Special Relationship Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One: A day at the races

  Chapter two: Celebration party

  Chapter three: Checking on Nick and a guy in the bar

  Chapter four: Men don't run to form

  Chapter five: Pure panic.

  Chapter six: Who is she?

  Chapter seven: The Big Apple.

  Chapter eight: Katherine foregoes The Library.

  Chapter nine: Coney Island

  Chapter ten: The Scream.

  Chapter eleven: Online porn and cheesecake

  Chapter twelve: A long way home

  Chapter thirteen: Breakfast at Frank's.

  Chapter fourteen: A beautiful day

  Chapter fifteen: Separate bedrooms and no strings.

  Chapter sixteen: Golden sands.

  Chapter seventeen: A fifty pence win.

  Chapter eighteen: Runaway.

  Chapter nineteen: Two flatties for Penelope Cruz.

  Chapter twenty: Reality and fantasy.

  Chapter twenty-one: Night terrors.

  Chapter twenty-two: Slept with her, as in sex?

  Chapter twenty-three: The stables and The Savoy.

  Chapter twenty-four: Alex's plan goes badly wrong.

  Chapter twenty-five: Putting things right.

  Chapter twenty-six: Alex tells all.

  Chapter twenty-seven: Nick accuses

  Chapter twenty-eight: If life wasn't so complicated everyone would do it

  Chapter twenty-nine: Fast-walking on the beach.

  Chapter thirty: Sorting the mess.

  Chapter thirty-one: What if we crashed?

  Chapter thirty-two: Fortune cookie.

  Chapter thirty-three: The castle and the Farewell Ball

  Chapter thirty-four: Reunited

  Chapter thirty-five: Kerry's big surprise.

  Chapter thirty-six: Love Don't Cry.

  Chapter One: A day at the races

  Alex read the invitation for the umpteenth time as the train approached the station.

  “The sponsors request the pleasure of the company of Alex Anderson at Ascot Racecourse at 12.30 pm on Saturday, June 15th for the inaugural running of the £500,000 Hensen Sprint.

  RSVP Katherine Price, Hensen Fund Management, Park Lane, Mayfair London W1."

  On the invitation was a picture of the hospitality room, where “luncheon will be served before the first race at 2.10 pm.” Also included was a menu embossed in gold with a racehorse and the company's logo.

  She was excited by the opportunity. After the years of debt and doubt, her company was at last beyond the point where its survival was in question. Building on a fledgling relationship with Hensen Fund Management could only help further.

  She also relished the chance of a day in the countryside. It had been one of the hottest English summers in years and even usually grey-skied London was stifling. Foregoing the heat of the city and its subway - what Londoners called 'the tube' -for the greenery and tranquillity of Berkshire seemed a good trade.

  Her office had become so oppressive that she had taken to spending too much time drinking iced latte at tables outside coffee shops and white wine sodas in the gardens of pubs, with the downside that the bright sun made working on her laptop impossible. In justification, she reminded herself that there was not a heat wave in London every summer and besides, as she had often complained to her colleagues, “why don't you damn Brits do air con?”

  Of horse racing Alex knew little except that in England it was referred to as the Sport of Kings. And that the racetrack was the place where royalty and nobility had through the years mixed with those of less celebrated status in appreciation for the sport, the spectacle - and the pursuit of trying to win money. She looked forward to seeing the English class system in action.

  After a stiff uphill walk from the station to the sparkling, glass-clad grandstand she rebuked herself for going at too fast a pace. She’d need to spend time cooling off before the function.

  She was helped in this task by a polite but rather officious elderly gentlemen, who must have been sweltering dressed as he was in a red ushers coat, the sort worn by an hotel doorman back in London.

  He wanted to see the ticket, or green cardboard badge as it was, for entrance to the racecourse but also the red badge for entrance to the Hensen suite.

