Foster had booked a table for eight o’clock, and he picked up Keller in good time to take a cab across the city. If he’d been alone he would have taken the Tube, but the Underground was no place for Kirsten Keller, especially as she had changed into a stunning black evening dress. ‘Good job it’s not a school night,’ Foster said, when he saw her designer outfit. It was sophisticated but sexy, cut tight to her waist and daring at the neck. He found it hard not to stare. ‘Every night’s a school night when you’re on the tour,’ she said wistfully. She wore the dress well, and the intoxicating vanilla smell of her perfume filled the cab as they drove. She wore a splash of colour on her lips and smoke around her eyes. ‘Walk slowly,’ Foster told her as they got out of the taxi. ‘And don’t stop.’ There was a gathering of photographers outside The Ivy, waiting for the A-listers who usually ate there. They spotted Keller and began snapping their cameras and mobile phones.
