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and normal; now things had taken a weird turn. She was bracing herself for him telling her that his girlfriend would be joining them; he looked awkward enough, suddenly, for something that outlandish. And his blush had by now spread to his neck. She took a little step back.
    ‘Oh look, it’s nothing
freaky
!’ he blurted out, seeing her back away. ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘I might just go,’ she said. ‘It was nice talking to you.’
    ‘Please don’t!’ He flapped his arms like an agitated swan. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not that! Look—’ He pointed down to the far corner of the street, to where a man was standing with his back to a shop front, dressed in jeans and a sweater, lean and fit, his eyes on Hugo and Chloe. ‘I know it sounds silly, but that’s my bodyguard. There’s another one, too. They sort of have to be around. But at a distance! They won’t hear anything we say.’
    Chloe’s frown deepened as she wondered for a second if this young man were an escaped mental patient. But they
were
in Fulham, an area of London inhabited by some of the richest people in the world . . . people who might well need a bodyguard or two . . .
    ‘You don’t
sound
like an oligarch,’ she said frankly. ‘Or a footballer.’
    He laughed, looking ridiculously happy: it was only later that Chloe realized why, that this was a further demonstration that she really did have no idea who he was. And she didn’t. Maybe in a different context, she might have had an inkling, but here in Fulham there were so many Sloaney young men that looked like him . . . and he still had the sunglasses on . . .
    ‘Can I tell you later?’ he said. ‘Over a drink?’
    ‘I’d rather know now who I’m going for a drink with,’ she said honestly.
    ‘You have to
promise
to come if I do,’ he said nervously.
    ‘All right,’ she said.
How bad can it be?
she thought.
It’s just a drink! And I don’t see anyone else asking me out right now . . .
    Hugo bent down and whispered his name in her ear.
    It took all she had not to drop her cappuccino all down her Boden dress. But as soon as he’d told her, she knew it was the truth: she could see the press photos of him, slot the face looking down at her above the Navy dress uniform or polo outfit in which he was usually pictured. You just never thought you would bump into a royal prince in Freedom of Espresso; how could she possibly have anticipated this?
    She was goggling at him. Briefly, he pushed his sunglasses up, showing her his face, just in case she had any doubt about his identity. His entire face by now was bright red with embarrassment and doubt as to her response.
    ‘You
will
still come?’ he asked, his voice just as anxious as his expression.
    She nodded wordlessly and turned away in the direction of her office.
    ‘See you at six!’ he called after her, pushing down his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose again.
    She nodded again and kept going blindly; she didn’t remember anything about the rest of the day at all. Not a single thing. Until about five, when she went on a panicked rampage round the office scavenging for makeup, dry shampoo, hair straighteners, earrings to borrow; she was scared of popping out to buy anything in case he’d turned up early and was waiting outside. Who knew if his bodyguards had insisted on sweeping the area beforehand, or whatever it was they did?
    ‘I never even drank that cappuccino,’ Chloe said to him now. ‘I told you that, didn’t I? It sat there on my desk all afternoon till it went stone cold.’
    ‘I honestly think I fell in love with you outside the coffee shop,’ Hugo said simply. ‘You were so pretty and funny and lively, and meeting you like that felt so . . .
normal
. It was just like – what
normal
people do.’ He looked abashed. ‘You know what I mean.’
    ‘I do,’ she said, stroking his leg.
    That he used the ‘love’ word was no surprise: they had already