Foster said, ‘That’s a pretty good motivation.’

Rosario glared at him as if she didn’t have words to describe her anger. She turned her shoulder, to make it apparent that Foster was overstepping his role as security advisor. She took a breath to speak, but Kirsten Keller leaned in and beat her to it.

‘I’m staying at the Shard,’ she told Rosario firmly. ‘And Chris is staying on the team. And you need to remember you’re my coach, not my mother.’

Rosario stood up and stormed out without another word. Keller watched her coach go and rolled the stress out of her shoulders.

‘Dinner tonight?’ Foster asked, as if nothing had happened.

‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘Why the hell not.’

CHAPTER 9

THE IVY IS a quintessentially British restaurant, famed for its celebrity clientele. Foster had booked a table for eight o’clock, and he picked up Keller in good time to take a cab across the city. If he’d been alone he would have taken the Tube, but the Underground was no place for Kirsten Keller, especially as she had changed into a stunning black evening dress.

‘Good job it’s not a school night,’ Foster said, when he saw her designer outfit. It was sophisticated but sexy, cut tight to her waist and daring at the neck. He found it hard not to stare.

‘Every night’s a school night when you’re on the tour,’ she said wistfully.

She wore the dress well, and the intoxicating vanilla smell of her perfume filled the cab as they drove. She wore a splash of colour on her lips and smoke around her eyes.

‘Walk slowly,’ Foster told her as they got out of the taxi. ‘And don’t stop.’

There was a gathering of photographers outside The Ivy, waiting for the A-listers who usually ate there. They spotted Keller and began snapping their cameras and mobile phones.

‘Good game today,’ one of them said. ‘Can you beat Sam Miller?’

Sam Miller was Keller’s next opponent. Foster had to hand it to the paparazzi – they were always well briefed. He held back a pace. He had no business being in Keller’s photographs, although a mischievous part of him wondered how Rosario would react to a photograph in tomorrow’s papers of both of them out on the town.

Suddenly a young guy pierced the paparazzi like a hawk bursting through a flock of starlings. Foster saw him at once. He was shabby but not destitute, and leery without being entirely out of control. Your standard random nut-job. And he was going straight for Keller. He almost got his hand to Kirsten’s bare shoulder, but Foster stepped in between his client and the threat. The young guy had built up some momentum, probably enough to bowl Keller over, but he hit Foster like a fly hitting a windscreen.

Foster could smell the vodka on the guy’s breath.