The weeks following the wedding were some of the worst of Lauren's life, her desperation highlighted by the fact that Emily had jetted off to the Seychelles for a two-week honeymoon.

She had lost her job, not through any fault of her own, but because the small company she had worked for had folded, and as a result she had no income and no money to pay the rent on her small room.

She felt disillusioned. She had scraped the money together to pay for her degree, fully expecting it to reap the rewards of full-time, lucrative employment. But it hadn't. The economy was bad and the job market was swimming with other graduates with qualifications just like hers. And to make matters worse she had no idea what she actually wanted to do; she had floated from job to job, waiting for something to grab her, waiting for that work that would touch her soul and make her feel the unmistakable call of: 'yes, this is what I want to do. This is what I need to do. I will give my life to it."

The job at MegaSportBet, a small business that offered instant gambling opportunities to punters via their mobile phones, was supposed to be a temporary measure. She had taken on a role as a receptionist-come-office-manager, which meant that most of her time had been spent fixing tea and coffee for the guys who had set up the company. She had fully expected to be able to leave to join a larger company, where career progression was more certain, within a few weeks.

Until last week she had been there nine months, and the pay was minimal. She had rented a room in a small flat in Kennington that she had found on gumtree.com. It was OK for the money, but nothing special. The paint was peeling throughout the flat and there was damp in the corner of her bedroom, making the wall bubble up in an unsightly manner. The place made her feel ill, but it was all she could afford, and in all the time she had lived there she had never once brought a guy home.

When Emily had visited she hadn't wanted to sit down. Not that she'd said as much, but Lauren could tell from the way her body closed up when she walked in the door. She had clutched her handbag tightly to her side and wrapped her arms about her. Protecting herself from poverty. Lauren almost laughed at the memory; but it was too painful. Emily had probably hailed a cab and breathed a sigh of relief when she had got back to George's huge flat in South Kensington, where the walls were painted in Farrow and Ball, a colour of understated and ambiguous hue with a name like 'Dimity', and all the furniture was from John Lewis.

After a lot of advertising and pleading status updates on facebook, Lauren had found someone to take over her lease. She was in the middle of packing her meagre belongings into cardboard boxes when the sound of her phone ringing made her jump.

"Hello?"

"Lauren, it's Emily! How are you?"

Lauren struggled to replicate Emily's enthusiasm, having been on the brink of tears only moments before, as she held up a pair of heels that had a hole in sole. She peered at them as she spoke into the phone which was camped between her shoulder and her chin. "I'm all right. How was the honeymoon?"

"So wonderful. I want to tell you all about it. How are you? How's the job?"

"It's..." The words choked up in Lauren's throat. She had been alone all day, and the tears welled up as soon as Emily began to ask questions. Lauren coughed in an attempt to stem the inevitable flow, but it didn't work.

She told Emily everything, tears streaming down her face. She dropped the shoes and fell back onto the bed, winding her hands into her bed sheets as she let her head fall into the pillow and closed her eyes, grateful to hear Emily's soothing voice on the other end of the phone.

"Where will you go?" asked Emily.

"Home. I can't afford to live in London anymore."

"To Essex? To live with your parents?" Emily's voice displayed her horror at the idea, and Lauren covered her eyes with one hand as she lay on her bed. She sobbed a response that made no sense and was little more than a stifled groan.

"Oh Lauren, this is no good. What can I do? How can I help you?"

"You can't. It's OK. I'll be fine. I've just had a bad day, packing up alone. It'll be fine tomorrow," she said, wiping her eyes with her ineffectual fingertips.

"Look, let me speak to George. I'll see if he can sort something out." Lauren pictured her friend stomping up and down, gesticulating with her hands as though Lauren could see her. "Oh hang on, he's just walked in. Let me call you back." And the phone went dead.

Lauren sat up and wiped her eyes again. She had never felt this low before, as she sat in the small room with the dark splodges of mould that grew in the window frame and looked at the sad piles of boxes as they spread out over the carpet.

