‘I’ll draw up some rough sketches for you tomorrow and then do some proper plans. If you decide to go ahead, I can organise everything for you at cost price. I reckon the work would only take two or three weeks tops.’

‘I’ll have to take a loan out to pay for it . . . if the bank will give me one.’

‘I’ll loan you the money. You can pay me back as and when. No interest.’

‘It’s very kind of you to offer, Nick, but I couldn’t . . .’

‘I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to. And with your permission, I could use photographs of the completed job as an advertisement for my designs for smaller houses. You’d be doing me a favour.’

‘Can I think about it?’

‘Of course, there’s no rush.’

The sommelier topped up their wine glasses and they didn’t talk much as they concentrated on their food.

‘Would you like a dessert?’ Nick asked.

‘I’m really full,’ Jane said.

‘What about a sorbet? It’s a refreshing palate cleanser – just what you need after a big meal.’

‘Can we share one?’

‘Of course.’ Nick got the waiter’s attention and ordered one sorbet, with an extra bowl and spoon.

After the waitress had served the sorbet, Nick scooped half of it into the other bowl then picked up the champagne.

‘Shame to let it go to waste,’ he said, pouring it over the sorbet. ‘It actually tastes really nice.’

Jane noticed the sommelier frowning as he watched Nick, barely able to disguise his disapproval. She and Nick giggled like a pair of schoolkids. Jane tried a spoonful. Nick was right: it was wonderful.

‘Would you like a coffee or a liqueur?’ Nick asked, finishing his sorbet.

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I’ll get the bill and ask the maître d’ to call a taxi for you,’ Nick said with a sigh, as if he was sad their evening had come to an end.

‘I don’t want to go home yet,’ Jane said. ‘I thought we might go back to the pub, listen to the band, and have a dance . . . if you want to.’

Nick’s eyes lit up. ‘I’d love to. But I have to warn you . . . I’m no John Travolta.’

‘That’s probably because everyone mistakes you for Robert Redford,’ she said, remembering his quip when they’d first met.

‘You said Woody Allen yesterday,’ he retorted.

‘I know, but it’s also a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN