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He bumped into the ticket collector, who was not surprised to find James was the holder of a first-class ticket. The quest for an empty compartment was in vain. James concluded that Richard Marsh must be trying to run the railways at a profit. Whatever next? Still more aggravating, they would probably give him a knighthood for his pains.

The next best thing to an empty compartment, James always thought, was one containing a beautiful girl — and this time his luck was in. One of the compartments was occupied by a truly stunning creature who looked as if she was alone. The only other person in the carriage was a middle-aged lady reading Vogue, who showed no signs of knowing her traveling companion. James settled down in the corner with his back to the engine, realizing he could not study the Metcalfe dossier on the train. They had all been sworn to total secrecy, and Stephen had cautioned them against reading the dossiers in anyone else’s company. James feared that of the four of them he was going to find it the most difficult to remain silent: a companionable man, he found secrets rather burdensome. He touched his overcoat pocket, the one holding the dossier in the envelope supplied by Stephen Bradley. What an efficient man he was, thought James. Alarmingly brainy, too. He was bound to have a dozen clever plans ready for consideration by the next meeting. James frowned and stared out of the window hoping some serendipitous idea would strike him. Instead he found himself studying the reflection of the profile of the girl sitting opposite him.

She had a shiny nob of dark brown hair, a slim straight nose and her large hazel eyes seemed fixed on the book she held in her lap. James wondered if she was as entirely oblivious of his presence as she appeared to be, and reluctantly decided that she was. His eyes slipped down to the gentle curve of her breast, softly encased in angora. He craned his neck slightly to see what sort of legs the reflection had. Damn it, she was wearing boots. He looked back at the face again. It was now looking back at him, faintly amused. Embarrassed, he switched his attention to the third occupant of the carriage, the unofficial chaperone in front of whom James lacked the courage even to strike up a conversation with the beautiful profile.

In desperation he stared at the cover of the middle-aged lady’s Vogue. Another beautiful girl. And then he looked more carefully. It wasn’t another girl, it was the same girl. To begin with, he could hardly believe his eyes, but a quick check against the genuine article left him in no doubt. As soon as Vogue was relinquished in favor of Queen, James leaned across and asked the chaperone if he might be allowed to read it.

‘Station bookstalls are closing earlier and earlier,’ he said idiotically. ‘I couldn’t get anything to read.’

The chaperone agreed reluctantly.

He turned to the second page. ‘Cover: Picture yourself like this... black silk georgette dress with chiffon handkerchief points. Ostrich-feather boa. Turban with flower, matching dress. Made to measure by Zandra Rhodes. Anne’s hair by Jason at Vidal Sassoon. Photograph by Lichfield. Camera: Hasselblad.’

James was quite unable to picture himself like that. But at least he now knew the girl’s name, Anne. The next time the real-life version looked up, he showed her by sign language that he had spotted the photograph. She smiled briefly at James and then returned to her book.

At Reading station the middle-aged lady left, taking Vogue with her. Couldn’t be better, mused James. Anne looked up, faintly embarrassed, and smiled hopefully at the few passersby walking up and down the corridor looking for a seat. James glared at them as they passed. No one entered the carriage. James had won the first round. As the train gathered speed he tried his opening gambit, which was quite good by his normal standards:

‘What a super picture on the front of Vogue taken by my old friend Patrick Lichfield.’

Anne Summerton looked up. She was even more beautiful than the picture James had referred to. Her dark hair, cut softly in the latest Vidal Sassoon style, her big hazel eyes and faultless skin gave her a gentle look that James found irresistible. She had that slim, graceful body that all leading models need to earn their living, but Anne also had a presence that most of them would never have. James was quite stunned and wished she would say something.

Anne was used to men trying to pick her up but she was rather taken aback by the remark about Lord Lichfield. If he was a friend, it would be offhand not to be at least polite. On a second glance she found James’s diffidence rather charming. He had used the self-deprecating approach many times with great success, but this time it was perfectly genuine. He tried again.

‘It must be a hell of a job being a model.’

What a bloody silly line, he thought. Why couldn’t he just say to her, I think you’re absolutely fantastic? Can we talk a little and if I still think you’re fantastic perhaps we can take it from there? But it never worked that way. He knew he would have to go through the usual routine.

‘It’s bearable if the contracts are good,’ she replied, ‘but today’s been particularly tiring.’ Her voice was gentle, and the faint transatlantic accent appealed to James. ‘I’ve been smiling my head off all day, modeling an advertisement for Close-Up toothpaste: the photographer never seemed to be satisfied. The only good thing about it was that it ended a day earlier than expected. How do you know Patrick?’

‘We were fags together at Harrow in our first year. He was rather better than me at getting out of work.’

Anne laughed — a gentle, warm laugh. It was obvious he knew Lord Lichfield.

‘Do you see much of him now?’

‘Occasionally at dinner parties, but not regularly. Does he photograph you a lot?’

‘No,’ said Anne, ‘the cover picture for Vogue was the only time.’

As they chatted on, the thirty-five minute journey between Reading and London seemed to pass in a flash. Walking down the platform of Paddington Station with Anne, James ventured:

‘Can I give you a lift home? My car is parked around the corner in Craven Street.’

Anne accepted, relieved not to have to search for a taxi at that late hour.

James drove her home in his Alfa Romeo. He had already decided that he could not hold on to that particular luxury for much longer with petrol going up and cash flow going down. He chattered merrily all the way to her destination, which turned out to be a block of flats in Cheyne Row overlooking the Thames; much to Anne’s surprise he just dropped her off at the front door and said good night. He did not even ask for her telephone number and he only knew her Christian name. In fact, she did not have any idea what his name was. Pity, she thought as she closed the front door; he had been a rather pleasant change from the men who worked on the fringe of the advertising media, who imagined they had an automatic right to a girl’s compliance just because she posed in a bra.

James knew exactly what he was doing. He had always found a girl was more flattered if he called her when she least expected it. His tactics were to leave the impression that she had seen the last of him, especially when the first meeting had gone well. He returned to his home in the King’s Road and considered the situation. Unlike Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre, with thirteen days to go, he still had no ideas for defeating Harvey Metcalfe. But he was hatching plans for Anne.