She waited for fifteen minutes for Emily to call back, but when she didn't she decided she had to eat something; after all she hadn't eaten anything all day and it was nearly six in the evening.

She wandered to the kitchen and found a tattered old chinese takeaway menu, called the number and ordered a special fried rice. It was the only thing on the menu that she had enough cash in her wallet for: just less than a fiver. Even unfolding the wrinkled old note made her feel an overwhelming sense of self-pity. What was it for, all the education, if it were to end like this? All that hard work, those hours in the library? Someone, and she couldn't think who to blame for the misrepresentation, had sold her a dream. A false dream. Here she was with nothing to show for it. She would have been better off training to be a hairdresser and working for her aunt back in Brentwood. Much better off.

As she sat on her bed, eating the contents of the congealed cardboard box with a tea-stained spoon (the only clean cutlery she could find in the kitchen) her phone rang again.

"Lauren, I've spoken to George. Can you meet us for dinner tomorrow?"

Lauren paused, chewed and swallowed a mouthful of friend rice, and wondered whether she should admit that her calendar was entirely empty. She chose not to.

"Yes. That's very kind of you Emily. You don't have to, really."

"Nonsense. Of course I do. It will cheer you up."

Lauren wasn't so sure about that. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. Wear something smart, and be there at eight. We'll have drinks before."

She felt her body sag like the old mattress beneath her. "Oh Emily, you know I can't afford that."

"Darling, our treat. Don't be silly."

Lauren hmmm-ed down the phone.

"You will come?" asked Emily, registering the hesitation.

"Yes. Thank you."

As soon as Lauren put down the phone she began to question why she had agreed at all. She had nothing to wear, and anything she might have would be creased and packed away in a box. She let her head drop and held it in her open palm, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

*

Lauren took the tube to Hyde Park Corner and walked up Park Lane. It was still light, and although there was a chill breeze in the air she was sweating from the crush on the hot tube. At least she had chosen not to wear tights. She looked at her watch: she was on time. If there was one thing you could say about the London Underground, it was pretty damn quick.

She pulled a pashmina tighter about her shoulders, the breeze chilling the sheen of sweat on her skin, as she cursed the fact that she had thought it warm enough not to bother with a coat.

She had borrowed a dress from her flatmate at the last minute, and it didn't quite fit, but with a few quick stitches here and there she had managed to make it look acceptable. It hugged her waist and swung about her hips; the effect was pleasing for a borrowed dress, and she knew her legs looked great. She was blessed with her mother's delicate bones, and her ankles were slim and becoming. If she hadn't been so sure of her legs she never would have worn such a short skirt, especially not to meet George and Emily, or to go to the Dorchester, for that matter.

"Lauren!" Emily, bronzed and glowing from the honeymoon, rushed over and embraced her friend. Her enthusiasm was over-flowing. George joined them and kissed Lauren's cheeks, telling her how pleased he was to see her, and that he hoped she was well. Lauren saw that he knew just how 'not well' she was; there was something of pity in his eyes that made her want to shy away from him.

They chatted for a few minutes before Emily glanced up at the clock and suggested they move to the bar, where George ordered champagne.

"Where is he?" asked Emily, tapping her foot impatiently whilst sipping on her champagne. She was glancing back towards the entrance anxiously.

"He'll be here."

"Who?" asked Lauren, surprised that anyone else would be joining them at all.

"Henry."

Lauren's heart fluttered at the name. Could it be the same Henry she had met at the wedding? She hadn't thought she would ever see him again, and although he had seemed cool, even arrogant, she had fantasised about him ever since. Their brief meeting had filled her with such desire that she felt ashamed; she felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on a celebrity.

The sound of his voice, his jaw, his tan and his gorgeous green eyes and sensual lips had played on her mind ever since. Everything about him had been beguiling. If she had found out that he had sold his soul to the devil for that face she wouldn't have been remotely surprised. Even though he had never even introduced himself or asked her name, even though he had been positively rude, she couldn't stop thinking about him. She had felt haunted by the mere idea of him and, now that she had conjured up her own dreamlike version of him, the idea of meeting him in the flesh again filled her with horror.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she hissed.

