by jm blake
“Bit of a late start?” His brow quirks up, but a worried frown replaces the usual smirk. He’s been a rock for me this past year, but even his properly intended concern is starting to grate on me.
“Yes, I slept for shit. Up looking over the Signal prospectus for today.” I shuffle a few reports around and avoid looking at him. “What are your thoughts?” He pauses for a moment and then launches into a pro and con look at the project. We are thinking about co-developing an app that detects certain types of harmful pollution. There are a few on the market, but this one integrates medical data. We debate on the merits of DevCo getting involved in the app business- we are more of a manufacturer or builder- when Phyl lets us know that the Signal group is waiting on video chat. Bash sits in, and the team does a great job pitching the idea. We ask a few pointed questions and, in the end, decide that they should come to London for a more formal presentation. “Where is your main office based?” The crew on the phone is in Japan.
“Our main campus is in San Francisco, so most of us will be flying from there.” The project lead drones on about something, but I’ve already tuned out.
San Fransisco…
I can hear Bash tying up the call and instructing Phyl to coordinate a meeting in the distant future. I blink hard and see my brother frowning at me. I straighten up and start reshuffling some papers.
“Ayden…”
“No, Sebastian. I know what you are going to say.” I hold up my hand and shake my head.
“Do you? Good. Because I don’t feel like arguing about this again. Call her.”
There is no need for him to specify who “her” is. We both know.
“No.” I’m obstinate in my grief.
“Why not? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Or at all in the past year?” He’s standing now and pacing a trail in front of my desk. “That expensive suit isn’t hiding anything- you look like bloody hell. I thought Mum was going to fall into a dead faint when we were at the house last time.”
Our mum’s birthday popped up a few months ago, and my stepfather decided to throw her a family party out in the country. She took one look at me and immediately asked if I needed a doctor. If leeches were still in style, she would have had one at my bedside. She kept pushing vitamins and old village elixirs at my face, feeling my forehead for a fever. I barely escaped that weekend without her moving into my flat to take care of me.
“Of course I have- I’m just tired,” I grumble at him, still not meeting his eyes.
“You’re heartbroken.”
“Don’t be daft! I am not. Apollo is really heating up, pardon the pun, and I am running on all cylinders. This has nothing to do with- her.” I grimace and take a sip of my now cold coffee.
“When’s the last time you were with a woman?” I nearly choke. Well, that came out of the blue.
“What? What does that have to do with anything?” Dammit.
“It has everything to do with it. I will take a wag at it and say that Cassidy is the last woman you were with. Am I right?” He braces his hands on the desk and glares at me. I glare right back without answering his question.
“I’m right? Brillant. And am I not correct that you gave up your apartment at the Surrey-Mark?”
Bloody hell, has he got a detective on me? I went back to Campus about two weeks AC- After Cassidy. I wasn’t in there for ten minutes before I almost ran out screaming. The feel of it- the desperation bleeding off of the women straining for my attention; overdressed and elegant, with perfect hair and painted lips, was a soul sucker. All it did was make me yearn for my perfect, genius girl. I gave up the apartment that week, selling it to some bitcoin billionaire.
“Ayden, you are my brother, and I love you. But you are a bloody idiot. CALL HER. What do you think she is going to do, hang up? Or that she has forgotten who you are? ‘Ayden, who?’. I saw you two, Ayden. You were magical together. I know that you had some sort of stupid pact not to contact each other, but let that go. Call her.” His knuckles rap against the wood in emphasis.
“She hasn’t called me either, Bash. If she wanted to talk to me, she could have reached out. But she hasn’t. Why should I put myself on the line?” I probably sound like a prat, but am I wrong? She didn’t even give me a backward glance when she left.
“Why? Are you crazy? Can you imagine what she is thinking right now? Call. Her. Tell her the truth. Get your bloody head out of your arse. Otherwise, I will.” And there’s the threat. I always knew that Bash would take that route. Cassidy may not take my call, but she would take my brother’s.
“She’s probably not thinking anything. I doubt she reads the rags from here.” At least I pray she doesn’t.
“Maybe so. But you need to handle that situation immediately before it’s too late. And also, I know about the soap bottle. Mrs. Manning told me the whole thing. That alone, is reason enough for you to call her.” He crosses his arms across his chest, and I squirm. Damn these two gossiping fools.
After Cassidy left, I discovered that she had left her shower bottle behind, and uncapped it every morning to sniff it. The scent of the rich lavender and vanilla soap caused me no small grief, but also brought me a sense of peace. I needed the reminder that I was happy for a brief moment. One morning, I reached for it, and it was missing. I jumped out of the shower, barely covering myself in a towel, and raged at my beloved housekeeper. She had unknowingly thrown it away- the mostly empty bottle appearing to be trash. She offered to buy another bottle, but I spat out a vicious curse. It wasn’t the same. She fled to the kitchen in tears, and I barely spoke to her for a week. We only recently started any sort of normalcy.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do that. Otherwise, I am on the first plane to San Fransisco.” I glower at him when Phyl’s harassed voice comes over the intercom.