  He would let her into the grandstand on production of one but not give directions to the suite without production of the other. Perhaps it’s security, she thought, as she rifled through her newly-bought bag for the second badge. Maybe the Queen of England herself is attending today.

  Finally, she found it.

  “OK, madam, go into the main stand, on the right, past the seafood and champagne bar where you will find the lifts. Go to the fifth floor and there will be a sign to the Hensen suite.”

  “Thanks very much and is there a rest room on the way?‘ she inquired.

  She found it just as he had told her and, once there, carefully splashed her face at the wash basin, being careful to ensure that no water dripped on another recent purchase, a blue Chanel dress with cream braiding. Even by the standards of London's upmarket Bond Street, she had gasped at the price before handing over her credit card.

  But checking herself in the mirror, she thought it money well spent. The dress hugged her thighs and legs just enough to show off her figure without being tight.

  Glancing at her watch, she wondered at the etiquette of arriving promptly for functions at the races, worried that twenty minutes late might be considered rude.

  Rushing, she arrived at the lift doors in what racing aficionados would describe as a dead-heat with a man who also seemed in a hurry. The two of them were behind two other race goers and the lift was nearly full.

  They glanced at each other. His smile - as it clearly became too full to accommodate them both comfortably - was sincere. “Please, I'll take the next one…” he said, thinking she was even more beautiful in real life than in her photo.

  “That’s very kind of you,” she replied and mouthed “thank you” as the doors were closing.

  Last in, she was first out on the fifth floor. The sign pointed left to the Hensen suite and forty yards down the corridor she found double-wooden doors appropriately marked.

  Am I supposed to knock, she asked herself. No it’s not as if it is someone’s office.

  She pulled the handle and peeped round the door hesitantly to find a room larger than it had looked on the invitation with perhaps fifty people in various size groups talking and drinking. Several waiters circled, offering canopies and champagne. There were ten dining tables dressed in white linen and each had settings for six places.

  She was soon approached by a petite well-toned lady, immaculately-dressed and with the most striking silver hair that Alex had seen. It was cut straight, and it sparkled like a diamond in the well-lit room. What made her even more stunning was that she looked part Oriental.

  “You naughty girl, you haven’t got your name badge on.”

  “I’m so sorry,” replied Alex. “I did see one with the invitation but left it at home in the rush to get ready.

  “I’m Alex Anderson, of Anderson Financial Support...here’s the invitation.”

  “Oh no need for that, I just need to tick you off the list. I’m Katherine Price from Hensen. I’m Nick’s PA and organiser for events such as these.

  “I do hope you are going to have a good day. Let me get you a drink.”

  Katherine Price, who Alex thought to be late 30's, went to a table that ran along the length of the far side wall of the suite and returned with a glass of champagne.

  ‘'Clos Du Mesnil 1990. I chose it after extensive research. I am sure you will like it."

  “Thanks, I’ve alway
s meant to go on a wine-tasting course or something but never found the time. I’m sure it'll be great.”

  “Nick just went to speak to someone outside. Have you met him?”

  “No, I haven’t. My company has a contract with Hensen but it's bigger for me than you guys and I very much doubt he would know anything about it.”

  “What does your company do?” Katherine asked.

  “We provide bespoke financial information to various companies, anything they might find useful. There are far bigger players in the same market as ours but we are rather niche and offer information the big boys can’t be bothered with.”

  “Well, listen, I’ll introduce you when he gets back and, who knows, your contract might be bigger at the end of today.

  “Please excuse me, more guests have arrived and I must meet and greet, but I'll be back in ten.”

  Alex wandered to the front of the suite which was all glass and looked out on to the racetrack. She stepped out through the open sliding doors on to the balcony.

  The grass track itself was verdant green despite the hot, dry weather. This side of the white rails that marked the race track were the racegoers. Thousands of them. They studied race cards and newspapers, munched burgers, drank beer or stood watching the bookmakers pricing up odds.

