by Laura Carter
He rests back against the leather of the sofa. “Two things.” He holds up one finger like a completely patronising arse as he speaks. “One, you don’t drive often.” He lifts another finger and I’d like to mirror that action, flashing my knuckles in his direction. “Two, you don’t have the first idea about driving one of my cars. Jackson will take you.”
Whilst I take his point on the supercar front—the paddle gears, no clutch, the car screaming out to go faster—I don’t appreciate his tone.
“Why would you put me on the insurance if I’m never going to be allowed to drive the cars?”
“In case.”
“In case of what? A rally opportunity on South Bank?”
“See. This is what I’m talking about.” He raises his hands and faces Jackson. “Baby, you drive rally cars in a rally.”
“Quit being a dick and just give me some keys.”
His eyes are bright when he looks back to me. He moves to the small safe in the corner of the lounge and types in his code then throws me a key.
“You can take the Range Rover. It’s a normal drive and it’s safe. Don’t play games. Don’t take risks. Don’t drive over the speed limit and—”
“Bugger off, Gregory.”
* * *
Sandy and I run from the Range Rover, coats over our heads to shield us from the torrential rain, not stopping until we reach the porch. I have to fiddle with the lock, yanking the door handle towards me as I turn the key. A sign of how infrequently the lock has been turned in the last five months. I push the door past a stack of mail, most of which looks like adverts and trash. I stopped the important mail after my father died. Sandy helps me scoop up the paper and envelopes into a pile on the dark wood side table in the vestibule.
We stand for a while, looking around what used to be a bright, happy home. It has a strange musty smell and even with the lights turned on, it feels dark and grey, like the colour has been drained from the furnishings and the paint on the walls. I run my finger along the side table and look at the thick grey circle that forms on my skin, a symbol of the past.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Sandy says. “I brought a pack-up and luxury biscuits. It’s going to be a long day, sweetheart, best make a start straight away.”
“I didn’t even think of that, thank you. I’ll get the boxes from the car.”
Long day doesn’t cover it. One of the hardest days of my life might come close. We started downstairs, the lounge, the kitchen, the dining room. The removal men will be packing up and disposing of everything we haven’t agreed to keep or leave to the buyers and there weren’t many personal items downstairs. I decided not to look at photographs, wrapping them in old newspaper and packing them into a box before memories could form in my head. Sandy started with the opposite approach, wanting to remember and talk but her smiles were cast in the shadow of tears and it took all my emotional strength to comfort her and drag us both through the god-awful morning.
Now we’re upstairs and I’m in the doorway of my father’s bedroom, staring at the empty space left by the removal of the special equipment he was given on loan from the National Health Service. The bed, the chair and commode, the drugs cabinet. All gone. In their wake, there’s the pungent smell of stale urine, a worn carpet and an overwhelming sense of death. I make my way into the room for one thing, the picture of my dad, Sandy and me at Brighton Pier in ‘94. We’re all smiling, holding candy-floss. My dad drapes his arms around our shoulders. The sun is beaming down on us. He’s young, well, happy. It was his favourite photograph of the three of us and he asked for it to be put by his bedside on one of his good days. My throat constricts as I trace his smile with my fingertips. I close my eyes, willing myself to get past this moment for me, for Sandy, and I press the glass frame to my lips.
“I love you, Dad,” I whisper against him.
The loft is the worst room. It was always going to be. But the reality is worse than the thought of it. My father kept so many things from my childhood that I’d forgotten even exist. Dolls, bears, drawings, pictures with glitter and wool that Sandy helped me make. School reports, trophies from athletics and dancing, swimming badges. I can’t bring myself to throw away these things because I see in each of them the tremendous sense of love my father had for me. I’m eternally grateful to have had a father who loved me and protected me.
Sandy talks about the stories behind the things we pack into the boxes and I smile outwardly, sometimes even respond appropriately to her comments, but I don’t give myself over to the memories. I hide behind an invisible wall of safety because I’m afraid that when the tears come, they won’t stop.
* * *
Sandy holds in her lap a small bag of belongings that she asked to keep as I drive her back to Lara’s house. I hardly speak as we make our way, nodding and shaking my head as she talks. This is Sandy’s way of coping, talking through it, but I can’t help her. I can’t get words past the pain in my chest, the ache in my stomach, the stinging sensation behind my eyes.
I love Sandy, possibly more than she’ll ever know, but I’m relieved when I turn onto Lara’s driveway and we approach the house because once I’m alone, I can let go of the desolation that’s screaming to burst out of me. I can break.
“Scarlett, hunny, come inside,” Lara calls from the doorway.
Lara, the wedding. I forgot. I close my eyes, reboot and climb out of the car.
Miranda, another of Lara’s staff, brings tea and bite-size cakes which I take, both to calm my rumbling stomach and to comfort me through a conversation I have to endure when all I really want is Gregory.
Lara settles onto one end of a sofa and I sit next to her in a high-backed grandad chair.
“I wanted to show you this,” she says, opening a large leather-back album full of page after page of wedding snippings, drafting notes and sketches. “I’ve agreed the date with Gregory. Saturday the sixteenth of March.”
