It may not have been scintillating, but it made him laugh anyway. ‘You think knowing my name makes it safer; I could be lying to you.’

‘Are you?’

Instead of answering, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Here you go.’ He handed a business card across.

The card was thick, matt black, the writing in gold script. Peter Fellowes, Attorney at Law.

‘I’m not sure this makes me feel safer.’

This drew another laugh. Perhaps she wasn’t that bad at snappy retorts after all. The arrival of the champagne, and the palaver of opening it, gave Allison time to assess the man sitting opposite with a more objective eye. He was certainly handsome, reminding her a little of a young Paul Newman. Brown eyes, though, not blue. Lighter brown hair, cut a little too short for her taste. Large hands with slightly stubby fingers. No wedding band, no indent to say one had been there recently. All almost too perfect.

A discreet pop brought her eyes back to the waiter, who performed the ritual opening and poured with a minimum of fuss. When he left, Peter picked up his glass and held it forward. ‘Here’s to auspicious beginnings.’

Beginnings. The bubbles ticked her nose as she sipped. Then, throwing caution to the winds that were whirling around her… ones filled with dazzling opportunities… she took a large mouthful. She didn’t drink much. Wine if she was out for dinner. The occasional glass at home in the evening. Maybe the unaccustomed alcohol was responsible for the feeling of lightness, the huge sense of expectation.

‘I want to know all about you,’ Peter said, putting his glass down. ‘Starting with your name.’

It would have been nice to have talked of some fascinating life spent in various parts of the world, a childhood in India, teenage years in South Africa, university in Boston. She could have invented a believable past if she’d had warning; without it, it was easier to go with a version of the truth. ‘There’s not much to say. My name’s Allison. I’m from Oxford. Went to university in Southampton, then studied to be an accountant here in London.’

‘And you still work here?’

She was tempted to say yes and name one of the more reputable accountancy firms, any of the ones who’d considered her not good enough. Not her qualifications… her. Each of the rejection letters had contained a variation on you’re not quite what we were looking for. She still brooded over those rejections, worried that they’d seen something in her that wasn’t quite right.

It was dangerous to lie about where she worked, though. London could be a small city when it came to certain professions. ‘Yes.’ She waited for him to ask who she worked for, preparing herself for his disdainful expression when she mentioned the bargain-basement company McPherson Accountancy.