It felt a bit like the lying you do before you throw someone a surprise party – horrid and necessary all at the same time. All the more horrid because she’d asked to come with me. ‘Brighton?’ she said. ‘For two days?’ Her little face fell and I felt a stab of guilt, like an irresponsible parent lying through their teeth so that they could elope for a dirty weekend with their lover, which, of course, was what I was basically doing. The story went like this: Toby and I were going to see a potential client in Brighton on the Friday and Saturday. The entertaining might run over on Saturday night – these people are quite the party animals, we’ve heard – so we’d spend Saturday night there as well as Friday night. Rachel was away on business in Scotland so she wouldn’t know a thing. ‘Can I come?’ she asked, and my heart flipped. ‘No, Lex, sorry, it’s a serious work thing – no time for play.’ I spent the best part of thirty quid on DVDs for her and pizza and a bottle of Lambrusco, and then I left her on Friday morning just before she went off to work.
