Irrationally cross, she glanced at the screen and saw that the number was withheld. Probably a salesperson. ‘Hello?’ she snapped. ‘Hello, is that Abena?’ a deep American-accented voice enquired. ‘Er, yes, speaking.’ Abena racked her brains to try and identify the voice. Perhaps it was a potential employer. She detested her job and had been casting around for escape routes. But on a Sunday? ‘It’s Carey Wallace, we met three or four months ago in St Tropez, at Larry’s party. Remember me?’ ‘Oh, Carey, hi, how are you? Amazing to hear from you – of course I remember you, the super-duper producer!’ Carey laughed. ‘You’re too kind.’ ‘So where are you – which country are you calling from?’ ‘I’m … in London!’ ‘Yippee! Me too! What are your plans? How long are you sticking around for? We should catch up.’ ‘Well, that’s exactly why I’m calling.
