Scarred by You

by Laura Carter

  “—the Company Secretary, I’ll be able to get hold of the documents. They’ll need to be certified before they’re sent. Did I mention I need a pay rise?”

  “I gave you a pay rise, but I deduct a grand every time you use irony, sarcasm and just general bad attitude.”

  She heads out of my office on a grin and calls over her shoulder, “So I’ll be quids in if I can prove that I’ve changed?”

  I laugh and tell her to close the door behind her. Despite the fact she finds it amusing to wind me up, working with Rachel is one of the best things about SP. She was already earning a reputation as a good PA in the City when I became CEO. I wasn’t sure she would accept my job offer. But I couldn’t be more pleased that she did, most of the time. Surprisingly, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve nearly come to blows since she’s been in the role. Even then, our grumbles don’t tend to last longer than a day. Usually, one or both of us will end up suggesting conciliatory coffee and cake.

  My direct line rings just as I’m finishing a salad that Rachel picked me up for lunch. Well, a sort-of salad; I’m not sure it sits neatly in the classification when it’s loaded with couscous and feta.

  “Dayna Cross.”

  “Dayna, its Mum. I’m calling to remind you it’s Anna’s birthday tomorrow. You will be there, won’t you?”

  “Hi Mum.” I’m fine, thanks for asking. “Have I ever missed Anna’s birthday?”

  “I know, I know. I’m just reminding you because it’s a special one.”

  “She’s nineteen.”

  “Yes, exactly. You do have a gift, don’t you? And you did pick from the list I gave you, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Mum. I’ll be there at three with bells on, and I’ll be bringing sapphire earrings.”

  “You’re a good girl. And if you’re bringing Rachel, she’ll have to get something from the list, too.”

  I flick my eyes to see Rachel through the glass wall of my office. She’s having an animated conversation through her headset. “Yes, she bought the bracelet to match the earrings.”

  “Oh she is a good friend, isn’t she?”

  She sure is.

  “RACH, I’M HOME.” I dump my laptop and handbag on the small dining table and slip off my suit jacket.

  As I’m pouring a glass of water, Rachel comes bounding into the kitchen, already out of her work clothes and in a pair of skinny jeans and killer heels. “Sure you don’t want to come to the cinema?”

  I shake my head while taking a gulp of water. Having been in meetings for the last four hours, I can feel the water seep into my flesh. I lift my mouth from the glass with a gasp. “No, thank you. I’ve actually invited Clark over, since you’re headed out.”

  She pauses in packing things into her burnt-orange handbag. “Wow. I thought you guys didn’t do staying in?”

  I lean back against the kitchen worktop. “I know, I’m just tired today. Honestly, I’m not convinced he’s going to show up.”

  She glances at her watch then perches on a breakfast stool. “Why wouldn’t he show? A night in, alone, with his girlfriend, on a Wednesday?”

  “I’m not… we’re not… I’m not his girlfriend. I mean, it hasn’t even been two weeks.”

  “Right, which for most people might be considered normal, but you two are inseparable. You’ve spent every night together since you met, and you’re cuckoo for each other.”

  I don’t think I react, but Rachel says, “It bothers you.”

  “The girlfriend thing? No.” I shake my head, trying to convince at least one of us that’s true. “It is too soon to label things, I guess.”

  “Buuuuut…”

  “But nothing… I… just… nothing. He might come over. Go, enjoy the movie.”

  She cocks her head to one side with a scowl. “Okay.” She jumps down from the stool. “If you want to talk about it…”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “Save me some pick ‘n’ mix. The strawberries.”

  She blows me a kiss and heads out.

  There isn’t anything to talk about. Clark and I were supposed to be going out to dinner, like we’ve done every night since we met. I was tired, so I asked him if we could stay in, grab a takeaway and watch trash TV. He didn’t say no. In fact, he didn’t say much for a minute or two. He just… went quiet. Then he told me he had stuff to finish at the office. “I was going to call you, actually, because I might have to miss dinner tonight,” he said.

  “Oh, okay. Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “Right.”

  I was ready to leave it there. I’ve heard that same tone before, only I’ve never cared about the man using it as much as I already care about Clark.