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Lauren, you look very pale. Are you alright?" asked George, leaning towards her and pressing his fingertips to her arm, his eyebrows pulled tightly together as he looked at her.

"You do look rather odd Lauren." Emily tilted her head to look at her friend. "Let's sit down, shall we? I'm sure they'll let us go to the table a bit early."

George took Lauren's arm and Emily led the way through to the restaurant, her fox fur stole wrapped casually about her shoulders, slipping down over her toned arms. She seemed, thought Lauren, much older, much more sophisticated, than a woman in her early twenties had any right to be. But then Emily was a child of money. Entitled. Confident. She was what Lauren had aspired to be at university and, having early on discovered that a girl from Essex could never achieve that insouciant ebullience, had decided that being friends with a girl like Emily was the next best thing. It made her feel special.

Lauren was grateful for her friends' attentiveness, and as soon as she was seated she felt much better. The second glass of champagne was helping too, she thought, sipping at the crystal flute, letting her body relax and the alcohol flood her brain.

She looked around the room; there were only a small number of tables, mostly round with pressed white table cloths. Everything else seemed pale grey, or silver and the windows that looked out onto Park Lane were partially frosted so she couldn't see the cars as they passed by.

It was quiet, the only sounds the murmuring of other diners and the gentle clink of cutlery and crockery. A waiter took their drinks order and handed them menus, and a moment later brought a slate tray with amuse-bouches delicately positioned on it, and a bowl of parmesan puffs.

Just as Lauren was beginning to feel more comfortable she had the feeling someone was looking at her.

Henry was not expecting to see anyone sitting at the table with Emily and George, and he was furious at being ambushed in this way. He liked to be prepared for everything; he was not one for spontaneity: it went against his nature.

The girl lifted her head and looked in his direction, and as she did so he took a sharp intake of breath. It was the girl from the wedding. He held her gaze, feeling her eyes on him like an electric current. The reaction disconcerted and distracted him from his surroundings, and he realised too late that someone was talking to him.

"Sir, your coat. Can I take it for you?"

Henry looked away from Lauren and turned to the man speaking to him.

"Yes, thank you," he said, allowing his coat to be removed from his broad shoulders, shifting his arms to ease them from the sleeves.

"Let me show you to your table."

Henry nodded and followed the smartly attired man to a table towards the window. As he moved he was aware people were looking; they generally did. He was used to people staring, in the way that extremely good-looking people are, and on top of that he was well-known in society and business circles. As a result he was never entirely sure why a particular person was staring at him, but it didn't bother him in the slightest.

As Henry approached the table George stood up and grasped his hand. Henry smiled warmly, and bent to kiss Emily, insisting she not get up from the table. But all the while he felt unnerved by the presence of the dark haired woman who sat with her head down, refusing to look at him.

"Henry, this is Lauren," said Emily. "One of my dearest friends from university."

"How do you do," he said, observing her as she turned to at him. She looked up at him with her beautiful doe-eyes, and tried to smile. She looked nervous, he thought. And young, probably ten years younger than he was, possibly more. He watched as the familiar blush rushed over her cheeks, and felt a heat rise through his own body. He shifted his feet to ease the discomfort it brought with it.

Her fine features were just as he remembered them, although she wore more makeup than she had before, her eyes sultry and her dark hair falling in waves over bare shoulders. She looked good enough to eat.

Lauren's heart had struck up a rapid beat as soon as she had realised Henry was in the room. Her appetite was entirely wiped away the moment she looked up to see him staring at her. Every time his eyes fell on her she felt he was appraising her sexually, imagining what she looked like without her clothes on. And although she felt certain that he was looking at her that way, that he was thinking about her, assessing her, in that way, she could not pinpoint exactly why she thought it, for he did nothing whatsoever to indicate it.

