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Not just Jack Reid. Not yet. It needs more than that. A buyer name can be theatre. A mask. A little gleam of mystery.

I tap my fingers against the kitchen island.

A high-brow group. That’s what it needs. Something that sounds… pretentious.

It takes me a fucking age and twenty goes on a name generator.

The Gilded Table.

Pretentious. Wealthy. Slightly absurd. Suggests money, taste, secrecy, shitty morals and pristine bow ties.

Perfect.

I finish the email.

Mr J Reid, acting on behalf of The Gilded Table.

Beautiful nonsense, but nonsense nonetheless.

I hit send.

Done.

Rather than return to the sofa, I take a seat at my too-expensive kitchen island with Bryce’s toastie maker standing proud, Alice’s auction future in motion, and that gruesome pang of goo still lodged somewhere under my ribs.

I pick up the stupid delivery note again and smile.

You’re welcome.

With that, I open up a new tab and search for the very best cheese in London.

If I’m going down the road of domestic catastrophe, so be it. I may as well do it with style.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

BRYCE

Friday afternoon and Canary Wharf begins to unwind around me. I’m usually so absorbed in my unending to-do list that it means nothing, but today I have a smile on my face that’s been there all afternoon.

I still have Jack’s message window open on my phone.

This is the most middle-class seduction attempt in history, I hope you know that.

My soul laughs as I read it back through. Again.

The man is unbearable. Hilarious in his cocky putdowns. Totally bloody irresistible.

But what’s more important than that is the message that came after. The thank you.

Two standard words that sound meaningless out of context, but to me they mean everything.

Jack Reid, casino owner, playboy, self-proclaimed hater of sentiment, is genuinely thankful for a toastie maker. And I’m genuinely thankful that his genuine thanks has brought me such joy.

What a ridiculous situation.

I shake myself off and return to the figures onscreen.

Friday afternoons normally belong to a frantic mess of loose ends to tie up as best I can. Week closing reports, a last gathering of data before the weekend. Not that weekends mean much. There’s always a string of tasks still running, something with URGENT marked out in caps to adhere to, always emails pinging through at six on Saturday morning, expecting an answer before breakfast.