Lindsey Kelk Girl Collection: About a Girl, What a Girl Wants. Lindsey Kelk

and I was aiming to invite as few questions as possible. Simple outfit, simple hair, as elegant and classy as possible when you were a cack-handed mare with a make-up brush. All I was going to do was show up, eat my dinner, be polite and ask lots of questions without drawing any attention to myself. One of the things I’d learned from working in advertising all these years was that people liked talking about themselves. As long as you made the right noises and kept the conversation going, no one noticed that you weren’t actually saying anything. Between the million questions I had prepared and the fact that I intended to eat until I burst and, most importantly, avoid all alcohol, I didn’t anticipate any major problems at dinner.

      Which was, of course, my first mistake.

      Kekipi and his great big doe eyes were waiting for me with a glass of champagne at the top of the staircase that led onto the veranda.

      ‘Miss Kittler.’ He handed me the glass. I took it. I hated to be rude. ‘You look delightful.’

      ‘Vanessa,’ I corrected him, quietly proud of myself for remembering my new name. ‘Please, just Vanessa.’

      Behind my host I saw a table set for someone dressed way more fancy than me, but I refused to be defeated. I knew which fork was which. Most of the time.

      ‘Mr Bennett wishes me to pass on his apologies. He won’t be able to make dinner this evening, but he has asked that you please stay and eat. The first course will be out shortly.’

      Necking the champagne, I nodded and followed him to the table, equal parts relieved and annoyed. It felt the same as prepping for a big meeting and then having your boss call in sick – you didn’t really want to have to go through with it, but you were so psyched up you couldn’t help but be a little bit disappointed. But it was hard to be too upset with a glass of champagne in my hand and a soft Hawaiian breeze blowing around my bare legs. Even a best-case-scenario Monday back in England would be two-for-one at Wagamama’s with Amy. Charlie always had football practice on Mondays. Not that I was thinking about Charlie. At all.

      ‘Mr Miller is just inside,’ Kekipi said, refilling my champagne. I did not neck this one. ‘Dinner will be served in a few moments.’

      ‘Mr Miller?’

      ‘The gentleman who is conducting the interview with Mr Bennett,’ he offered with a smile. ‘He’ll be out in a moment.’

      It hadn’t occurred to me that the actual interview would be happening at the same time as the shoot. This was all I needed. Some irritating fashion journo bitching and whining and judging ensembles that weren’t even my ensembles.

      I took my seat at the table and waited patiently. Never something I’d been good at. While the painful seconds ticked by, I took a chance to check out Bertie Bennett’s palace. The veranda where dinner was to be served was part of a bigger deck that wrapped all the way round the house. To the left, up a couple more stone staircases, was a huge infinity pool with neighbouring hot tub that looked out over the private bay. My muscles ached and I was dying to sink into the warm water, even if it did seem a bit rude given that the ocean was right there in front of us. To the right was another deck, dotted with squishy armchairs, sunloungers and parasols. I ran my hand down the smooth wood of the straight-backed dining chair and tried not to think about how wonderful it would be to lie back on one of those chairs with a very large cocktail and maybe a little shoulder massage. Poor me – here I was sitting at this beautiful table with a glass of champagne waiting for someone to bring me my dinner when I could be in a hot tub. Life was hard here, but I was pretty sure I could get used to the difficult decisions.

      Despite my best efforts to avoid it, I caught my reflection in the huge window behind the table. Hair looked OK, dress was a little bit bright, but the lights were dim and the sun had almost set. Everyone looked better at sunset. See how much I knew about lighting? I was definitely a natural photographer. Just then the window slid open and a man stepped out.

      ‘Vanessa Kittler.’

      Oh. Of course.

      It was the man from the beach.

      He walked round the table with an easy grace, dressed in perfectly fitted jeans, bare feet and a white shirt that set off a disgustingly good tan. He had an English accent with a transatlantic lilt, but he obviously hadn’t spent a lot of time in the UK over the past few months, unless that golden glow was a sunbed tan. And I really hoped it was, because that would make him a complete dickhead and that would distract me from how very handsome he was.

      ‘Hello.’ I cleared my throat, stood up, held out my hand and made a concerted effort not to knock anything over. ‘Nice to meet you.’

      ‘Oh, we’ve met, on the beach this morning? You don’t remember?’ He sat down in the seat opposite me, ignoring my outstretched hand. Hmm, rude. I wished I had a presentation to give. I was definitely a PowerPoint person. Without it, I only had my mouth to rely on, and my mouth was stupid. ‘You dressed for dinner. How thoughtful.’

      ‘I didn’t know how formal it would be.’ There was a slight stammer in my voice and I felt every inch of my skin burning. I wanted to slap myself. And then him. And then myself again. ‘T-shirt and knickers seemed a bit casual.’

      ‘Gutted.’ He reached over the table and pulled a sweaty bottle of white out of a silver wine bucket and poured himself a glass. Didn’t even offer to pour me one. ‘I’m Nick.’

      ‘Nice to meet you.’ I couldn’t stop staring. My blood was up and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to slap him or shag him. It was not my natural state. I was very confused. ‘Again.’

      He inclined his head very slightly. ‘So. Vanessa.’

      ‘Yes?’ I waited for his follow-up but nothing came.

      After almost a minute of silence, I realized Nick wasn’t asking me a question. He was just fucking with me. Instead of filling the air with polite and meaningless small talk like normal people, he just sat there holding his wine glass close to his lips, a small smile threatening to make an appearance on his face. I pushed my champagne glass as far away from me as possible to avoid chugging the whole thing just for something to do. Silence made me nervous. Attractive men made me nervous. Unanticipated situations made me nervous. I was fucked.

      ‘So how long have you been out here?’ I asked, looking past my dinner companion and into the house. It was a ghost town. A cool glow lit up one of the windows on the top floor for just a moment, but it flickered out almost as soon as I noticed it. ‘Did you get in today?’

      Nick didn’t answer me. Instead his smile broadened and he sipped his wine. My breaking the silence meant he had won – it was written all over his face. I pressed my lips together in a tight line and forbade myself from speaking again. I would not say another word. I would just sit here and look at his self-satisfied grin. And his crinkly light blue almost grey eyes. And the perfectly toned forearms that were peeking out of his rolled-up shirt sleeves. I was a mug for forearms and crinkly eyes. It all came off a bit Daniel Craig as James Bond, but with fewer physical beatings and marginally better hair. There was no point pretending otherwise – he was hot. But not my type. My type was, after all, pretty specific.

      ‘So you’re staying in one of the cottages too?’

      The words were out before I realized it. My mouth was such a traitor.

      ‘I can’t believe we haven’t met before.’ He spoke with a slow, steady voice and I knew right away why he was such a good journalist. Between the baby blues and the slightly gravelly but desperately sure-of-itself voice, I couldn’t imagine anyone holding out on him in any way, shape or form. ‘I know you by, well, reputation.’

      ‘As a photographer?’ I asked.

      ‘Sure,’ he replied, unable to keep from laughing. ‘I know your reputation as a photographer.’

      Brilliant. I’d escaped my shitty situation in London and stranded myself in a tropical paradise with a hot, rude man who thought I was a slag. And as much as I considered myself a feminist, I couldn’t really blame him. Vanessa was, to be