Scarred by You

by Laura Carter

  “Heard what? Please tell me about how happy Clark Layton is. I care so much. Really.”

  “Is there any need for the attitude?”

  “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Tell me how your speech went.”

  “If you would stop being so damned sarcastic, I’d tell you I never got to make a speech.”

  “Huh?”

  “Clark called it off. Ditched Constance at the altar. Well, not quite the altar, but a couple of hours before.”

  “What? So… Clark isn’t married?”

  Arthur raises an eyebrow, matching my own. Teddy is still talking as I hand the phone back to Arthur. I close the lid on my laptop and spend the remaining hour of the journey back to London in silence.

  It’s seven forty-five by the time we stop outside the modern glass office block on the south side of the River Thames that houses SP, amongst other businesses. I wish Arthur goodnight then pat the roof of the Mercedes, telling Duncan, my regular driver, to move. I glance at Tower Bridge, glowing against the darkness of the late-autumn night, before heading into the building.

  The night concierge looks up from the reception desk. “Good evening, Miss Cross.”

  I smile in acknowledgement then slip into a lift and ride to the top floor. At one time, SP had three floors in the building, but after 2011 I had to make cuts. It was a brutal start to taking over my father’s business, but it had to be done. Now I’m in talks with the building manager about leasing a second floor, but it’s taken almost four years to get here.

  All but two desks in the open-plan space are empty as I make my way to my office at the end of the floor. Closing the door behind me, I hang my trench coat on a stand and dump my bag on the sofa. I’m pleased there’s hardly anyone here. I need to get my head straight without anyone vying for my attention. I pour myself a glass of sparkling water and take it to the wall of windows where I can look across the Thames to the Tower of London.

  Clark Layton didn’t get married.

  I hate that he’s thrown me, messed with my head. It’s irrational. I can’t stand the arsehole. So why did my stomach leap when Teddy told me the gossip?

  Constance was too good for him, anyway. She’s high-maintenance, from what I hear, but the few times I’ve come across her, she seemed nice. Clark, on the other hand, is anything but nice. He’s a player. He uses women and ditches them at the first sign of an emotional connection. Frankly, I’m surprised they lasted a year and a half.

  I stare at the water in my glass. H2O is just not going to cut it, but I do generally have a rule about not drinking before Thursday in the week, unless it’s for business networking. I turn on my laptop and check my calendar for the coming days — mostly meetings, but an appointment at Amanda Wakeley on Wednesday night. I’m picking up a new evening gown for an industry dinner in London on Thursday. I attend every year, fake-smiling through boredom for the most part, but this year I’ve stupidly agreed to make a speech. A speech to hundreds of men who all think their dick is the biggest dick in the world? Sure, no problem.

  I’m not even fooling myself.

  When I shut down at nine thirty, I change into running gear, plug Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven” into my ears and head home to Shad Thames, not allowing myself to think of work or Clark Layton. This is my time of day.

  WHEN I GOT home to my Kensington apartment last night Connie’s stuff was gone. It was the soft furnishings I noticed first. The leather sofas looked bare. The dining table was stripped back to rustic wood, the runner and candelabra gone. Suddenly the Chinese takeaway I’d picked up after my gym session didn’t appeal. I took out my good friend, Jack Daniels, and a shot glass and spent hours numbing my mind, staring out across Hyde Park and the black sky.

  This morning I got dressed for work, made my own coffee in the filter machine and ate breakfast alone. I’m not incapable of being alone, but this morning, for some reason, it really hit home. Connie is gone. Maybe it’s the fact I tossed and turned all night rather than sleeping that’s making me feel it so hard today. It’s not like I’m pining after Connie. I did the right thing. Breaking off the wedding was fair to both of us. But finding myself alone in my apartment again, it felt like it used to. It felt like a bachelor pad. I was right back there, single and drinking through my problems. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I’m not that guy anymore. The irony is, my reward for changing, trying to be a better man, is not sleeping and hanging the way good old Jack makes me hang. Fucking miserable. A fucking mess.

