.’

‘What’s the matter with him?’

She pulled herself together. ‘He’s clammy, no colour, complaining of indigestion.’

‘Classic indications of a heart attack. Call an ambulance,’ he said, turning away.

‘No! He won’t allow it. He doesn’t want to attract attention. He seems more concerned about his wife finding out he’s here with some young actress when he was supposed to be at a business meeting than whether he’s about to die.’

‘The two may not be mutually exclusive.’ But not in one of his restaurants. ‘Where is he?’

‘One of the other diners found him in difficulties in the loo and called a waiter. We’ve put him in the office.’

Who’s with him?’

‘No one. He wouldn’t let me get anyone else even though I’m not a first aider. He said I could only get you.’

‘Hell, he shouldn’t be left alone.’ Whether he liked it or not, Max was involved. ‘OK, Jane, it’s not your fault-you’ve done well, considering the circumstances. I’ll take it from here. Can he walk?’

‘With help.’

He looked at his watch. It would take half an hour, no more. ‘Get him back to him now and take him out through the rear. I’ll drive him to the nearest A and E.’

Louise took a tray of coffee out to the paparazzi wanting to be the first with photos of newly acquired diamonds. It was cold out there and, despite their bad press, she understood they were just doing a job like everyone else. And their presence meant the restaurant was a favourite with A-list celebrities.

If she hoped to catch a sight of an eager Max arriving early she wasn’t admitting it, not even to herself.

So far the day had gone well.

Among a very impressive, but ultimately clichéd, number of red roses, it was the elegant basket of lilies of the valley that had been delivered to her desk from a fashionable florist-sweetly scented, pure as a child’s promise-that stood out.

There was no name on the card-unlike the roses, which had been mostly from party organisers, people who wanted to be in her good books and used the play on her name as an excuse to remind her of their existence. There were just four words.

“For my first Valentine.”

Gemma had been seriously impressed and it took a lot to impress her.

‘Any scoops, Louise?’ Glad of the distraction, she turned to the photographer. ‘Anything we can phone in to the news desk?’

Several sets of tantrums, a lot of tears-not all of them from the women-but nothing unusual on an occasion so invested with emotion.

‘You know the secrets of the dining table are sacrosanct, Pete.’

‘What about you?’ he asked, changing tack. ‘Rumour has it that Max was seen coming out of Garrard’s earlier in the week.’

Garrard’s? A visit to the royal jeweller’s suggested he’d taken her words to heart, but she kept the cool smile in place, said, ‘Now you’re just fishing.’

‘And I think I just got a nibble.’ He grinned. ‘You didn’t deny it, you just changed the subject. As good as an admission from someone in PR.’

‘Louise!’ She turned as one of the waitresses put her head around the door. ‘You’re wanted.’

Max…

‘Table three. He says he wants to thank you for introducing him to the girl he’s with. At some party? They’ve just got engaged.’

‘Oh, right. I’m coming,’ she said, throwing a quick glance in the direction of Sloane Square. Stupid. He hadn’t said he’d be early; it was just that she’d seen the champagne, was aware of an undercurrent of excitement, of furtive glances in her direction.

Max would be here. He’d promised.

He was busy. They were all busy, but he wouldn’t let her down. Wouldn’t let Bella Lucia down. This was BL’s party as much as theirs…

Max hadn’t banked on being saddled with the girlfriend.

‘I have to go with him,’ she said. ‘He might die.’

There was no time to argue and he bundled her in, making the hospital in record time, but that wasn’t the end of it.

‘Call my wife,’ Prideaux begged. ‘Tell her where I am.’ Then, ‘Make sure Gina gets home safely.’

The words said one thing, his eyes said another, sending out a desperate plea to get the girl out of the way before his wife turned up.

Easier said than done. Gina was having hysterics and convinced her lover was about to die, was vowing never to leave his side.

It took him and two nurses to prise her from Charles Prideaux’s side, get her out of the treatment room. At which point she flung herself, sobbing, into his arms.

As he comforted her, absently reassured her, he stared at the clock, ticking remorselessly round to eleven. Louise wouldn’t expect him before half past.