  “I’m heading out of the office now. I’ll speak to you later,” I told him, not wanting to seem needy or let on that this felt to me like stage one of a break up.

  “Sure, I… Dayna? Dayna, are you still there?”

  “Yep, I’m here.”

  “Maybe if I get done before nine I could come over.”

  I had to bite my lip to halt a beaming grin. I stepped into the lift. “Ah, fine, sure. Let me know. I’ve got to go; I’m going to lose signal.”

  Now that I’m showered and I’ve cranked up the heating so I can wear a silk two-piece, I feel silly. These things aren’t comfortable to sleep in — the camis end up twisting up under my arms, and the shorts work their way between my arse cheeks, keeping me awake. I’ve worn this on the off-chance my unlabelled boy-friend-man-date turns up. I’m not an idiot; he didn’t have to work late. I’m clinging to that part of him that possibly changed his mind and decided coming over to my apartment wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.

  I pour myself a glass of red wine and curl my legs beneath me on the sofa, flicking through trashier TV than I’m willing to watch, all the while staring at the clock on the wall. Eight thirty-six. I’ll give him until nine. Then I’ll get out of this ridiculous nightwear and order a takeaway for one.

  I start flicking through the movie guide, catch up on text messages to my friends, Amy and Tim, then pour a second glass of wine.

  Eight fifty-eight. I glance over the sofa towards the door. There’s still time.

  Nine.

  I put down my wine and head to change. I switch my silks for lounge pants and a vest, then head to the junk drawer in the kitchen to dig out a Chinese takeaway menu.

  “Got you!”

  As I’m delighting in finding the menu, the intercom buzzes. I stare at the box on the wall like a doctor examining for disease, and eventually hit the buzzer.

  “Hello.”

  “Dayna. It’s me.”

  With my best attempt at casual, I tell him, “Hey, come on up.”

  I stand on the spot, not knowing what to do first — let my hair out of the clip that’s roughly holding it up, switch out of my lounge pants back into my silks or put on eye make-up. In the end, I do none of that because there’s a knock at the door.

  Clark runs his eyes from my head to my toes, then focusses on my lips. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He’s in his suit but his tie is off, his white shirt unbuttoned by two. His square jaw is lined with dirty-blond stubble. I wish I’d worn knickers under my lounge pants, because I’m already wet.

  He lifts up a white plastic bag and flashes me an almost-smile I can’t read. “I’m sorry I’m late. There was a queue in the takeaway.”

  I step back from the door. Clark heads straight to the kitchen and starts taking cartons from the carrier. I don’t know what changed his mind and I don’t care. He’s here.

  “Chinese?” I ask, joining him and stroking a hand down his back almost instinctively.

  “Chinese is the only takeaway option. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got sweet and sour, black bean, Szechuan and cashew sauces.”

  “A little of everything sounds perfect.”

  He lifts his head and throws me a deadly wink. “What a woman.”

  Laughing, I
pour him wine, and we head over to the sofa.

  Clark slips off his shoes and jacket and finally drops his shoulders from his ears.

  “Oh gosh, I feel like I’m about to have triplets,” I tell him after the feast, rubbing my stomach.

  The look he gives me is so odd I don’t think I’ll ever work it out. He takes our plates to the kitchen, returning with the bottle of red and topping up our glasses. He flicks through the movie channels in silence and, after I give him the okay, puts on a boxing movie.

  “Are we going to talk about what’s wrong?” I finally ask.

  “There’s nothing wrong. Come here.”

  He lifts up his arm, and I crawl against his side, resting my head on his shoulder. His chest and shoulders relax, and he presses his lips to my scalp.

  We watch the opening credits of the movie with Clark leaning his cheek on my head and stroking my bare arm. “It’s nice seeing you like this. Relaxed, at home.”

  “In my sloggy clothes?” I joke.

  “Yes.” His reply is perfectly serious. “I’ve never… I don’t stay in with women, Dayna. It’s not… I don’t do the homey-night-on-the-sofa thing.”