  I’ve screwed up again. The one thing everyone expects from me. The one thing I do well. I’ve given everything up for…. nothing certain. A memory of something I once held and let slip away.

  If leaving was the right thing to do, why do I feel so shit about it?

  “Clark, I have Jay Hamilton on the line for you.”

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting, Marcus.”

  “Yes, sir. And your ten a.m. meeting is convened.”

  I check my watch: 10:02. I give it another minute then switch on the camera that’s perched on top of my computer and dial in to the con-call. My COO, is seated at the head of a table, flanked by other senior members of my team in Dubai. “Gents.”

  “Clark, we’re all here.”

  “Let’s get straight to it,” I say.

  “Right, I had dinner with Hassan Deeb last night. He’s a contact of mine—”

  “—on the Gulf Cooperation Council,” I state in a way that’s intended to tell my COO and the others that I’m in command and I know what he’s talking about.

  “Yes, Clark, that’s the man. He’s also a member of the government of Bahrain.”

  I relax back into my chair, my interest piqued. “He gave you some inside information?”

  “Certainly did. It’s all on the QT at this stage, but he said there’s a well in the Persian Gulf that’s coming onto the market. It’s already been dug and set up for conventional extraction. Even at current barrel prices the well could still make money, but the profit margin will be lower than the government’s other options, so it’s decided to sell.”

  “What kind of life-span are we talking?”

  “He hinted at ten years’ extraction time making a profit.”

  “When should we expect it to go on the market?”

  “Hassan said the government was geared up to send out a tender inviting bids this Thursday.”

  “Two days. Can anyone bid?”

  My COO shakes his head. “No. The government has looked at the market and narrowed it down to five companies it wants to bid. I don’t know who the five companies are, but I do know Layton Oil is one of them.”

  I don’t let my internal smile show. This could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The chance to do something that would show my father I am worthy of heading up his company.

  “Send me the details you’ve got. I might be interested.”

  Almost as soon as I disconnect from the meeting, Marcus treads cautiously through the frosted glass door into my office. He’s holding a mug of coffee which I haven’t asked for. Usually, the only coffee I get that I don’t ask for is the first one of the day — always a double-shot cappuccino — when Marcus starts at eight thirty.

  “This means you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear,” I say, accepting the drink.

  He places a tabloid on the desk and adjusts the Bluetooth headset that’s permanently tucked behind his ear, holding back his tousled blond hair. “Or show you something.”

  He looks as if he doesn’t know whether to stay or go. His feet shuffle in one direction then the other, wafting his over-indulgence in aftershave under my nose. With a “humph” and a nod, he leaves me to scan the newspaper at the page he’s folded over.

  Socialite Constance Hamilton dumped hours before her wedding to Clark Layton, Chief Exec. of Layton Oil and notorious bachelor.

  I stare at the image of Connie being ushered into the back of a Bentley, the driver holding an umbrella over her head to shield her f
rom the paparazzi. My already pounding head throbs even harder. I’ve humiliated her and she doesn’t deserve it. But God knows it was the right thing to do.

  And they’ve got it wrong, the press. Just like everyone else will, they’ve assumed my motivation was fucking other women. It wasn’t. True, I used to screw other women. That’s how I got my kicks: taking control in the sack. The place I knew I was good at something, and where I knew those women would appreciate what I gave them — a damn good time.

  But it stopped with Connie. I’ve never done the dirty on anyone, at least not knowingly, and I never will. I’ve got too much respect for myself, and I certainly had too much respect for Connie.

  No. It wasn’t about other women at all. It was about one, devastating woman.

  A reminder pops up on my screen for my ten-thirty. Good. A distraction. I dial in and receive an update from my site managers on notable sales and any issues. When I bring the call to a close shortly before twelve, I feel relatively happy with the reports; only a handful of matters require action.