“Sir, your fiancé is on the line. Shall I take a message?”
A deep sigh slips out of my mouth. “Yes, please. And whatever she is asking you to do, you don’t have to do it.” My head hits the back of my chair, and I grimace. I peek at Bash, who has the look of the devil on his face. “Handle it, Ayden.” He slams his way out of the office, leaving his anger like a black cloud in his wake.
Ayden
Put away your hatchets, no I’m not engaged.
This is why I said my life was a mess. Let’s start at the beginning.
When my mum was young (yes we are going back that far), like any young lady of her station, she was sent away to finishing school in Switzerland. She and her roommate, Thea, hit it off- both from landed gentry with Thea’s family of a much older lineage than my mother’s. They stayed friends throughout school and uni, my mum and dad having me a few years before Thea gave birth to her first child, Saskia. The young parents thought it would be a swimming idea if their children, fell in love and got married. Imagine that.
Saskia and I grew up together, never really in the same schools or group of friends, but spending holidays and getaways around each other. Thea, in particular, was keen on her daughter marrying into the St. Devane family and did everything in her power to push us together. It was always an assumption that we would one day do the ‘walk’ despite my constant reminders that I had no interest whatsoever in a family. Saskia herself played into any rumor or innuendo, often chasing off any female I was interested in with her cold insistence on dominating my time. For a brief moment, I thought about marrying her, just to shut our respective parents up. But then I overheard her viciously berating a servant at her parents’ house over some small mistake, which sealed my decision— I have no interest in marrying a harpy. So despite my mum’s not so subtle pushes and pleas, I left Saskia behind. Not that it stopped her. Quite the opposite.
As I began my, erm, tour of Europe, and my flings become more public, Saskia decided that she would adopt the role of ‘understanding fiancee.’ Why shouldn’t I sow my oats, she would whisper. It’s not as if we were married yet. I was entirely free to see whomever I wanted, granted that it never becam
e serious. Indeed, behind the scenes, in a few echelons of society, she was held up as the perfect example of old fashioned good breeding; a woman who turned the other cheek as her wayward fellow galivanted from bed to bed. Though most of the women I slept with knew that I had no intention of starting a relationship with them, it was mostly thought that was because I had Saskia waiting on me at home. I never bothered to correct the rumors, mostly because I hate that gossip tripe, but I also figured that time was on my side- surely, people would give up the stories as more years went by and no marriage or heirs were produced.
But year after year, the assumption persisted, despite the growing numbers of my bedmates and my steadfast bachelorhood. Finally, the Christmas before I met Cassidy, Saskia cornered me and dramatically declared how much she loved me and was giving me one last chance before she had to move on. She then announced that she would be touring Asia with a group of friends and expected a ring when she returned. I said nothing, just peered at her over my wine glass, while Bash, who had witnessed the entire thing, clapped sardonically. She scowled at him, her white-blonde chignon quivering with rage.
True to her word, she went on an extended holiday with friends, halfway expecting me to follow her and state my undying devotion. Instead, I ate up women with gusto, thanking the gossip gods silently, as they relished in reporting my voracious appetite. Privately, my stepfather told me that Saskia’s family was heartbroken and was encouraging her to move to Bali or some other exotic port to save face. And it might have worked.
Had one little picture not appeared in The Targeted.
Like Bash had suspected, that photo of Cassidy and I laughing outside of the cafe set tongues wagging. And it set Saskia into a rage, packing her bags and landing back in London on a vengeance. She started by calling my cell phone, then calling the office. I didn’t answer at all, having Phyl give excuses and take messages. I was too lost in my head to notice that the rags had started up again with pictures of Saskia touring venues and visiting expensive couture shops. I ignored all of it, though Bash tried to warn me several times that the rumors were getting out of control. I was leaving a business meeting one day when Saskia happened to be at the same restaurant. She coaxed me into having a coffee with her, and it wound up turning into dinner. I can barely remember anything we talked about, only paying attention when there was some commotion at the front door. Our waiter assured us it was an unfortunate person aka a paparazzi. The next day the papers were thick with our pictures. Even my mum, who had long past given up hope, called and asked me what was going on.
Shortly after that, the insistent phone calls started up again. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Despite my lack of interest in her as a potential wife, Saskia was technically an old friend. She would call up every other day or so, we would chat, and that would be it.
Then the demands started.