  She had drunk enough from her glass to conclude that Katherine Price had indeed made a very good choice with the whiter-than-white champagne when the PA joined her on the balcony.

  “It’s a nice scene isn’t, it?”

  “Beautiful,” she agreed.

  “Nick is back, would you like to meet him now?”

  “Yes, I’d love too,” she replied, although wondering whether a few more sips of champagne might have eased her nerves.

  It took some time for them to negotiate the maze of guests and find him. He had just finished talking to an elderly, wealthy-looking woman, perhaps an investor, when Katherine tapped him on his back.

  As he turned, Alex recognised the strikingly handsome face. It was the man from the lift.

  “This is Alex Anderson whose company supplies us with financial data.” He looked at her and smiled.

  “Miss Anderson and I have already met - of sorts.”

  Katherine looked puzzled.

  “It was very kind of you, Mr Hensen,” said Alex.

  “Katherine, Mr Hensen allowed me to squeeze into the lift, while he waited for the next one. Otherwise I would have been later still.”

  He smiled: “It took ages for the lift to come back down. People getting on and off at every floor. It’s lucky I’m here in time for my own lunch.”

  You smoothy, she thought.

  “I know your company, Miss Anderson, and I know the size of the contract and I know that the contract is for two years with an option for us to renew at the same rate for a third year.”

  “I am very impressed,,” she replied. “And surprised someone who runs such a big enterprise is aware of the details of a contract with a company as small as mine.”

  She found herself in flirt-mode now, but, hey, it's business, she thought.

  “I have a good team. They keep me informed of everything. Rather annoyingly so sometimes,” he laughed.

  “Well, thank you very much for the contract. I hope you are more than satisfied when our service starts next week and thanks also for the invitation.”

  “Pleased you're here. We'll talk more later in the afternoon. Oh, and don’t forget to bet on Manarola in the big race.”

  He excused himself before taking Katherine aside and whispering in her ear.

  After he'd left, she frowned at Katherine. “Manarola in the big race?”

  “Yes, Manarola is a racehorse, running in the race we sponsor, the Hensen Sprint. Lunch won’t be served for another ten minutes. Why don’t we go and put a bet on?”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  They went down in the lift, across the lower level of the grandstand and out onto the concourse where the betting-hungry crowd gathered. The bookmakers shouted odds. “Three to one, the favourite,” shouted one. “Who wants five to one Black Spider?” another.

  Katherine scoured the prices being offered on the big race and, after turning to ask Alex how much she wanted to bet, confidently approached the bookmaker offering the biggest odds on Manarola. “I’ll have £200 on Manarola at five to one.”

  The bookmaker took her money and printed a receipt from an electronic machine.

  “Wow, £200 on a horse. I only wanted £10...so the rest is for you?”

  “No it’s for you,” Katherine said.

  “What?”

  “Mr Hensen asked me to ensure you have a good day. I’m not sure he won’t consider putting money on a horse for you a bit tacky, but you’ll have fun anticipating the race and even more fun if you win, so really I’m only following orders.”

  They both laughed.

  For lunch, Alex enjoyed pan fried sea trout with lobster, potatoes, pea mousse, lemon grass and samphire accompanied by a glass of 2003 Château d'Yquem. After the champagne, she decided to pace herself with the vintage white.

  She chatted easily with her fellow guests on the table who came from both horse racing and financial worlds.

  During coffee Katherine came over. “So how was lunch?”

  “Excellent, thanks.”

  “There is a group of us going into the parade ring before the big race. I wondered if the racing newbie would like to join us?”

  She hesitated. “What do I have to do?'

  “Oh nothing, just stand there in the middle with the owners, trainers and jockeys and look important.”

  “OK, put me down, girl,” she said, mimicking a Texan drawl.

  Katherine smiled. “You might also want to pretend you know the difference between racing and rodeo.”

  Alex watched the first race from the suite’s balcony. The one horse she could see easily was a big grey in front and she willed it to win only for it to fade into second.