  My body tenses against his, and I twist my fingers in my lap. “I figured you weren’t suddenly working late. What changed your mind?”

  He gently lifts me from his shoulder and strokes my temple. “You. You make me want to be a different person. In a good way, I think.”

  I smile. One step at a time. I press my mouth against his with such force there’s no doubt about how I feel. He kisses me back with the same ferocity.

  “Well, that, and I worked out that staying in meant I got this body to myself all night.”

  I laugh against his mouth and shift so I’m straddling his hips. The movie is forgotten.

  “SHE’S GOING TO kill you for driving, you know that, don’t you?” Rachel mutters as she applies a bright pink to her lips in the passenger mirror of my Audi A6.

  “I need a backup plan,” I explain.

  She blots on a tissue, making a noise somewhere between a kiss and a pop. “Always locate your nearest exit and have a getaway vehicle waiting.”

  “Exactly. Plus I’m sure I’ll have done a thousand other things wrong before she even realises I’m not drinking.”

  I pull the car to a stop on the gravel path outside my mother’s mansion in Mortlake, one of the wealthiest suburbs of London. Or more correctly, Richard’s mansion. Richard, my mother’s second multi-millionaire husband, who, in my mother’s defence, she’s been with for nineteen years — although she’ll always call it twenty to make Anna’s birthday seem legitimate.

  I take the two Cartier bags from the almost-backseat of the coupé and hand one to Rachel. “You bought her a sapphire bracelet.”

  Rachel peeks into the bag. “Couldn’t I just keep it? I’m pretty sure she doesn’t remember me from one year to the next.”

  “Yep, sure. Then you can feel the wrath of Veronica.”

  “Good point. I’ll avoid pissing off your mother at all costs.”

  I switch my flat shoes for cream patent heels and straighten my black lace wrap dress, feeling the cold pinching at my bare shins. Rachel adjusts her peplum dress and ruffles her bob. We each hang our handbags over our forearms.

  “Ready for three hours of afternoon tea hell?” I ask with not a trace of amusement.

  “Just pass me the champagne.”

  I throw my keys to one of the staff, who drives the car away. “Let’s do it.”

  Chantelle, the housemaid, opens the front door as we reach the porch. “Dayna, Rachel, how are you?”

  “Very well, Chantelle, thank you. How’s the party?”

  “Oh, wonderful. Veronica has done a smashing job, as ever.”

  “I’m sure you had a part in that,” I say, receiving a blush and the waft of a hand in return.

  “There’s champagne right there and canapés aplenty,” Chantelle says as she closes the door behind us. “Afternoon tea will be served in the dining hall, but guests are mingling in the reception rooms just now.”

  “Christ, it gets more pretentious every year,” Rachel mumbles as we each take a flute, Rachel’s filled with champagne, mine with fresh orange. “Which nineteen-year-old really wants afternoon tea for her birthday? If it were me I’d want to swap champagne for sambuca, I’d want to taste Amsterdam in my cake and I’d want to put on my shortest, tightest dress and find me a hunk to get down and dirty with.” As if to illustrate the point, she downs her champagne in one and switches out for a full glass.

  “You’re such a hussy.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me as she grabs a beluga caviar blini from a waiter offering a tray full of canapés. “And you love me for it.”

  I laugh. “I do. I love you more for stomaching this for another year with me.”

  “Free booze, and you buy the gifts.” She shrugs. “No biggy.”

  We move through the first of the reception rooms, which is full of girls with pretty dresses and bouffant hair, wearing too-high shoes, blowing air kisses and squealing at nothing.

  “Dayna! Dayna!” Anna leaves a group by the arched window and runs towards me — more for show than in genuine excitement, I think. Her white-blonde hair has been curled into ringlets, and she looks angelic in her floral dress. Appearance is everything. She throws her arms around me. “So pleased you could be here.” It’s subtle, but her attention definitely falls on my Cartier gift bag, then Rachel’s.

  “Of course. I’m thrilled to be here, Anna. Nineteen, wow!”

  “I know, I’m getting so old,” she giggles.

  Rachel’s face twists like she’s just been stung by a wasp.

