He released his grip on the contract and watched dispassionately as sheets of paper fluttered through the air, scattering like snow.
No; like ruffled feathers.
Neither man moved to pick them up. But Isaac was willing to bet that as soon as he left, Mark would be scrabbling for each scrap of that bullshit.
“What happened to the old contract?” Isaac asked, his voice empty as ever.
Mark leant back comfortably in his seat, taking a moment to answer. Trying to regain the upper hand. But that didn’t phase Isaac; he knew more about power plays than this wealthy twat with his slick hair and sharp suit ever could.
“Things change,” Mark finally answered. “Our standard approach has been updated to suit the times. You’re an intelligent man. I’m sure you understand.”
Intelligent? Nah. Isaac was sharp. He could smell bullshit from a mile away. But intelligent? Never that.
See, Isaac was simple. His books sold to other simple men—and, of course, to the rich and witless desperate for a second-hand thrill. The contract he'd just dropped was way beyond his understanding, and that was a purposeful move on Mark's part. Business wasn't Isaac's area of expertise, but he'd spent enough time on the streets to know bullshit when he smelled it.
And right now, something stank.
"You're quiet," Mark murmured. His thin, white fingers fluttered slightly before he reigned them in, gripping the arm of his chair. But Isaac saw it. Isaac saw everything. "If I didn't know better, I might be worried," Mark chuckled.
Isaac's jaw clenched. "Worried? You think I'm gonna flip on you?"
A trembling bead of sweat emerged from Mark's pomaded hairline, tracing a shimmering trail down his brow. Once upon a time, Isaac would've found that satisfying. These days, it simply pissed him off.
Taking pity on the man who'd changed his life, Isaac sighed. He may not like people, but he owed this one. "Whatever. Just send me a copy. Yeah?"
“You could always sign now—”
“Send. Me. A. Copy. No; two.” Because he’d have to show Kev. Kev was the one who saw through the fancy words and layered meanings, who sliced right to the heart of all that crap.
There was a pause. Mark’s blank gaze slid over Isaac’s body; probably cataloguing every flaw, from the twice-broken nose to the plain T-shirt and work boots. As though anyone could miss the fact that Isaac was common as shite. As though Isaac didn't feel every inch of his oversized frame in this elegant room.
As though he'd ever give a damn.
“Email?” Mark acquiesced finally.
“Paper.”
Mark gave the pages littering the floor a significant glance. But he didn’t say a word—he knew better. “I’ll have it courier'd,” he said blandly. And then, his tone a touch brighter: "And you're ready for the trip next week?"
Isaac shifted in his seat, which was bad. A tell. He needed to lie more; clearly he was getting out of practice. "Yep," he said, his voice carefully flat.
"We'll have a grand old time."
Right. A retreat for Mark's best-selling authors, in the fucking Alps, of all places. To ski. Isaac wasn’t sure he even knew where the Alps were. He’d never thought about it. He’d never wanted to. Leaving England’s cold embrace to go somewhere even colder and far more expensive had always struck him as utter foolishness.
But all he said was, "Yep."
As always, his silence made Mark nervous. Men of a certain class, Isaac knew, were raised to talk as much shit as possible; to pour bollocks in each others' ears as a mark of respect. In Isaac's world, respect was a far more complicated matter, and silence was golden. Not to mention safe.
Some may say that he should adapt to the glittering society he'd been thrust into. He'd rather eat his own fist.
Nodding tightly, Isaac rose to leave. The soft, Italian leather of his chair was making him itch. Or maybe it was the room in general that grated. Either way, he was ready to get the fuck out of here and breath some good, old-fashioned, polluted London air.
Except Mark’s voice stopped him, delaying sweet freedom.
“My wife’s been missing you, Montgomery. And my girls.”
At the reminder of Mark’s three daughters, Isaac felt his lips twitch—which was as close as he ever got to a smile.
“You’re invited for dinner on Saturday,” Mark continued. “Sunday dinner, really, but we have it on Saturdays. Clarissa spends the Sabbath at the spa. Will you come?”
