CHAPTER SIX
He was flustered by her.
Raina observed Tom Branimir with delight. He’d appeared genuinely disgruntled by her flirting with Marc and was now a gentle shade of pink, having just drank in her body with his eyes and then shaken himself, as though trying to force his way out of a trance.
It felt good to get a little power.
‘So, why did you start the podcast?’
His voice was jerky and unstable. She smiled, sliding on a pair of dark glasses. ‘That question again.’
‘Yes,’ he pressed.
She shrugged, offhandedly. ‘It was either a podcast or another horrendous office job. Not a difficult choice.’
He studied her with the vaguest hint of condemnation in his gaze. ‘That’s not the truth, Raina.’
Of course it wasn’t. If he truly thought she would readily hand over answers to questions like that, he was very green indeed.
She’d learned from her research that every influencer dreaded the name Tom Branimir.
He was whispered about in virtual corridors like the bogeyman, so she wasn’t about to give him vulnerable pieces of her like poker chips, hoping they’d somehow find their way back to her stack later on in the game.
The sound of the pub door closing suddenly caused the two of them to start. Raina glanced up and spotted a man in his eighties, hunched over, speaking hurriedly to himself and counting out change.
‘Stephen,’ Raina called out.
Before Tom could say a word, she got to her feet and joined the gentleman, making sure to approach him gently.
‘Hello, Stephen.’
She could see other customers laughing at his obvious frailty, and at the way he was muttering to himself. The old man paid them no mind, his expression morphing from confusion to delight at the sight of Raina.
‘Little girl!’
‘Hello, Stephen,’ Raina repeated. She guided him away from the door and the tittering onlookers and brought him to the bar.
‘Lime and lemonade, Stephen?’
‘Yes, with fresh lime, please.’
He busied himself with his newspaper while Raina swung behind the bar, with the kind of ease and readiness only a former service worker could muster.
She found a pint glass, quickly making sure it was the perfect temperature, not warm from the dishwasher.
She filled it with three ice cubes – no more, no less – grabbed the soda gun and filled the glass almost to the brim, then used plastic tongs to select five juicy slices of freshly cut lime.
She placed them lovingly on top of the ice, then handed the pint glass to Stephen.
He fumbled, handing her one pound and five pence in perfect change, which she discreetly passed to Marc.
‘Have a good day, Stephen,’ she said softly.
‘Thank you, little girl,’ he replied, making his way to the back of the pub before happily sitting down with his pint glass of lime and lemonade and his paper.
Raina returned to Tom, avoiding his gaze and saying not one word.
‘You used to work here.’
It was a statement, not an invitation to explain. She nodded, though. ‘Yeah, a long time ago. A very long time ago. I’m not that girl any more.’
‘He’s a regular?’
‘Yes. He comes in every other day. Always that drink.’
And I think he’s like me. Only, he’s from a generation that didn’t have the label.
They watched Stephen talk quietly to himself, perfectly content with his own company.
‘He used to commentate on the radio,’ Raina finally said. ‘He still thinks he’s on air.’
She waited for the protectiveness to dissipate. She could feel Tom watching her, reading her.
‘That was good of you.’
His words surprised her. She leaned over and spoke directly into the little microphone once more to ask, ‘Was that a compliment?’
‘I’ve got plenty of compliments for you, Raina.’
She backed off at that, not willing to play the game any more.
She answered all of his remaining questions with as much mundanity as she could manage.
Flat, monosyllabic answers. It didn’t deter him, though.
In fact, it seemed to egg him on. He finally switched off the Dictaphone, smiling to himself.
‘Well, that will all add up to a few lines of a paragraph,’ he said stoically.
‘Lovely,’ Raina retorted.
‘Are you single?’
She stopped, struck by the question. ‘Why?’
‘For the potential piece.’
She glowered at him. ‘Single and happy about it.’
‘That surprises me.’
‘Because I’m a certified romantic? I told you – it’s a lens. It doesn’t mean other people see what you see.’
‘Surprised because you’re so beautiful.’
She stared. ‘What?’
‘Beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of attractive single people. But you’re beautiful. Kind of, like . . . down to your soul, I suppose.’
The little grasp of power she’d been enjoying slipped away.
Tom Branimir was infuriating, but that was doing nothing to lessen Raina’s unwanted desire to sit in his lap.
The Chesterfields were so deep and soft, two people could get swallowed up in them, and Raina saw nothing unpleasant about that idea.
His big hands, his slight stubble, there was really nothing at all unpleasant about him in that moment.
If there had been before, she suddenly couldn’t remember it.
‘I think you’ve got enough to work on,’ she said quietly. ‘At least for now.’
Masking only worked if the person you were trying to hide from was too careless to look closer. And Tom Branimir didn’t seem careless. Not even a little.
She said a hasty goodbye, swiping up her bag and heading for the exit.
He followed her at a leisurely pace. Just as she was pushing the pub door open to enter the beer garden, it swung back in her face as a rowdy group of rugby lads pushed their way inside.
Raina stumbled backwards and almost lost her footing.
A pair of hands caught her by the hips and gently steadied her. The feel of it was a flame catching powder. She was expecting a remark about their closeness, his front against her back and her head against his chest, but instead he snapped at the rugby lads.
