Claudia Carroll 3 Book Bundle. Claudia Carroll

as just about every woman here is at pains to point out to me. At the afternoon meet and greet in the hotel’s drawing room, he’s dressed in jeans and a simple white cashmere jumper that really brings out the light suntan he’s picked up. My eye keeps subconsciously wandering over to him, only dying to ogle him, every time I think he’s not looking. He really is that good looking, tall and broad and classically handsome, casually leaning against a wall, towering over all around him. And every time I do sneak an admiring peek in his direction, he must feel my eyes on him because next thing, he’ll be looking back at me, smiling at me, winking at me, mouthing at me that everything is fine.

      And for now, he’s right. For today at least, everything really is fine; for once in my life, I can physically feel it.

      You should see him though, chatting away to everyone, mingling easily, shaking hands with strangers then nodding with easy recognition as they introduce themselves. Broad and imposing, by a mile the tallest guy here, with some fruity-looking, summery cocktail clamped to his hand that I know he’d rather die than drink (he reckons cocktails are only for straight women on hen nights, or else gays). Honest to God, I think proudly, the guy really looks to the manner born.

      Like he’s been moving in these circles all his life.

      If you didn’t know for sure, you’d swear he was a multi-millionaire businessman who’d miraculously survived the recession, or else maybe a wealthy and secure hedge fund manager here to relax and chill out for a well deserved weekend’s rest. But never would you even randomly guess this guy was barely a few months out of a high security prison and currently on parole. Not a chance.

      I actually lose count of the number of people who come up to me in the crush specifically to tell me how lovely Jake is, then politely ask how long we’ve been an item. All my ‘Oh, well, we’re really just good friends,’ lines are brushed aside as the rumour mill takes over, reaching me, as it somehow always does, with the usual approximately thirty-minute time delay.

       They’re such a lovely couple, and the effect he’s having on Eloise Elliot is quite extraordinary … She’s a completely different person these days. So much more relaxed and softer than Madam Tiger Blood of old. For God’s sake, just take a look at her! She’s actually wearing a pair of jeans and for once in her life isn’t trailing around in one of her terrifying black power suits! Just wish she’d met that Jake guy years ago, that’s all I can say, life might have been a helluva lot easier in work for the rest of us …

      And there’s another thing too, another reason why I find myself glowing this afternoon. Now, I’m someone who has never in my whole life known popularity. My place was perennially to accept that while my younger sister was the pretty, likeable one who everyone instantly warned to, I was her scowling termagant sidekick that any sane person would rather open up one of their own veins than spend time with. In fact, for years and years, I used to consider any social event with my work colleagues a success if I managed to get home alive and still in one piece.

      But not now. There’s a sea change in the air, I can practically feel it. It starts with Adele Turner, Robbie’s wife, normally so stand-offish and cool with me, who comes up and actually physically hugs me, nearly knocking the air out of my lungs, it’s that tight and heartfelt. She thanks me over and over for letting Robbie off to get to their daughter’s Confirmation, says it made the whole day for them and that she was so grateful to me. Asks if it’s true that I personally covered for Robbie that day, which I brush aside and instead deflect the chat onto how the Confirmation went instead.

      Then Jenny Wilson from accounts – again, no fan of mine ever since I had to cut her back to a three-day week during the last staff culling – comes over, all full of smiles and chat. Warm and friendly as you like, she tells me that she’d heard what I’d done for poor Rachel, who also happens to be her best friend; that she’d been to visit her at home only recently, and that she’s doing a whole lot better now.

      ‘That was really considerate of you, Eloise,’ she tells me, her eyes shining with sincerity. ‘You didn’t have to, and not many other bosses would have been so compassionate. Rachel was very touched, I can tell you. As we all were when the news got out.’

      I of course modestly brush it aside.

      But deep down I am secretly chuffed beyond words.

      Ordinarily at these mind-bendingly boring functions, I’m either shoehorned into a corner with one of the T. Rexes who’ll bore me to sobs about his golf handicap, or else I’m left standing all alone on the sidelines with no one to talk to, cradling a drink, watching everyone else having a good time and feeling nothing but hate-vibes pulsating towards me. Oh, and checking my iPhone every few minutes, to at least make it look like I’m not particularly bothered that no one’s bothered with me.

      Not now though. Somehow, for the first time in my life, I find myself right at the very epicentre of a big group of co-workers, all chatting and yabbering away to me, including me in their in-jokes, making me feel like I really do belong. And I love it, it’s intoxicating and wonderful and to my great shame, I’d never really realised before just how great my colleagues really are. Never got to really know them, as people.

      Out of the corner of my eye, I see Seth Coleman’s skeletal outline, with a tall, beautiful modely one on his arm. So out-of-his league stunning in fact, Sarah from advertising whispers to me that she must be a hired high-class escort paid to be with him for the weekend. And we both giggle into our drinks, enjoying a genuine moment of girlie bonding, something completely new and utterly lovely for me.

      Can’t tell you the warm, comforting feeling that genuinely belonging gives to me. I’ve missed out on so much these past few years, I think. Missed all the camaraderie, the messing, joshing each other along in the office, anything to make the long days go that bit faster. How much more pleasant would my life have been, I wonder, had I only taken the time and trouble to get to really know these people sooner?

      Dave, the night editor, almost brings a tear to my eye when he muscles down into a seat beside me, and warmly says, ‘You know something? I never really knew how sound you were before. And I want to say sorry if I’ve ever misjudged you, Eloise. I used to think that everything you ever said or did was calculated to intimidate. But what can I say? I completely and totally had the wrong idea of you, couldn’t have been more wrong about you, in fact. And I’m not the only one round here either.’

      I shoot him a look of deep gratitude, then as much as to say, ‘you’re one of us now’, he lightens up a bit and says, ‘right then, it’s your round Elliot, now up off your lazy arse and mine’s a gin and tonic.’

      ‘Sure, I was on my way to the bar anyway,’ I smile back at him, touched that he thought enough of me to give me a gentle slagging. Because no one’s ever done that at work before, ever. ‘But can I just say one thing before I go? Thing is Dave, I really think that I’m the one who should be apologising to you.’

      ‘How do you mean?’ he asks, looking me straight in the eye.

      ‘All those late nights with me nearly sweating blood down in the print room? Come on, Dave, how you managed to not shove one of my bare limbs into the presses is a shining testament to your eternal good nature.’

      And he rolls his eyes jokingly and grins at me and just like that, years of tension, angst, blood, sweat and tears just melt away.

      Best of all, I see Jake out of the corner of my eye, stuck in a conversation with, ahem, Lady Hume, but every now and then throwing sideways glances over at me, just checking on me. And I meet his warm, soft gaze and he gives me a wink and I think, for the moment at least, it doesn’t get any better than this.

      Turns out I’m dead right. It doesn’t.

      It gets worse. Far, far worse.

      Initially my warm glow of newfound popularity lasts the whole way through afternoon tea and right up to when we all merrily and a bit drunkenly head up the massive stone staircase to our respective rooms, to get dressed for dinner. I’ve only had two and a bit glasses of champagne, but barely got to eat a single scrap, I was that busy chatting and laughing. The net result of which