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Gyllenhaal. I’ve seen the first but not the second.
    I don’t have a favorite film, and say so when asked. “Then you’ll need to get one, before the next time we meet,” Tom says. “And please make sure it’s not Bridesmaids or Pretty Woman or something hideous like that. Speaking of the next time we meet . . . I’d very much like to see you again. Are you free for dinner later in the week?”
    “Who’s Nadine Caspian?” I ask him. Shit. Why did I say that? Why? I can’t tell Tom what she said—he’d be shocked and hurt, and I’d be a bitch for passing on bad gossip that’s probably has no justification whatsoever.
    “Nadine?” He sounds and looks puzzled. “She’s a receptionist at my firm.”
    “I know. I meant . . . is there anything between you and her?”
    Tom’s laugh suggests astonishment more than amusement. “Anything between me and Nadine? No. Not unless you mean the reception desk. I’ve said fewer than twenty words to her in my life.”
    “I’m sorry—it’s none of my business. Forget I asked.”
    “Er, no. Why did you? Come on, what’s going on? Why would ask me if there was anything between me and a receptionist I barely notice from one day to the next?”
    “I think I must have imagined it: when I gave her the present and asked her to make sure you got it, she looked sort of . . . odd. I just wondered if she might be a secret admirer, if not a girlfriend or ex.”
    “Hm. I suppose it’s possible she’s a very secret admirer. She’s never shown the remotest bit of interest in me. Now I come to think of it, she once showed no interest in getting a parcel I entrusted to her to its destination on time.”
    I feel a surge of excitement. This could be the explanation I’m looking for.
    “Did you reprimand her for not sending the parcel?” A bollocking at work might be enough to make Nadine hate him.
    Tom looks embarrassed. “Actually, funny you should ask that. No, I didn’t. I hate socially awkward situations—I’m a real smoother-over by nature, hate conflict of any kind—so I pretended Nadine had done exactly the right thing by not sending the parcel. I made out I’d changed my mind and didn’t want it to go out so soon after all, and silly old me for telling her it was urgent and needed to go straightaway.”
    “Oh.” There goes my theory.
    “So what about dinner later in the week? I mean, tomorrow’s probably too soon, is it? Especially for your mum, newly stocked up on fiber-optic broadband as she is. Also—if I were you, I wouldn’t want to see me again tomorrow. I’d be thoroughly sick of me by now. And, actually, I have to go to London first thing tomorrow, so maybe I’ll need longer than a day to . . .” He breaks off and smiles enigmatically. “Sorry,” he says. “Almost gave something away there. Oops—Tom the moron nearly strikes again.”
    “I’m not sick of you,” I tell him.
    Don’t agree to tomorrow. Make him wait at least a few days.
    Why? What’s the point?
    What did he nearly give away? The sooner I see him again, the sooner I’ll find out.
    “Tomorrow’s fine for me if it works for you,” I say.

 
    Chapter 8
    “I NEED TO speak to Nadine Caspian,” I say to Rukia Yunis, the receptionist who conveyed my “Ash Grove” tiepin safely to Tom. Because she did this, I think of her as trustworthy. Perhaps that’s crazy.
    It’s nine o’clock in the morning, the day after my dinner with Tom, also the day of my next dinner with Tom. I persuaded my mum to stay overnight. When she asked why I needed her to take Freya to school today, I mumbled something about an early garage appointment, then set off in my Volvo—the old, knackered one that Tom Rigbey missed his chance to steal—to CamEgo’s offices.
    Tom said he had to go to London first thing today, so it’s the perfect opportunity. Now or never, I decided. I plumped for now. If Tom turns up at La Mimosa this evening with a beautiful diamond engagement ring and a