  The feeling is fleeting. As soon as I hear a commotion outside my office, I tune in to a familiar voice in the corridor. Fucking marvellous.

  “I’m sorry, Clark; I couldn’t stop her. She just—”

  My mother pushes Marcus’s shoulder unnecessarily as she passes him. “She has a name.”

  I move around my desk and perch on the front, my ankles crossed, my fingers gripping the edge of the glass top. I knew this was coming. I’m only surprised it’s taken three days.

  “It’s fine, Marcus. I know how she can be.” Marcus closes the door behind him. “Mother,” I say — the most polite greeting I can muster.

  “Don’t you ‘Mother’ me. No son of mine would embarrass his family name like you did this weekend.”

  The family name. Her number one concern above everything and everyone in her life.

  “If you’ve come with a barrage of abuse, I’m going to let you rant and get it out of your system.”

  There’s a flicker of doubt in her grey-blue eyes, which are an exact mirror of my own. She smooths her immaculate hair back into her French roll as if it had moved out of place, then adjusts her silk neck scarf.

  “I’ve made a reservation for lunch. Get your things.”

  To anyone else her manner might seem cold, patronising maybe, but to me, my mother just made a rare concession.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say with little enthusiasm.

  I have Marcus rearrange my one-thirty call, knowing this lunch could drag on — my mother isn’t the type to let things drop — and pull on my navy blazer.

  The Jaguar is already waiting by the kerb outside my office block. I incline my head towards my mother’s driver, and he returns the gesture. He’s been with the Laytons long enough to see me go from nappies to CEO. He throws me a glance that says “good luck”, and I slip into the back of the car with my mother.

  She stares out of the window, her elbow resting on the ledge, her delicate manicured fingers propping up her chin. It’s not me who wants this conversation, so I won’t start it. Instead, I watch people going about their business — suits taking lunch, shoppers walking towards Oxford Street —as we head west. I needn’t enquire as to where we’re headed. There’s only one place my mother takes me for conversations of magnitude.

  We pull up outside the Dorrington, one of London’s finest establishments, reserved for the wealthy and ladies who lunch. My mother is both.

  “Mrs Layton, a pleasure to see you again so soon.” A concierge I recognise helps my mother out of her coat. “And you, Mr Layton. Welcome.”

  My mother explains to the concierge that we have a reservation in a secluded area of the palatial dining room. She stresses “secluded” in a way that says I won’t be seen with my own son in public. Her concern is made more obvious when she flinches at the sight of Caroline Delaney, another lady who lunches. Like so many of my mother’s ‘friends’, Caroline is unbearably pretentious and unashamedly nosey.

  “Oh dear, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry for your trouble,” Caroline says as she totters towards my mother indiscreetly, arms outstretched. “You must be utterly traumatised.”

  Caroline shoots me a glare across my mother’s shoulder. “Clark.”

  “Caroline.”

  “It’s a terrible time, really, but we’ll try to get through it as best we can.” My mother speaks as if I’m not in the room, or even as if I’m dead, which she might prefer right now.

  I drag my fingers down the sides of my stubbled cheeks and contemplate leaving.

  “You know where I am, Elizabeth. Although I should perhaps meet with Penelope before we take lunch. You know, I wouldn’t want her to think I don’t sympathise with her Constance.”

  My stomach churns with guilt at just the sound of Connie’s name, but I’m also thinking, Caroline Delaney, you are an incredible dick.

  When we’re seated, my mother and I both order salad. My mother because she’s so concerned with maintaining a certain level of slim that tells people she can afford to eat well — high fat foods are cheap, apparently. I order salad because it will get this whole ordeal over with sooner than if I order a steak.

  My mother takes a sip of Sancerre. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how disappointed we are with you, Clark. Your father is beside himself. It’s a wonder you haven’t caused him another heart attack.”

  I open my mouth to speak but my mother continues over me.

