A Wild Affair: A Novel

by Gemma Townley

I stared directly at him. I wasn't afraid of him anymore. He was despicable, but more important, I'd won. Whatever the game was, he was the loser and Max and I were the victors and I was going to make sure he knew that.

  “How's it going?” I took the bundle of papers from him. “Very well, since you ask. More than very well, actually. You'll have seen the ads that Chester took out, I suppose?”

  “Yes I have. And I'm glad to hear things are going well for you. Well done. Good for you.”

  “You're glad?” My eyes narrowed. “You lied to me. You tried to blackmail me. You did your best to ruin my relationship and my marriage and, on top of all of that, you slept with my mother. But you lost in the end, didn't you, Hugh. I'm glad you're taking it with such good grace.”

  “I'm a selfless kind of a guy,” Hugh said lightly. “What can I say?”

  “Selfless?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You made me think I slept with you. You nearly wrecked everything.”

  He smiled laconically. “Jess, that was as hard for me as it was for you. It wasn't an image I enjoyed very much.”

  I could feel my anger rising, but I forced myself to breathe. He wanted me to lose my temper; I wouldn't rise to his bait. And anyway, at least now I had the confirmation I needed. I didn't sleep with Hugh. I definitely didn't sleep with him. “Haven't you been fired? Chester said you'd been fired.”

  “I have.” Hugh shrugged. “But truth is, I was getting a bit bored here anyway.”

  “Bored?” I asked suspiciously.

  Hugh nodded. “I want to set up on my own, do my own thing, know what I mean?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Whatever. Well, see you.”

  “Wait, let me help you with those.” He tried to take the papers from me again but I pulled my arms away.

  “Get away from me,” I said, my voice low. “I don't want you anywhere near me ever again.”

  “At least let me get the door.” He held it open and I walked through it reluctantly; he followed right behind me. Then he took a key out of his pocket and I heard a bleeping sound. The brand-new Mercedes that had been parked so badly flashed to life.

  “That's your car? I didn't know you had a car.”

  He smiled. “I didn't. It's new. Fancy a spin?”

  “I don't think so,” I said icily.

  “Suit yourself.” He opened the door and got in. “Oh, and send my best to your mother when you see her. Tell her thanks. For everything.”

  He pushed back his sleeves, revealing a new Cartier watch. I stared at him in disbelief. Had he been fired or paid off? What was going on?

  “You leave my mother out of this,” I said. “You disgust me.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That's your problem, Jessica Wild. You have no imagination and you're too uptight. You should learn from your mother, you know. Very attractive woman. Very attractive indeed. Great body, too, for someone her age. Not a line on it, not a crease, not an ounce of cellulite. Who knows, with a little effort on your part, you might look that good one day.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, to offer a retort to his gloating, but it was pointless—he turned the ignition and the engine purred into life.

  “Bye, Jess. Don't work too hard. I know I won't,” he shouted, then pulled away from the curb so quickly he nearly caused an accident before disappearing up the road.

  I watched him—or the space in the road where he'd been—for a few minutes, indignation, irritation, and incomprehension consuming me. And then I turned around. It didn't matter, I realized. So he hadn't crumpled in a miserable heap on the floor—so what? Would it really have made me feel any better if he had? Steeling myself, and deciding not to answer that particular question, I took a deep breath.

  I didn't care about Hugh Barter, I told myself firmly. And as I walked down the road, I realized to my surprise that it was true. I really didn't care. There were Hugh Barters everywhere—Anthony was one, Marcia was one. They never learned anything, never felt the deep regret you wanted them to, never felt the shame you wished they'd glimpse for just a moment. But it didn't matter—they didn't matter. What mattered was the launch event I had only a few days to pull together. What mattered was that a few miles away, my lovely Max was waiting for me, along with Caroline and Giles, all doing their utmost to help, all wonderful people I was lucky to have in my life.

  “Clerkenwell,” I told the cabbie who'd just stopped in front of me. “As quickly as you can.”

  Chapter 22

  “SO IT'S PRETTY YELLOW, HUH?”

  It was the night before the Project Handbag launch and Chester, Giles, Caroline, and I were just checking that everything was ready.

  “Yellow is very now,” Giles said curtly. “Very now, very bright, very warm, very …”

  “Very perfect,” Chester cut in.

  “Oh. Thank you,” Giles said, sounding surprised, a look of relief flooding his face. “So you like it then? Really?”

  “Really.” Chester grinned. “This is about making finance fun, right? Making it … what was that you said at the pitch meeting, Jessica? As desirable as a pair of shoes? Well, I'd say this whole room looks desirable.”

  Giles glowed, as did Caroline. “You've done brilliantly,” I told them. “It's fabulous.”

  “Thanks,” Giles gushed. “Just got to check a few things though. If you'll excuse us?”

  I nodded and they disappeared; my eyes followed them proudly.

  “They really have done the most amazing job.” I sighed. “It couldn't be more perfect.”

  “You're right,” Chester said, winking. “But they don't deserve all the credit. I know you were the one who got this all started. I gotta hand it to you, Jessica Wild. You are quite something.” He sighed. “Funny I used to think it ran in the family.”