His demeanour was polite and cool, and she was sure Emily and George were entirely unaware of the tumult she was enduring. She could barely eat, and whenever she raised her eyes, his were there, waiting for her to fall into their green pools. Some basic instinct told her that the attraction she felt was mutual; more than mutual. She felt certain he wanted her, and it made her feel uneasy. She was painfully aware of every movement she made, and every movement he made. She found herself mirroring his gestures and, when she became conscious of it, she would quickly move her hand or arm in case he noticed how she copied him.

But why, she wondered, would a man like that want me? Perhaps it's because I am imagining it, she told herself. Perhaps it's because I have been thinking of him so often that now I can't even work out what's real and what's not. She scolded herself for even thinking he might be interested. He had pretended he had never met her before, after all.

Or perhaps he simply does not remember you, a tiny voice whispered in her ear.

As each course was brought in and removed, Lauren could barely take her eyes off him, and at the same time felt unable to stare for any significant period of time. His skin was still golden, a slight stubble across his pronounced jaw. When he laughed his perfect lips separated, revealing even white teeth.

Every time he glanced up at her, his green eyes sparkling through dark lashes, she felt herself burning.

"So, Henry," said Emily, when the coffees had been brought out, "we have a proposition for you."

Henry raised an eyebrow and waited, his face devastatingly gorgeous in stillness. The waiter placed some petit-fours on the table for them to share amongst themselves.

"Lauren here is in need of a job. And I know you need a new PA." Emily smiled, but no one spoke. Her words fell on a bed of silence.

Lauren had no idea that this was where the evening had been headed. For a crazy hour or so she had been toying with the idea that Emily and George were trying to set her up with this man. How could she have been so stupid?

She looked up at Henry, his features taut, one fist clenched on the table. His lips were pressed into a thin line. Lauren felt the need to speak, but nothing appropriate came to mind.

"She has a degree in Ancient History," added Emily, who seemed oblivious to the tension that had descended round the table.

"What do I need an historian for?" He said, his dark brow furrowed, his eyes gleaming, furious. Lauren licked her lips nervously and tucked her hands beneath the table.

"She's been working as a receptionist and office manager. She's very organised, and knows how to manage people. Just what you need Henry," said Emily, reaching out to lay her hand over his tightly clenched fist. He jerked it away when she touched him.

Lauren was so uncomfortable watching his reaction that she felt vaguely sick.

"Excuse me," she said, rising from the table, her chair bumping over the carpet as she pushed it out. Instantly one of the waiters was behind her, pulling it out from underneath her. George and Henry stood too as Lauren left, her movements inelegant and jerky. She realised, with relief, that Emily was following her.

Henry watched her move through the tables, her curves highlighted by the dress, the way the fabric clung to her buttocks. It was too short, inappropriate, he thought, but her legs were good enough to pull it off. He felt the unmistakable tug of sexual attraction, part of him wanting to get up and follow her, to pull her aside and....he blinked. Instead, he turned to George.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, George?"

"What do you mean?" George asked, leaning away from his friend's sudden outburst.

"How dare you corner me like this. This is embarrassing, George, and thoroughly unprofessional. I'm trying to run a serious business. I've had Human Resources interviewing girls for the role for weeks. They're down to a final two or three."

"I'm sorry, I did it for Emily. She asked if you -"

"George," he interrupted, his green eyes alive with fire, "I've repaid the debt. I've paid back your deposit ten times over. And I gave you the house for the wedding. I owe you nothing."

Henry felt anger well up within him. How could George put him on the spot like that? He didn't know this girl; he hadn't even seen a CV.

"It's only a small favour Henry. For Emily."

"If she wants to apply for the job she can do so via the regular channels, the same as all the other applicants. I will not take on a girl I don't know, especially for a role as important as my Personal Assistant. It comes with huge responsibility. How old is she anyway? Twenty? You can't be serious George."

"She's an intelligent girl," said George, whose hands were clasped tightly together and resting on the table. Fine beads of sweat were pearling on his forehead. "Henry-"

"Absolutely not. I'm running a business, not a