  “We finally thought you were going to turn into a fine young man with a wonderful wife — upstanding, beautiful, fitting of the Layton name and appropriate for a man in your position.”

  “Mother—”

  “No, Clark Layton, you will listen to what I have to say. You’ve chosen to live a certain way for too long. Your father and I saw this as a perfect match. The Hamiltons are a highly respectable family. You know Frederick Hamilton is fifty-sixth—”

  “—in line to the throne. Yes, Mother, you’ve told me often enough.”

  Two waiters place down our salads in perfect unison.

  My mother tuts and shakes her head, and I somehow feel two instead of thirty-two years old. “I just can’t believe that you would throw everything away, disgrace us like this, all so you can go back to your old rogue ways. And let me tell you something for nothing, your father will not let that happen.”

  I’ve only taken one forkful of salad, but I pull my napkin from my lap and throw it onto the table.

  “Mother, you and he are the reason for all of this. I should never have let you push me into the engagement, and I shouldn’t have let things go on for as long as they did. They were my mistakes, but I’m fed up of being your prodigy. I’m a man in my own right, and I won’t live a life dictated by you and him anymore. I won’t.” Especially not now that I know how he’s treated you all these years.

  “Young man, don’t you dare take that tone with me,” she says in a whispered snarl, leaning close. “You’re lucky it’s me here today and not your father, because the way he feels about you right now…”

  “Is probably the same way he’s felt about me for thirty-two years.”

  “Good gracious, Clark, what has got into you? You act like you don’t even care what you’ve done. Constance is absolutely distraught, the poor sweet thing.”

  I lean back against the upholstered seat. “You’ve seen Connie?”

  “I had lunch yesterday with her and Penelope, yes.”

  “You saw Connie before me? Your own son?”

  “You should be thanking me. At least I’m trying to contain the damage you’ve created. You must know what this looks like, Clark. You’ve broken the heart of a beautiful young lady so you can” —she flips a hand through the air— “go to bars, drink too much, end up in magazines with other uncouth women.”

  I reach for the glass of wine in front of me, but my mother puts her hand across the rim. “No you don’t. That’s what this is about isn’t it? Going back to your old ways.”
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br />   I shake my head. “You think so much of me.”

  “Constance thinks there’s someone else, Clark. Tell me that isn’t true.”

  I stare into her eyes, so like my own. “There always was someone else. But if you’re asking me whether I cheated on Connie, then no, I didn’t. I’ve known Connie since I was a kid, and I love her. I hate that I’ve hurt her. I hate myself for it so much I can’t sleep and I can’t think straight.”

  Her features seem to soften and she places her hand over mine on the table top. It’s a rare display of affection, and one that doesn’t feel as sincere as it probably should, but at the moment, I’ll take it.

  “I just don’t understand it, Clark.”

  “I’m not in love with her, Mother. Is that what you want for me? To be with a woman just because you and my father think I should be?”

  She takes her hand back, and her eyes glaze. “It’s not always about that, son. You could’ve had a perfectly good life with Constance.”

  My chest aches for my mother. Has she known all these years what my father was up to? I reach for her hand and raise it to my lips. “I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t live that way. And I don’t want that for Connie.” I refrain from adding, because I know how good the real thing could feel.

  I’ve never been a man of regrets. I don’t think I’ve ever taken life seriously enough or thought about what I really want, but now, it’s so damned obvious. I don’t regret leaving Connie. My one and only regret was listening to my own doubts, bowing to my father once again, and walking away from Dayna.

  “RUMOUR HAS IT you could do with blowing off some steam.”

  I fasten the Velcro on my boxing gloves and step through the rope into the ring where Sam, my trainer, is waiting. The boxing ring sits in the middle of the gym, flanked by punch bags, speed bags and machines. This is a man’s gym, no mistaking it. There’s always a heavy, musty smell of sweat lingering in the air. The only women in the gym tend to be attached to one of the men working out, or they’re body-builders. It’s pretty much the best place in the world to get women out of my head.