Isaac shifted. "Thought you didn't want me near your girls. Not since—”
"Nonsense!" Mark breezed, cutting him off. Smoothing it over. Which, of course, made Isaac's skin crawl. The guy had treated him like a pariah for the last six months, but now that there was a contract to renew, Isaac was a family friend again? Wasn't that always the fucking way.
His temper flaring, Isaac finished the sentence, forcing out the words that Mark obviously found inconvenient. "Since I beat the shit out of that reporter," he said slowly. "I thought you said it was best if I stopped coming over."
Mark's jaw hardened, and Isaac could almost hear the internal monologue. Why can't you just let things pass? Be tactful, be polite?
Fuck that. If the rest of the world could spread the rumour, why couldn’t Isaac?
The older man’s eyes flickered with distaste, but all he said aloud was, "Not at all. I simply thought it best while things died down. Of course, if you'd deign to tell me what, precisely, happened on that day..." He trailed off hopefully.
Isaac simply stared.
"Right. Well. Anyway..." Mark adjusted his razor-sharp cuffs. "Now that you're behaving..."
Behaving. Isaac certainly was—because Jane, the publicist he'd hired after that summer's fiasco, had him by the balls. Which he didn't mind, exactly, since she spoke plain and watched his back.
"You will come, won't you?"
Truthfully, the last thing Isaac wanted to do was spend his Saturday at the Spencer mansion. But it had been months since he’d seen the girls, and he liked them. You always knew where you were with kids. Besides, they thought of him as a friend. Friends didn't just disappear.
“Alright,” Isaac said finally. God, he was soft as shite.
“We’re eating early. Around three. Come over beforehand and we can discuss this matter further, perhaps.” Mark waved a manicured hand expansively, encompassing the paper on the floor. Reminding Isaac that he was just as out of place here as those scattered pages were against the varnished wood.
“Maybe,” Isaac said. He turned, more than ready to wind his way quickly through the maze of chairs, desperate for freedom. But Mark must have sensed his need like a shark scenting blood, because the fucker called him back again.
“Isaac,” he called, and his voice was soft, but somehow piercing. “Don’t forget; we need each other, you and I.”
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? The words sank into Isaac’s skin, burning as they went. He didn’t like the way that sounded. Didn’t like the implications.
He’d learned a long time ago that it was best not to need anyone.
But men like Mark didn’t know how to speak; how to ration out their words, how to walk the line. They just threw out any old phrase, because they’d never had to face the threat of blood when a mistake was made.
And so Isaac let his anxiety fade away. Unclenched his fists. Kept his back to Mark's watchful eyes.
Walked. And walked. And walked.
Because when it came down to it, that’s all life really was: putting one foot in front of the other.
By the time Isaac got home, the sour taste in his mouth had almost faded.
He lived in a flat, just as he always had, but things were a little different now. As a kid, he'd lived on the twelfth floor of a high-rise block owned by the council. The building was grey, the walls were graffitied, and the elevator smelled of piss. The stairwell smelled of shit. You carried a knife or you suffered for it. Every week, his mother would make him walk to the fire escape with his eyes closed, ch
ecking he remembered each step by heart. "You won't be able to see if there's smoke."
His mother would have loved this place, he thought, as he nodded at the security guard by the front desk. Just four floors. A private fire escape outside every flat, like they had on TV. The elevator played soft music and its buttons lit up bright white, but Isaac took the stairs. There was no stench. No junkies lurked in the stairwells.
He let himself in without watching his back, opening the front door wide without worrying that someone would force their way in from behind. Then he entered a space that was solely his, a space where he was utterly free. And it had been years since everything changed, but this wasn't routine to him. It would never be routine to him. He was grateful every fucking time.
Hanging up his jacket, Isaac pulled out his phone and headed to the kitchen. As he put the kettle on, he pulled up Kev's contact and hit 'call'.
The phone rang, and rang, and rang. It was evening; should be a good time. But if Kev was in a tight spot—
"Ay up." Just as Isaac began to give up hope, his friend's voice came loud and clear through the phone's little speaker.