He barked at them to watch where they were going, and his usually gentle Scottish lilt went from a casual four to an aggressive eight. The men looked terrified of him and they apologized profusely.
He still smelled of neroli and his fingers were still tight on her hips.
She felt no desire to remove them. In fact, she wanted to fall into him.
His hands were huge and she knew his arms would feel incredible and she wanted them wrapped around her.
Raina suddenly wondered what it would feel like to have him push her hair away, scrape his stubble against her neck and brush his lips against her throat as she sank back into his body.
Raina, move. Walk.
‘You all right?’ he asked, his mouth brushing her ear.
No, you’re making me want to do indecent things with you in public!
‘Just fine,’ was all she could say, as she stepped away from him. Every inch of her body complained at the detachment, except the sensible part of her brain that was demanding she call an Uber and hightail it out of Fulham.
She knew what Pepper would say when she recounted all of this later. Just have sex with him, get it over with, then he can’t write about you because it’s a conflict of interest, and the itch will have been scratched.
The fascination will end, the attraction will dim, and it won’t be this irritating or unbearable.
You won’t remember that the mask seems to want to slip away when he’s around.
Or that he can parry quips in a way that makes you able to let your tongue loose – sure you can use the deep cuts with him.
The touchstones that other people haven’t read about.
You’ll forget all of that, she told herself. You’ll stop having dreams about him late at night and it will all fade into a memory rather than a current ache.
She staggered into the beer garden, refusing to linger with that train of thought.
So he was handsome. So he was annoyingly principled.
He showed his intellect and his wits, instead of just boasting about having them, like so many men she’d known.
She let out a breathless sound as the unapologetic heat of the sun hit her skin.
She could feel Tom Branimir behind her like a shadow, though he was clearly trying to be mindful of her space.
‘Next Sunday,’ she said. ‘Poplar High Street, eight in the morning.’
He looked shocked. ‘What for?’
‘You’ll see, Alice.’
She set off across the green and didn’t look back to see if he was watching her.
Tom was resolute and cold of heart as he sat across from his editor the following day. He was determined to be professional. He couldn’t get distracted by soft skin and a witty tongue. Raina Lewis was interesting, fine. Outrageously attractive, of course, but that was none of his business.
‘How’s tricks?’ Ben, his book editor, asked innocently. They were sat outside in Islington, not far from Ben’s home office.
‘I think I’ve found the new material you wanted for the last chapter,’ Tom replied, cutting through Ben’s attempts at small talk and getting straight to the subject line of their meeting.
‘Hit me with it.’
‘There’s this girl, Raina Lewis.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She does a disability podcast.’
‘Scam artist?’
‘No!’ Tom defensively blurted out the word before he could censor himself. ‘I mean, I don’t think so. It’s something . . . else.’
‘Well, you kind of have a theme going for you, Tom,’ Ben said carefully. ‘You want an in-depth look at uncovering a bunch of frauds and then . . . something else?’
‘I think it might be more complex,’ Tom said, changing tack. ‘I want something good. The rest of the book is so cynical.’
‘Because that’s what you do,’ Ben pointed out. He smiled, but when Tom didn’t mirror the expression, he blinked. ‘Sorry, go on.’
‘I want the book to have an antidote. It can’t all be poison. She has this small corner of the internet and it’s warm and it’s optimistic. Not manufactured, fake positivity. Real connection. She’s different. She’s kind of like . . . I don’t know. A cure for all of it.’
‘All of what?’ Ben asked, and Tom had to admit his editor looked rather content with his cold cider and the warm sun on his face.
‘An unprincipled world, I guess,’ Tom said.
He hadn’t stopped to notice the sun on his skin in so long.
‘A world where everyone is out for themselves. Each subject in the book thus far is a grifter looking to steal from vulnerable people. Spending the past few years on all of them has left me a bit of a husk. But her? She’s the little bit of hope. ’
Ben studied him for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Okay.’
‘It’ll be good. She’ll be good. For the book, I mean.’
‘Uh huh. Totally good for the book. Especially as you currently look like you’re unable to eat or sleep. You’re covering this woman purely for professional reasons.’
Tom’s eyes narrowed. He deliberately took a bite of his barely touched sea bass. ‘Yes.’
‘Great. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the exposure. If I ever meet her, I’ll tell her she should be honoured. She provoked some optimism from my most curmudgeonly writer.’
‘Are we done?’
‘Yes. We are. I trust you to sniff out a story,’ his editor allowed. ‘But get the rest sent over to me on deadline.’
‘There’s something there,’ Tom persisted. ‘I just have to keep digging.’
‘Well, you’re not getting any more shekels for a new spade.’
‘Fine, just give me the time.’
‘I love these frank little chats,’ Ben said merrily. ‘You never ask after my life, just get straight to brass tacks.’
Tom rolled his eyes but allowed Ben to clink their glasses together.
‘Can we be serious for a minute though? Do you’ – his editor spoke with a casual tone but Tom could hear the intrigue beneath it – ‘like her? For real?’
Tom sipped his own drink, keeping his expression stoic. ‘You know me, Ben. I don’t like anyone.’
‘Mm,’ Ben allowed. ‘That’s what I used to think.’