  “And I’m pleased you could make it, too,” Anna says, shifting her focus to Rachel.

  “I’m Rachel. Here.” She holds out the Cartier bag.

  “I know that,” Anna says dismissively, accepting the gift bag. “Oh my gosh, you really shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t,” Rachel mutters.

  I jab Rachel gently in the ribs and hand over the other gift bag.

  “Oh I love, love, love! Thank you both so much. I’m going to show the girls.” With that, Anna leaves, and we probably won’t speak to her for the rest of the party.

  “Heartfelt,” Rachel says before finishing her second glass of bubbles.

  “Dayna, darling.” My mother comes at us with her arms outstretched. She looks as immaculate as ever, her dress displaying her slim frame to its best advantage, her hair salon-styled. The walking cliché of a trophy wife.

  “Hi Mum.” I step into her arms for the short time she accepts me before greeting Rachel.

  “Veronica, it’s a pleasure as always. Thanks for having me.”

  “It’s no trouble. Anna likes to have her closest friends around her for her birthday.” My mother is too busy indicating the expanse of guests to notice Rachel rolling her eyes. “She has so many friends, it’s wonderful to see, isn’t it? Doesn’t she just look beautiful?”

  “She really does,” I say. “The party is great, Mum.”

  “Wait until you see afternoon tea. The cakes are divine.” She loops her arm through mine and leads me to the back of the room. “I hired Bruno Gaville.” She turns her head back to Rachel. “He really is the best patisserie chef. Michelin-starred, no less.”

  My mother rests a hand on my arm that’s wrapped in hers. “Darling, I do wish you’d wear something other than black. And lace. I’ve seen you in much prettier cuts.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “We also need to talk about your birthday. I was thinking something low key. I don’t really have the time to plan anything extravagant. You’ll appreciate I’ve had to put a lot of effort in to today.”

  There are so many things I’d like to say to that. First off, she’s been planning my stepsister’s nineteenth birthday for months. I’m thirty in seven days, and she hasn’t even thought about it yet. More importantly, I really don’t want my mother to plan
anything for my birthday, especially nothing with a room full of squealing girls and money-greedy women.

  “Actually, Veronica, I’ve made plans already for Dayna’s birthday. You know, with it being next weekend and a special birthday.”

  My mother scowls at Rachel, but her face breaks into a fake beam as we approach a group of finely clad women. “Ladies, I think you all know my eldest, Dayna.”

  “Do I really have birthday plans?” I whisper to Rachel.

  She reaches for a quail’s egg canapé from another waiter. “You do now.”

  Thank you, I mouth as one of the four ladies, Penelope Hamilton, moves in to kiss my cheek. “Dayna, you remember my daughter, Constance?”

  My stomach drops so quickly I feel sick. Constance Hamilton looks stunning, as she has the few times I’ve met her previously. It’s easy to see why Clark would have fallen for her, even if it was just the day after we slept together, eighteen months ago. Her honey hair looks effortless yet flawlessly placed on her shoulders. Her petite face is contoured to perfection. The hand she extends to me is smooth and manicured. Her rose-coloured dress shapes her svelte hips and flows out from her thighs. Her slim legs are displayed to their full advantage in nude stiletto heels.

  She smiles, I think sincerely, yet I feel truly inadequate, more perhaps than even my mother makes me feel. Maybe more than Clark made me feel. This is the woman he chose immediately after he left me in bed, alone, naked, desperate for him. This is the reason there’ll never be another mistake between Clark and me. That thought makes the sick feeling rise from my stomach to my throat.

  “Hi Constance, it’s been a little while. How are you?” I could kick myself. “Sorry, that was probably an insensitive question.”

  “It’s okay.” Her voice is soft, sweet. “News travels fast in these circles. And you, erm, you know Clark. Have you seen him, since…?”

  “We really don’t know each other all that well. We used to, but…”

  “You saw him at the industry dinner though, right?” Rachel interjects.

  What’s her game?

  “Erm, yes, we were on the same table on Thursday. But it was a work thing, we didn’t really… we don’t talk. I know about the wedding from other people. Clark and I aren’t all that close.”