"Kev," he said, relieved. "How are you, mate?"
"Not bad, not bad. You?"
Isaac plopped a tea bag into his favourite mug and picked up the steaming kettle. "Fine. Got a bit of work for you."
Kev tutted. "Work. I'll do it for free."
"No you won't. Listen; it's a contract. For my next book. Different this time."
"Oh yeah? Trying to fuck you over, are they?"
"Maybe."
Kev chuckled. "They'll soon see their mistake."
"No," Isaac said mildly. "Jane."
"Oh, of course." Kev's voice shifted into a higher key, dripping with mockery. "Mr Lah-Di-Da's got himself a publicist now. Can't be misbehaving anymore." Dropping back to his usual smoker's rasp, Kev snorted. "Load of rubbish. Don't know why everyone went mad. You don't talk about a man's—”
"I'll post it," Isaac interrupted. Because he couldn't have this conversation. Because his blood still boiled every time he thought about that summer's day six months ago. And even though Kev had helped him resolve the situation, that didn’t make the topic any easier.
"Alright mate." And then, through the phone, Isaac heard a familiar series of banging knocks, the kind that boomed between connected cell walls. A warning. "Shit, gotta go. Warden's coming."
"See you."
Kev hung up without replying, which was understandable. He'd have precious little time to hide the Nokia his Mrs. had smuggled in for him. Speaking of, Isaac owed Lisa and the kids a visit. He'd put it on his to-do list.
Two
She was awake when her alarm went off.
Lizzie's head was pounding and her mouth was dry. She'd been lying on her back for at least an hour, staring up at the artfully bare beams of her little cottage's ceiling, telling herself to get up. Reciting her doctor's words: Routine is everything. But you'll be used to that, I'm sure!
Oh, yes. She was very used to routine. And sick of it.
But she was sick of her own petulance, too. Heaving out a sigh, Lizzie threw off her covers and dragged herself out of bed. Every movement sent a slash of pain through her tender skull. She didn't need to test to know that she was high, but she'd do it anyway.
Just like every other room in this cottage, her en-suite was gorgeous: a chic mix of modern and traditional aesthetics that reflected the house as a whole. The slate walls and chrome fixtures interspersed with splashes of royal-blue should have delighted Lizzie—in fact, they usually did. But right now, all she could see was the wall of glass behind the bathroom's chrome counter.
Her reflection stared back at her in all its mocking glory. The face she knew so well was present and correct. Which was hardly surprising; faces didn’t tend to go wandering about in the night.
But it disturbed her, sometimes, that even though everything about her life had changed… she still looked exactly the same.
She shouldn’t look the same, should she? She shouldn’t look like Lizzie. But she most assuredly did.
Shaking her head, Lizzie jerked open the drawer beneath the sink, producing a little plastic box. She popped it open and found exactly what she needed, falling into the rhythm of the ritual.
Wash your hands. Grab a needle. Then a test strip. Ready the metre.
There. She pricked her finger, let the drop of blood fall on the test strip... And the metre flashed. High. She'd known that, but she hated the sight.
With a sigh, Lizzie dropped the damning metre on the bathroom counter and pulled her pyjama top over her head. She allowed herself a minute of vanity, studying her body in the mirror. No professional company would take her at this size, and Mother would be horrified at the appearance of stretch marks on her daughter’s once-tiny hips—but Lizzie found her plumpness... Satisfying. At least she liked something about herself these days, even if it was shallow.
How refreshing it felt to let her body exist without conforming to anyone else’s standards—functional or aesthetic.
Still… Pursing her lips, Lizzie forced her focus onto the area she didn’t like: her stomach. Or rather, the mottled bruising that marred her lower belly. Bruising that she was about to add to.
Falling into a deep plié, Lizzie opened the mini-fridge beneath her sink's counter. It was probably the best purchase she'd made since moving in, but she resented the little appliance almost as much as she appreciated it. Her feelings were annoyingly illogical these days; it was one of the many things she disliked about this new version of herself.
