Dancing With Shadows. Lynne Pemberton

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       Chapter Three

      Weston Kane arrived at the restaurant ten minutes. early. Carlos, the owner, waved, adopted his most ingratiating smile and extracted himself from a tight knot of chattering people. Swiftly he negotiated the closely packed tables, greeting Weston with what she knew was genuine warmth. She had known him since her father, Sinclair Kane, had first taken her to Umberto’s on her eighth birthday. Then Carlos had been a young maître d’ with the looks of a matinée idol and the kind of quick wit and instant charm that made whoever he was talking to feel special; as if he’d known the person all his life. Carlos had approached Sinclair Kane to finance a new restaurant; there had been no hesitation, and ten months later Carlos had opened the doors of Umberto’s.

      Now, thirty-four years and five restaurants later, Carlos was no longer handsome. His love of food and late nights had added an extra thirty pounds of all too solid flesh. And age, though he swore it was worry, had taken most of his once thick hair. But time had not dulled his enthusiasm, nor had it robbed him of his sense of humour and unquenchable zest for life.

      ‘Miss Kane, you look younger every time I see you. How do you do it?’

      Weston found herself smiling in response to his trademark flattery. ‘It’s in the genes.’ She pinched his arm. ‘The same as your charm.’

      It was his turn to smile. ‘You’re the first, Miss Kane; you want to wait in the bar?’

      ‘I’ll go straight to the table, Carlos, thanks, and I’ll have my usual.’

      Carlos gestured to a passing waiter. ‘A vodka martini, shaken, with a twist for Miss Kane. Her usual table.’

      Several heads turned as Weston Kane crossed the crowded room to a corner spot where she always sat. After leaving college she’d often lunched with her father in the several top restaurants he used in Manhattan. In each establishment Sinclair always had the same table. If it wasn’t available for him, which was rare, he didn’t eat there. And on one occasion when he was promised his table and didn’t get it, he left and never set foot inside again. He called it the power table, the best one in the house – far from the noise and activity of the kitchen, far enough from the door to avoid the hustle and bustle, yet close enough to see exactly who was coming and going, as well as being able to scrutinize the entire restaurant in one sweeping glance. Part of the game, the social hierarchy game.

      Weston slid her long legs under the table. She was tall, over six foot in high heels, with a square handsome face. The azure blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother scanned the room as always. They were spaced wide under a high brow and complemented the collar-length Titian hair which was her legacy from her father’s Scottish forebears. The tight auburn curls she’d hated as a child had been hacked off several times, once with a kitchen knife when she was eight, and on many occasions since. As a teenager, she had ached for long straight blonde hair, the silken type, without a vestige of curl, and had tried every straightening method known to mankind – from reverse perming to a hot iron and greaseproof paper. She shifted on her seat, picked a fleck of cotton off the taupe skirt of a suit she’d had for ten years. It still fitted perfectly. Weston cared little for clothes; in fact she was happiest in jeans and T’s in summer, and jeans with good cashmere sweaters in winter. When she did buy clothes, she bought good ones. It was the only lasting influence her mother Annette had achieved over her. On their rare shopping trips she was constantly accompanied by Annette’s high-pitched sing-song sighs of approval or disdain.

      Such forays had filled her wardrobe with practical, simple well-cut outfits. Pants, invariably St Laurent; Armani jackets; and Valentino or Dior for evening. She knew she was a disappointment to her impeccably dressed mother, but then Weston had no desire to follow Annette on to the ‘Ten Best Dressed Women in America’ list; she didn’t need to. Her height, presence and minimalist style turned heads without fanciful flourishes. The two were completely different in every respect, so much so Weston often doubted her parentage; how could the capricious, totally vacuous Annette Elizabeth Sinclair be her mother? A woman whose main interests ranged from shopping and lunch to more shopping, followed by hair and beauty treatments. And when the shops were shut, Annette’s time seemed to be dedicated to modelling her purchases. How the bored young Weston used to hate the preening and pouting in front of the dressing-room mirror as her mother fished for compliments, interrogating СКАЧАТЬ