There was time.

It took patience, endless tact, to get Gina calmed down, to explain that the hospital had called Charles’s wife, that she would have to leave.

When he thought that she’d finally got it, that he could put her in a taxi and go to Louise, she sat down in the waiting room in the manner of a woman who was not to be shifted.

‘Let her come. She needs to know about us. That Charles is going to leave her.’

He didn’t care about her. Or Charles Prideaux.

He did care about some innocent woman who’d walk into this. He knew what that was like. He’d seen it happen three times. Seen the fallout. The agony. And not just for the women involved, but for the children.

‘Gina, this isn’t the moment. Charles isn’t in any state to cope with this kind of emotional upheaval. He needs to be calm right now if he’s going to make any kind of recovery.’

The tears started again, but she didn’t resist as he steered her through the main doors. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘Battersea.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘It’s okay, Max. You’ve done enough. I’ll get a taxi.’

He would have liked nothing better, but he didn’t trust her. She was an actress looking for an easy route to stardom. Why else would she be out with a married man twice her age? There was no doubt in his mind that the minute he left her, she’d be back inside, waiting for Mrs Prideaux to arrive. Act out her big scene. She’d quite possibly call the tabloids to make sure she got maximum publicity, too.

‘Charles asked me to make sure you get home safely, Gina,’ he said. ‘And that’s what I’m going to do.’

She swore, then. Proving he’d been right. Ignoring her rage, he opened the car door and after a moment she got in.

He took a breath. A result. Now all he had to do was call Louise, put her in the picture. Even as he reached for his cell phone he realised he didn’t have it with him. They were forbidden in the restaurant and he always made a habit of putting his away in the office.

Half an hour. He’d be there.

Max hadn’t come.

She had watched the staff from the Chelsea restaurant arrive, but he wasn’t with them. She’d waited for someone to pass on a message, some explanation of the hold-up. She had imagined car accidents, every kind of disaster.

Even his father had been concerned. Max was, after all, the host this year. This was his party. His celebration. His role to thank everyone for their hard work.

She’d heard Robert ask Stephanie, her half-brother Daniel’s wife and the Knightbridge restaurant’s manager, where he was. But she’d shaken her head.

‘He left at about ten. Everything was running smoothly. I assumed he was coming here.’

Louise was standing outside in the small courtyard in front of the restaurant where, in the summer, people liked to eat alfresco. It was empty now, too cold to tempt anyone outside. She stood listening to his cell phone ring. The voicemail click in, his familiar voice asking her to leave a message, that he would get back to her.

He wouldn’t.

He’d tried. She understood that. Knew that if he’d ever loved anyone, he’d loved her. But it hadn’t been enough. He still couldn’t break free, make that leap to commitment. Maybe it had been wrong of her to expect it. He was who he was. The result of his upbringing, just as she was. Nurture over nature. She’d gone into this with her eyes open, expecting, wanting, no more than a brief, exciting affair.

She’d had that.

And it had been exciting. Wonderful. And it was over.

She turned as the door opened behind her. Her parents were leaving.

‘Louise?’ her mother said. ‘What are you doing out here on your own?’

‘I just needed some air. Are you leaving?’

‘It’s been a long evening. I don’t want your father overdoing things.’

‘I suspect he’s made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for,’ Louise said, with a smile she dredged up from the soles of her designer shoes.

‘Any sign of Max?’ her father asked, glancing at the phone in her hand.

She snapped it shut. ‘No.’ Then she shivered despite the warmth of her coat. ‘To be honest I’m about done here.’

Done with Max. Done with Bella Lucia. Done with the icy damp of a London winter.

‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘It’ll take you out of your way.’

‘No problem.’ He ushered her into the back seat next to her mother, then, having given the driver her address, climbed in next to her.

Neither of them mentioned Max again. Instead as they headed towards Kensington her mother chatted brightly about a holiday they were planning, doing their best to distract her so that she didn’t have to do more than drop in the occasional “umm”. Pretty much all her aching throat could manage.