She coyly asked Phyl if she could use my name to get her and her friends into a restaurant booked for a year. I consented, thinking it wasn’t much of a bother. Then it was the use of a small house I have in Monaco. Again, not a problem- people are always visiting my homes. Then it snowballed- use of my jet, tickets to the opera, help finding a reliable driver, which turned into Clayon running around London doing her errands and squiring her friends everywhere. I don’t know how things got so out of control, but all of Europe believes that we are getting married. Hell, I had to double-check myself; the rumors are so thick.
Nick called me twice, the stories having reached him in the States. I assured him that none of it was real, and he warned me about these types of rumors. Something similar had happened to him, and it broke his relationship with MacKenna into pieces. His ex-fianceé had started all kinds of trouble, and Nick almost lost his family forever. He didn’t mention her by name, but I knew he was talking about Cassidy. “It doesn’t take much for this type of shit to snowball, Ayden. And trust me, it’s hard to get rid of.”
I’m almost afraid to call her back, and poor Phyl often gets bullied into doing her bidding. Bash is right. I’ve got to gain control of my life. And that means settling this business with Cassidy once and for all. I need to be able to move on with my life, and the only way I can do that is with proper closure.
Probably.
“Okay, Dr. Masters, let’s see what we can see.” I crack my knuckles and type her full name into the search bar. Dozens of hits come up, and I filter them by most recent. There are a ton of articles on the success of her program at Berkeley, and I hurriedly click through them. None have accompanying pictures. A few are about the other Dr. Masters, and I close those immediately. By the second page, I realize there are no other recent articles, and go back to the first. I re-read the item and click the link to the Berkeley website. The whole page is dedicated to her Birds Nest program, and on the About section, I find a small picture of her: glasses and ever-present braid. The image isn’t great, but just the sight of her starts to churn my insides. There isn’t much information there, only her education credentials, so I go back to the first page. I’m just about to close it when I see a small box in the lower corner marked “Alumni and Donors.” I click the link, and a disclaimer appears:
“To view The Birds Nest Classes, please enter your Berkeley Donor Recognition password. For help with your password, please contact the Donation and Gift Director.”
“Phyl! I’ve got a phone call I need you to make!”
* * *
“Do I even want to know how much this is costing me?” I make a series of signatures, and Phyl slides the last paper in front of me.
“No, you do not. I swear once the American heard who was calling, the price went up. And then up again, when I asked for discretion. And once more, when I asked for expediency.” She gathers the last papers and then pops them into the fax machine in a hidden closet. “It’s about nine am in California. I have the Director’s promise that he will push through your donation as soon as he reaches the office. Your password access should follow a few hours later. We should have full ability by the morning.” The machine beeps with its completion. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” She has been working on this non-stop for the last twenty-four hours.
“No, Phyl. You’ve been brilliant. Take the rest of the day off, hmm? Have dinner on me.” Phyl has an expense account that she rarely uses. She smiles at me brightly and grabs her purse. “Mr. St Devane?” I look up.
“I’m glad you are going after her. Dr. Masters, I mean. I liked her.” She shrugs and grabs her purse on the way out.
“Me too.” Bash is standing in the doorway. “Though this is not exactly what I meant, I’m happy you’re doing something. Now you just need to give that old cow the boot, and it’ll be brilliant.” Bash’s dislike of Saskia is centuries old.
“I’m just checking on her Sebastian. I’m not ready to call her yet or anything.” I grouse at him but smile slightly. My computer dings with an incoming email, and my heart stutters when I see it’s from Berkeley.
“Judging by the look on your face, I’m assuming it’s what you’ve been waiting for. Good luck, old man.” He salutes me and strolls out of my office.
I hurry to open the attachment and see a fawning thank-you letter and a complicated password that I can reset upon login. I toy with the idea of logging on now but decide that I need more privacy. I call down to Clayton, who managed to dodge Saskia and her crew for the day, and tell him I want to be home immediately. He is waiting out front, and we zip to my flat. Mrs. Manning is nowhere to be found, and I quickly strip off my suit and change into some loungewear. I grab my laptop and settle onto the couch, a bottle of fifty-year whiskey, and a rock glass at hand.
“Okay, here I go.” I quickly type in the website and navigate to the Bird’s Nest link. I type in the ridiculous password and change it immediately to an easier one. The page has a spinning bird, and then a series of videos appear. They are labeled in chronological order, starting five years ago. I click on the first one from last semester, and the screen fills
with a full classroom. There is an empty desk and podium up front, and out of nowhere, Cassidy appears. She has on a long jumper with baggy jeans and her ever-present boots. Her hair is up in a bun, and her glasses are perched on her nose. She places that old handbag on the desk and smiles big. “Hey guys, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.” I pause the video and zoom in on her beautiful face. The freeze is perfect, and I trace her dimples on the screen.