I know from the excitement in her eyes that she doesn’t mean next year. “Lara, that’s only a few weeks away.”
“I know but that’s more than enough time. I’ve planned a lot of events, Scarlett. I will make this the best day of your life.”
It will be but it will be because I’m marrying the man I am one hundred percent besotted with, not because Lara is planning what looks like the wedding of the century. She turns the pages through an extravagant champagne reception in her house, a huge marquee on her lawn. Bridesmaid dresses, sketches for bridal gowns. Do I get a say in anything? She talks through the layers of a five tier cake and the stature of the three hundred and fifty guests, as I work my way through the plate of cakes, washing down the sugar and fat with tea, trying to hold the dams in my eyes just a little longer.
I don’t want this. I don’t want a big wedding with hundreds of people I don’t know. People who don’t care about us.
I’ve just cleared out my father’s house, the person who should be giving away his only daughter to the man she loves. My father should be giving me away knowing that Gregory will take over protecting me, that he’ll consume my thoughts, love me back in every way he can. My father is dead. He won’t get to tell me I look beautiful in my ivory dress, whether it’s true or not. He won’t be able to walk me down the aisle. He died alone, without me, not knowing how much I truly love him. He was murdered because of me.
I need Gregory. I need him to hold me, to tell me everything’s going to be okay. To tell me he’ll fix this. I need him to reset me and help me find my equilibrium.
I drive through the darkness too fast, craving his touch and his soothing whispers in my ear. I need to forget and he’ll know that.
I’m breathless, panicked and lost by the time I get back to the apartment. I open the door and call his name. He isn’t here. He isn’t here and I need him.
I close the door and push my back against it before my
body slides to the ground and my dams break. I clutch my knees to my chest and sob, audible, heart-wrenching tears that I might never be able to stop.
“Baby, Christ, I’m here. I’m here.”
He hooks an arm under my legs and I throw my arms around his neck, fisting the back of his black T-shirt, clinging desperately to the only thing in the world that can earth me. He carries me to the sofa and sits with me in his lap. He lets me cry, stroking my hair, kissing my temple, accepting me falling apart.
“I can’t do a big wedding, Gregory. I don’t want it. My father won’t be there.”
“Shhh, I’m here now. You’re fine, baby. I’m here.”
When my tears subside and my chest no longer chugs with every breath, I look at his stunning face, not self-conscious about the fact I must look a mess. He strokes my hair with both hands and two big, wide, sympathetic browns read me.
“Gregory.”
He kisses me without me having to tell him what I need, that I just want to get lost in him, have him take me out of my head.
His mouth is gentle at first, then he kisses me urgently, with a fierceness he knows I need, a kiss that has us both breathless. He stands and places me down to sit on the edge of the sofa. He kneels between my legs and when I raise up my arms, he pulls my jumper over my head.
His lips are back on mine, fast and furious, sucking, biting as he unhooks my bra. Our contact is lost momentarily whilst he pulls my bra down my arms.
He pushes my chest so I fall back against the sofa. Then he tugs my legs at the knees, sliding my hips forward. His eyes are heavy, showing his own desire as he unfastens my jeans and pulls them down in one move, casting the denim and my French lace knickers to the floor.
He eyes me now, asking permission.
“Yes. Please.”
He peels his black T-shirt over his head then pushes my legs apart, bending forward to kiss me chastely before moving his head between my legs.
“Gregory. Yes. Oh god, yes.”
He holds his hands against the inside of my thighs, applying pressure as he dips his tongue lavishly in and out of me, then across my swollen bud.
“Is this what you need, baby?” His breath is hot on my sensitive skin.
I can hardly speak. “Yes.”
“Say it. Tell me what you need.”
“You. I need you.”
He sucks hard on my clit, his groan vibrating against me.
“Please.” I don’t even know why the word leaves my mouth but it does.
He pushes his fingers into me and I roll my head against the back of the sofa as my body lifts to a crescendo. His fingers move in circles, my body tensing each time he strokes my wall. My head clouds from my erratic breaths until I think I might pass out. His spare hand moves to my breast, squeezing hard as he sucks my clit again and I come undone.
He stands and pulls off his jeans but when he crawls between my legs, I put my hands in his hair and lift him towards me.
“Let me taste you.” I stare at his angry cock and lick my lips at the thought of him in my mouth.
He yanks my hips further down the sofa then kneels across me, his shins either side of my hips, his erection level with my mouth. Keeping my eyes on him, I take him in my hands first, working his sack and the base of his shaft.
He pants, his hips rolling forward. “Let me feel your mouth around me, baby.”
I move my tongue up his length and around the tip. When a low growl leaves his chest, I wrap my mouth around him, sliding down him to meet my hand then drawing back to the tip. I work him until he loses control. His hands drop to the back of the sofa and he moves back and forth, fucking my mouth as I stay still, accepting him, ready for his release. He’s close, I can feel him thicken in my mouth and taste his juice. Then he pulls out.