  I turned my head sharply. I'd managed to push my mother from my thoughts with varied success for days now. Every time I felt the urge to call her, I'd talked myself out of it; every time I found myself leaving to visit her old apartment in Maida Vale, I forced myself not to. She'd let me down; if I berated her for it, she'd only do it again. I was better off forgetting all about her; better off pretending I'd never met her in the first place.

  “Maybe it does,” I said flatly. “I don't know my mother well enough to tell.”

  Chester nodded. “Guess I took her away from you just when you were getting to know her. I'm sorry about that, Jess.”

  “I think I got to know all I needed to,” I said levelly.

  “You okay?” Chester asked, looking at me worriedly. “You look kind of strange.”

  “Me?” My head shot up. “No, fine. Absolutely fine.” I was, too. There was no reason to feel anything other than fine. And even if there were, even if a niggling voice in the back of my head kept reminding me that I'd gone home with Hugh, that I'd planted the idea of Jarvis's takeover in his head, that wasn't important. It was Mum who'd told him everything. Mum who'd slept with a guy half her age. It was disgusting. Outrageous. And she was probably going to be fine without Chester. She probably wasn't even that into him.

  Chester caught my eye and breathed out heavily. “Funny thing,” he said.

  “My mother?”

  He managed a half smile, then his face turned serious again. “No, the funny thing is that I really thought she was it,” he said. “The one. You know, I usually have an instinct for these things—it's the same in business. I know when something's going to work, know when someone's for real. And your mother—she really seemed like she was. She told me—I mean, she actually told me—she was looking for something serious. Said she'd been looking for someone like me her whole life …” He trailed off and look wistfully into the distance, then shook himself. “Guess she knew how to spin a guy like me a line,” he said, attempting a grin. “Guess I should have known better.”

  I nodded and cleared my throat awkwardly as Giles came over and pulled Chester away to look at something. Chester was right—my mother had probably just been spinning him a line all along. That was what
she did best, wasn't it? And sure, it did look like she was really in love with him, but that wasn't my fault. I'd given her money, after all. I'd taken care of her. And she'd cashed the check, too—I'd seen it come up in my bank account just a couple of days before. No, my mother didn't need any sympathy. She was the one who'd slept with Hugh, after all.

  An image of Hugh suddenly came into my head, all smug and pleased with himself when he should have been squirming with shame. God he was vile, telling me how attractive my mother was like that, as if I wanted to know, as if I wanted to picture the two of them …

  I frowned slightly. What was it he'd said? “Her unlined body.” My frown deepened. It was nothing. I was sure it was nothing. But my mother didn't have an unlined body. She had that deep rivet down her stomach, her C-section scar.

  Still, maybe he hadn't noticed it. Maybe it was dark when they …

  I wrinkled my nose, trying to force the image of them in bed together from my head. Then I cleared my throat again. Even if it was dark, he wouldn't have missed it—her stomach, so slim, still managed to fold itself over the scar as though hiding it, as though protecting it. The only way he wouldn't have seen it would be if …

  I shook my head. No, it was impossible. Why would he say he'd slept with her if he hadn't? Why would she say she'd slept with him if she hadn't? It was illogical. It was a stupid thing to even think.

  And then my frown deepened. “His flat in Kensington.” She'd said she'd gone back to his apartment in Kensington. But he didn't live in Kensington. It had bothered me slightly at the time but hadn't seemed worth picking up on. Hugh lived in Kenning-ton, which was completely different. It was the other side of the river, near the Oval cricket ground. If she'd been there, she'd never have made such a mistake.

  I shook myself again. She had been there. I knew she had. She and Hugh … They … They …

  I started to walk around, trying to clear my head. All of these things would have perfectly rational explanations. Slips of tongues, genuine mistakes. But as I walked around, I didn't feel better; I felt worse as more and more questions flooded into my head. Like Hugh's new car. Where did he get the money from for a car like that? If it was a payoff, why was the car already sitting outside his office when he'd only just gotten the money?

  Chester reappeared by my side. “Jess, this is going to be spectacular. It's everything you said it would be and more. And the guest list looks second to none.”

  “Bea said she'd come back specially,” Caroline said, appearing at my side, a huge smile on her face. “And everyone else has RSVP'd, too.”

  “In no time at all.” Chester grinned. “Amazing.”

  “Giles is the one who's amazing,” I said warmly, pulling him into the group. “He is the best event planner in the whole wide world.”

  “Oh, stop!” he protested, then grinned. “No, don't stop. Carry on. Talk me up. I can't get enough!”

  “You're fabulous,” I assured him as Chester's phone started to ring. He flipped it open and strode away, talking loudly into it.

  “You know Hugh Barter's got a new car,” I said to Caroline, shaking my head in disbelief. “Bloody Mercedes, too.”

  “Hugh Barter?” Giles asked curiously.

  “The one I thought I'd … the bastard who leaked the … You know,” I shrugged.

  “That was Hugh Barter?” Giles asked incredulously. “Blond-hair-blue-eyes Hugh Barter? Wears-Prada-suits Hugh Barter?”

