Scott put on a show of confusion. “Fired? What do you mean?”

Emily then told him a long and overcomplicated version of how David Mahoney had delivered the news, telling her she was “all out of strikes” and “not Proem material.”

Scott appeared duly shocked. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.” He chose his moment carefully, waiting until her breathing had returned to normal. He asked if she’d like to be taken to hospital, and when she declined, he offered her a taxi home instead. He then placed his hand gently on her shoulder and told her she was going to be just fine. Everything happened for a reason, he said. Perhaps, he added, they were meant to meet—his only truly sincere words.

Finally, he folded his business card into her palm. Apologizing again for whatever misunderstanding had taken place, he suggested that she give Proem another chance. If she could see a way to forgive and forget, he said, he had another position ready and waiting. She jumped at that, as he knew she would. “Really?” she said, her eyes shining. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll take it.”

He laughed. “You don’t even know what it is yet.” He told her he’d like to discuss it further at the office, if she was comfortable with that. “Why don’t you come in on Monday so I can explain the role more fully?”

He waited for her response, but the way she looked at him in that moment, the way she cradled his card in her hand like a precious jewel—that was the only answer he needed.

CHAPTER NINE

EMILY

BACK IN her dull little flat—all the more squalid after the gleaming interior of the Soho pub, all the more dirty after the pure white of Scott’s shirt—Emily’s heart was still hammering; though how much of that was the residual shock of almost being hit by a bus, she couldn’t say. Yes, she was traumatized. Yes, she’d missed her all-important audition, her swan song. But it was more likely that her persistent breathlessness, dizziness, and rapid pulse were in no small part due to Scott Denny.

Ignoring the unspeakable mess in the kitchen (Spencer had obviously upped his filth levels in protest against their eviction), she went straight to her room, where she sat on the bed and seriously considered the possibility that she’d had some kind of encounter with the divine. The hairs on her arms prickled as she thought again of the moment Scott had appeared, his suit jacket flying open like a cape. She never thought she’d be caught dead falling for that white-knight bullshit, but when Scott had deftly pulled her to her feet as if they were dancers, she’d felt something inside her burst.

At the time, his face had shown nothing but polite concern: the kindness of a stranger. But after he’d picked her up and dusted her off, after they’d sat talking in the pub for what felt like forever and Scott had listened so intently, as though he was pressing his ear to her very soul, he said something about destiny, and she knew he’d felt it, too.

And then, as if it wasn’t enough that he’d just saved her from certain death, Scott Denny offered her a mysterious new job. No interview, no trial run; just a promise that a position was waiting for her if she wanted it. Give me a call, he’d said, flipping a card out of his wallet. Let’s set up a meeting. Shall we say Monday?

Emily wondered what the job would entail. Not reception again, she guessed. Maybe he would train her up to … hmm. What was it that they did at Proem again? Stocks and shares? Something like that. Whatever—the point was that she had a new job, which meant money, which meant she no longer needed that loan from her parents. She made a mental note to call Juliet in the morning.

She curled up on the bed, grimacing at the memory of the bus hurtling toward her. She hadn’t felt like that for a long time. The pure, blind fear, and the feeling of déjà vu … and then that rising weightlessness as she fell, familiar as her own bedsheets. She thought she’d grown out of all that.

She warded her feelings off with an image of Scott. My hero. She smiled. In her hand she still held his business card. Could he be real? Perhaps he was a figment of her wishful imagination.

Reaching for her phone, she sent a text. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Seconds later, Scott replied, and his existence was proven.

* * *

The weekend was long and painful. A watched pot never boils, Emily reminded herself, but the anticipation was too much to bear, and she was soon glued to the pot like a kid to cartoons. But after a while the questions started to creep in. The sheer drama of Scott’s appearance and subsequent offer had temporarily erased the anguish of being dropped from Lara’s books, but what if he’d reconsidered? Or forgotten? What if she showed up at Proem and there was no record of her appointment? What would she do then?

By Monday morning, she was tempted to stay in bed, hidden under the blankets. But after giving herself a stern talking-to, she propelled herself out the door and onto the Tube. Accidentally arriving way ahead of schedule, she dithered on the street corner for as long as she could before finally riding the elevator up to the fifth floor. As she approached the reception desk, her heartbeat seemed so loud she felt sure someone would ask her to turn the volume down.

The woman sitting in Emily’s usual place was older than her, and clearly wiser. Emily marveled at the speed and efficiency with which she answered the phone, sent a fax, and filed a contract—all at the same time. “Hi there,” said the new (old) receptionist. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I do. I’m Emily? Emily Proudman. I’m here to see Mr. Denny.” She hesitated, feeling like a schoolgirl at the headmaster’s office. “Scott,” she added, and felt better.

The receptionist tapped on her keyboard. There was a nail-biting pause. “Ah, yes,” she said, at last. “Eleven thirty?”

“That’s right.” Emily looked at the clock on the wall. “Sorry, I’m a bit early.” The words felt odd coming out of her mouth. She was rarely early for anything—certainly never for work at Proem. Look at me changing, she thought happily.

“Take a seat.”

On the same velvet couch on which David Mahoney had waited to ambush her, Emily crossed and recrossed her legs, dabbing at her forehead and smoothing her hair. She tugged at her skirt, uncertain about the length. Be calm, she told herself. Be cool.

She pulled the topmost magazine from a stack on the coffee table and nearly fell off her seat. Scott’s dark eyes gazed out from the cover. Smooth Operator, read the headline. Proem Partners founder Scott Denny on innovation, tradition, and creating the perfect workspace. Emily flicked hurriedly to the main article, where two whole pages were taken up with a photograph of the lobby and its huge LED chandelier.

Housed within a refurbished Grade 2–listed Edwardian building in Mayfair, Proem is a breakout capital-investment firm focused on both emerging and established companies across a multitude of different industries. They describe themselves as “boutique,” but their profit margins and annual turnover indicate that they are anything but.

Another photograph of Scott, now perched casually on the back of a leather sofa, his feet on the seats, elbows resting on his knees. The photographer had caught him mid laugh, and the result was disarming for reasons she didn’t quite understand. Scott was undoubtedly good-looking. But the bubbling, kettle-boiling sensation under her ribs was something other than just sexual attraction; it felt bigger than that, somehow.

The wide range of flexible working spaces includes thirty-five workstations, ten offices, seven meeting rooms, and a twenty-seater boardroom with sophisticated AV technology for teleconference, video, and smart-board presentations. By his own admittance, Scott Denny places employee satisfaction at the top of his priority list, so naturally the designs had to include a luxurious breakout area and rooftop terrace.

A group of three analysts, one girl and two guys, wandered out of one of the meeting rooms and crossed the foyer, stopping at the desk to collect a stack of files. Emily smiled and half raised her hand in a greeting.

“Ann-Marie’s off sick again,” said one of the guys in a loud, bored voice.

“Please, she’s not sick,” said the girl, tossing blond ringlets over her shoulder. “Any excuse to plant her fat arse on the couch and eat crisps all day.”

“Didn’t she freak out? Like, have a legit breakdown?”

“Depressed, I heard.”

“What does she have to be depressed about?”

“Um, hello? Have you seen her boob job?”

“If anyone made me look like that,” said the girl, “I’d fucking sue.” The group gathered their files and wandered into the copy room.