He takes us to the floor, turning me forward on my knees as he does, my hands braced on the sofa. He pushes my thighs further apart and drives into my drenched sex.
“Fuck! That’s the best feeling.”
He fucks me—rough, hard, thoroughly.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Where’s Gregory?” Williams asks as we ride the lift to the twenty-eighth floor and my new office.
“Truth or the business lie?”
“Erm, truth?” he says, playfully uncertain.
“Beautifying and pruning this morning.”
Williams chuckles and rolls his eyes but something tells me he has similar appointments and it’s not only his perfectly manicured nails.
“Then he has a brunch and I think he’s working from home after that.”
“Can’t blame him, it’s rough being massaged and cleansed.”
The lift pings at 28 and Williams leads me to my office, as instructed by Gregory, despite the fact I already know where it is.
“You really don’t have to babysit me, Williams.”
“Oh, I do. Trust me, it’s not worth my life.”
We’re both laughing when Williams opens the door to my new office.
“Scarlett!” Sue jumps from behind the desk. “I was just getting things ready for you.”
Someone has had far too much caffeine.
“Thank you, Sue, the place looks great.” I look around the large, bright space. She’s hung my certificates on the walls—undergraduate degree, legal practice course, masters. She’s set my Mont Blanc pen neatly to one side of my keyboard.
A large arrangement of two dozen roses decorates the table in the corner of the room. I smile before I open the card.
Welcome to Team Gregory.
Have a great first day, baby.
xxx
“Scarlett, Sue is your PA now,” Williams says, reclaiming my attention.
“It’s a trial,” Sue jumps in, suddenly making apparent why she’s so jittery. “If I do anything you don’t like, if you want me to do anything differently, just say so.”
“We’ve left her role fairly fluid,” Williams explains. “We thought it would be best if you tell Sue what support you need and what you expect from her.”
“Okay, that sounds sensible. Perhaps we could go for lunch today, Sue, my treat. I’ll have had a look around the systems by then and we can discuss how we’ll work together. Sound good?”
“Perfect. Excellent. Yes. Wonderful.” She turns to leave the office, her floral skirt swishing as she moves.
“Step number one is to convince her to drink less coffee,” I say to Williams once Sue is firmly out of earshot. “Before you go, I’m going to throw Amanda a baby shower. Not yet, of course, but I want to get a date in diaries. Could you send me a list of any people from your side who I should invite? I’m thinking afternoon tea at the Savoy.”
“You know her well. Expensive indulgence and an afternoon that revolves around Amanda. She’ll love it.” There’s no malice in his words, just good humour. “I’ll think about it and drop you an email.”
“Thanks, Williams, and thanks for this morning.”
* * *
My mind wanders far too often to Gregory, as if being in his glass tower somehow makes him ever present. The jury is definitely out on whether this move is a good idea. What’s harder is knowing that he’s willing to have me in his office.
Concentrate.
I focus on the latest draft of the joint venture agreement with Shangzen Tek, which Shangzen’s lawyer emailed during the night. Between that, first day IT hiccups, a stream of questions from Amanda in relation to Mr. Ghurair, and a two hour lunch with Sue, I already have a backlog of emails.
I’m sifting through confirmations from external counsel about the progress made in the challenges against Nick Henshaw when there’s a tap on my office door.
“Come in.”
Sue appear
s wearing a pink wool coat that reaches her knees, Wellington boots—which I hope are a product of her having read the forecast and known it was going to be heavy rain out, rather than a fashion statement—and a cream wool hat with a big pink and purple flower on front. She looks like a giant child but there’s something pure and delicate about her. I know the type very well, although I never used to dress like that.
“I’m heading off now. Well, unless you need anything. Then I’m happy to stay.”
I turn to the two walls of windows forming an L-shape around me and realise the winter darkness is already set in and rain drops decorate the glass panes. In the reflection, I see Stuart, now standing in the doorway behind Sue.
“No, I’m good, you head off.”
“Thank you. Oh, and Mr. Culliton has come to see you. Is it okay?” I have to suppress my laugh as Stuart points to himself then the office floor as if to say, I’m already here.
“Yes, fine, thank you, Sue. Have a lovely evening and I’ll see you tomorrow. Come in, Stuart. Take a seat.”
He sits into one of two leather and chrome chairs opposite my desk with his coat and tie in his hand. The top button of his blue-and-white-striped shirt is undone and his hair is ruffled like it’s been a long day.
“I just wanted to return the favour,” he says. “You came to see how I was settling in and it was nice of you.” He shrugs. “You were one of the few people who made me feel welcome, so I wanted to make sure I did the same for you.” He smiles but his eyes remain a mystery.
“Thank you. That’s sweet of you. It’s been a long day and I dare say I’ll be here for a while yet but I’m getting there. I think I’ve cracked the systems now.”
He nods and turns his head around the room, his eyes fixing momentarily on the bunch of roses then turning back to me. “Are they from Gregory?”
“Ah, yes, they are.”
“Do you think he’s a good man?” he asks bizarrely. I feel my brows furrow and there’s a wash of realisation on his face.