  Returning to the suite, she decided she needed help if she was to get the most from horse racing, so she approached a late middle-aged man who was sitting alone at a table studying the runners and riders.

  He wore a light-coloured suit with blue shirt and tartan tie, an ensemble, she thought, that didn't quite work but somehow made him more approachable than some of those who had planned their outfits more carefully.

  “Any luck?”

  “Yes, bad as always,” he smiled before gesturing to the seat opposite “Please, join me.”

  He was Tavis Hamilton, a Scottish banker and long time friend of Nick Hensen's. He also owned a stake in his company and worked for it as a consultant.

  His light brown hair was thinning and his forehead showed his age, but he had strong features and kind, hazel eyes and she guessed he would have been quite attractive in his younger days.

  After they had discussed her contract, Tavis spoke of Hensen the person. “He is a good man, do anything for anyone, and that is anyone, a Lord of the realm or down-and-out under Waterloo Bridge. And I don’t mean just writing a cheque either. He came from a modest background and, I have to say, he remains very humble despite the fact he is stinking rich.

  “Excuse me, back in a minute.”

  He returned with a bottle of something that Alex quickly recognised as whisky, a bucket of ice and two glasses.

  “Now, let’s forget the wine and start on the proper stuff,” he said, half-filling the tumblers before she could refuse.

  “Whisky?”

  “That’s right, a very fine Scotch indeed, Black Bowmore 1964. Fruit, peat and pure pleasure. I’m not trying to impress as I didn’t buy it - Nick did. But it’s amazing that when they first released this in the 90’s it cost £80 a bottle. Now it’s probably thirty times that.”

  She was staggered that anyone would pay so much for just one bottle of liquor. Was any drink in the world worth so much? She was about to find out. It was rich and dark and powerful, and immediately she felt a warm comforting ting
le sweep through her body.

  “Wow. That’s not a drink, that’s an experience.”

  Hamilton laughed.

  “I came to you for some investment advice on the horses, not to get drunk.”

  “We have just missed the second race, the next is the big one, the Hensen race. And I guess you’ll be backing Manarola in that?” he asked.

  “I already have. Mr Hensen told me to,” she answered without wishing to divulge that, with the connivance of Katherine, his company had also supplied her stake.

  “Manarola is the town in Italy where Nick likes to holiday. He named the horse after the town.”

  “Running his own horse in a race his company sponsors sounds like good business.”

  "Only if it wins"

  Alex looked at her watch. "I have been invited into the parade ring before the race.”

  “Well, you’d best be making a move. The horses will be coming out soon and it’ll take you a few minutes to get there. Be sure to come back afterwards and I’ll let you know the winners of the other races.”

  “OK, nice to meet you, don’t drink all the Scotch before I get back.”

  “Wouldn’t be difficult,” he laughed.

  She found Katherine talking to a newspaper photographer, with a “PRESS” armband and three cameras strapped round his neck. But she caught her eye and they were soon on their way, stopping only for the PA to buy some cigarettes at a kiosk. She quickly unwrapped the packet, took one out, puffed heavily on it a few times and then threw it on the floor to stamp on it.

  “Better?” asked Alex.

  “I really must give up.”

  In the parade ring, Katherine introduced her to James Strauss, racehorse trainer, whose job was to teach Manarola how to race, to give him the best food and to keep him fit. “Pleased to meet you, Alex,‘ taking her hand and kissing her on the cheek. "I hope you are having a good day.”

  “I’m having a great day, thanks, and it’ll get better still if Manarola wins,” she said, smiling broadly.

  The trainer laughed. “Well, he’s in terrific shape. We really couldn’t have done more with him.

  “Here he is,” he said pointing to a lively bay entering the parade ring with two girl handlers, one either side, trying to keep him under control.

  “He has a bit of attitude.” And then seeing Hensen and several others had joined them, he added: “Like his owner.”