Biting down on the inside of her cheeks, Lizzie grabbed her insulin pen and rose to prepare it. While she went through the now-familiar steps, her nerve-endings dulled as if wrapped in cotton. When she pinched the skin of her stomach, her fingers felt numb. When she positioned the needle, a low whining began in her ears. When she pushed its sharp point into her own flesh, she felt the rope that tied her, Lizzie, to the body she lived in, fray. It had been fraying for some time now. She didn't know what would happen if it snapped.
But she'd have something to write in her journal for the morning. She was taking care of herself. She was following the routine.
So she hadn't failed today. Yet.
Lizzie loved frost.
Frost carpeting the grass underfoot; frost webbing the trees' bare branches; frost hanging in the air like a fog, condensing with each breath. She loved every inch of it.
She let the icy air scour her lungs as she walked, tracing the winding barrier of the grand wall that surrounded her workplace.
Workplace. That word felt good. As a child, she’d dreaded growing up to face a world where work meant something other than dance. Of course, all that had changed when Mother sent Lizzie away to train. To become a professional.
How foolish childish imaginings could be.
Now, this… this was more than she’d ever hoped for. To dance without having to perform. To dance for joy. To share the magic that ran through her body with every step and turn, without the pressure of being the best.
She was blessed and she knew it. She felt it. Even now, when her mother's voice nagged at her mind.
Wasting your time and talents on children. After all I did to make you worthy of the family name—
Lizzie pushed the whisper away, focusing on the soft, fluting calls of the nearby wood pigeons. The voice in her head could bitch and moan all it liked, but she didn’t have to listen.
By the time she reached the gates of the Spencer house, hefting her bag over her shoulder, she was in a damned good mood. She slid into the back garden with a smile on her face. A lone gardener haunted the lawn, a woolly hat tugged down over his ears and thick, muddied gloves protecting his fingers.
"Mornin', Lizzie!" He shouted cheerily.
"Good morning, Mr Brown," she waved back, speaking at a volume and with an enthusiasm that her mother would've chided her for. But Mother wasn't here, was she?
The reminder put a sprin
g in Lizzie's step as she let herself into the grand house, passing Barbara in the hall.
“Off to see the misses?” Barbara asked, smiling from behind the plumes of her feather duster.
“I am. How is your grandson?”
Barbara huffed out a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Causing trouble as ever.”
“Give him a biscuit on my behalf, then.”
"You're cheerful this morning!” Barbara laughed, swatting Lizzie’s behind with the duster.
Lizzie grinned as she danced away, heading towards the back stairs. “I certainly am.” How could she be anything other than happy? It was 9.50 A.M. on a Saturday morning, and in just ten minutes, she would dance. There would be no audience and no expectations; just music and movement and three students to share that pleasure with.
“Goodbye, Barbara!” She waved over her shoulder as she began jogging down the stairs.
“Ta-rah, darling!”
Yes. Today would be a good day. Lizzie could feel it.
Absolutely nothing would go wrong.
Three
Mozart’s Gavotte filled the wide, open space of the studio, its bouncing charm bringing a smile to Lizzie’s lips.
“Again, girls. To the corner. Ava first.” She walked over to the stereo and started the song once more, waving her hands to hurry her grumbling students into place.
Well, only two were grumbling. Ava and Alexandra, the younger girls, muttered resentfully between themselves, tired of the endless repetitions. But the eldest of the sisters, Audrey, was already in position, practically vibrating with excitement. Lizzie knew that giddy energy well. Even now, months after leaving Paris, its ghost still haunted her.
But Audrey would go last. As the eldest, she must. And anyway, anticipation would only sharpen the girl’s performance.
“Ava!” Lizzie called over the Gavotte’s opening chords. “You first. Prepare. And—” On cue, the thirteen-year-old began. Her opening chassé was perfect; smooth and light. The pas de bourrée that followed was not so impressive; its relevé was… half-hearted, to say the least. Ava’s efforts improved with the two glissades, and Lizzie felt the crawling discomfort that sloppy dancing brought upon her slowly recede.
Undone by the Ex-Con Page 2