  “I guess.” I shrugged uncertainly. I hadn't realized Hugh was quite so well known.

  “But you said you slept with him.”

  “No,” I said patiently. “I thought I had. But I hadn't really. He slept with my mother.”

  “He what?” Giles wrinkled his nose.

  “I know.” I sighed. “She leaked the information, too.”

  “But that's impossible,” Giles said, still looking utterly confused.

  “No, Chester told her, she told Hugh …”

  “Not that,” Giles said. “Hugh Barter is gay.”

  “Gay?” I stared at him. “No he isn't.”

  “Yes, he is,” Giles said, folding his arms.

  “You think everyone's gay,” I said sternly. “Well, anyone who's vaguely good-looking, anyway …”

  “No,” Giles said firmly. “Hugh Barter is gay. The one I know, anyway. Gay as gay can be.”

  “And you know this because …”

  Giles sighed and took out his phone. “This your Hugh Barter?” he asked, flashing up a photograph. I stared at it.

  “But he's …”

  “Naked,” Caroline said, grabbing the phone. “So this is Hugh Barter! And how exactly did you get this, Giles?”

  “A friend sent it to me. A gay friend,” Giles said triumphantly. “A gay friend who slept with him.” He frowned briefly. “Beat me to it, actually,” he said, then shrugged. “And now I'm glad he did. The point is, he's gay. Gay, gay, gay.”

  Caroline handed the phone to me. “He does look kind of gay,” she said. “I mean, look at his six-pack.”

  “Bi?” I asked, baffled.

  “Gay,” Giles said, taking the phone back. “Trust me, ladies.”

  “So then …” I frowned, my mind racing. “No, but that would mean …”

  “Why didn't you tell me his full name before,” Giles was asking, shaking his head. “I could have cleared this all up weeks ago. I can't believe it's the same …”

  “Jess? Where are you going?” I heard Caroline call after me as I sped out of the hotel, but I didn't answer. I wasn't even sure where I was going myself; I just knew I had to find my mother, and I had to find her right away.

  Chapter 23

  I GOT TO MY MOTHER'S apartment in no time at all and immediately pressed the buzzer. There was no answer. Urgently, I pressed it again, then fell back against the wall in frustration. She wasn't answering her phone, she wasn't in her apartment—what the hell was she doing? Where was she?

  “You all right, dear?” I looked up to see a man looking at me curiously. He looked to be in his seventies, wearing a tweed jacket.

  I nodded. “I'm fine,” I said, hanging my head.

  “You don't look fine,” he pointed out. “Locked out, are you? You know there's a locksmith lives around the corner. Might be able to help you.”

  I bit my lip. “The trouble is, I don't actually live here. I mean, not officially My mother lives here. I was meant to be staying with her tonight. She promised she'd be in.”

  “She did?”

  I nodded, trying to look like someone who'd been locked out of her mother's apartment. Which was what I was, I realized, pretty much, give or take a few supposed promises.

  “Esther Short,” I said. “She's my mother. Number 23.”

  “Oh, Esther!” The man's face lit up. “Oh, lovely Esther. What a lady. And you're the daughter, are you? She talked about you a lot.”

  “She did?” I smiled. Then frowned. “What do you mean talked?”

  “Well, she's gone away,” the man said. “Can't think why she didn't tell you.”

  “Away?” I felt myself going white. “Where?”

  “Where …” The man scratched his chin. “Hmmm. She did tell me. I was helping her with her bags, just a couple of hours ago. And she said she was going to … now let me see …”

  “Yes?” I urged him.

  “Spain. Yes, Spain, that's right.”

  “Spain?” My face crumpled in disappointment. “She's really gone to Spain?”

  “Or America,” the man said. “One or the other.”

  “Spain or America.” I sighed. “Well, thanks.”

  “You're welcome. So, you still want to go in? I'm sure I can twist the concierge's arm if you want. She's got the apartment for another week, after all.”

  I started to shake my head, then changed my mind. If I'd lost my mother again, I at least wanted to see where she had lived. How she had lived. “Yes please,” I said. “Thank you.”

  The man, who turned out to be called Henr
y Darlington, charmed the concierge into letting me into my mother's apartment with no trouble at all. After thanking him (and the concierge) profusely, I slipped in and closed the door behind me.

  The place was small, but functional—the sort of place that businessmen stay in when they want something a bit more personal than a hotel. One bedroom, a small sitting room with kitchenette, a compact bathroom. All of it had been cleared out—the rooms were empty, impersonal, waiting for their next incumbent, their next story. I don't know what I'd hoped for—something, a clue to her whereabouts, a message of some sort—but whatever it was, it wasn't there. There was nothing in the place about my mother at all, except perhaps for a faint, lingering perfume—and even that could have been imagined.

  I sat down on one of the upholstered chairs in the living area and let my head fall into my hands. She'd gone.

  Then I got annoyed. She'd just gone? Just like that? Without saying goodbye, without letting me know where she was going? What was she thinking? How dare she? She might have been able to do that when I was little, when I wasn't big enough to argue, but not now.

  Irritated, I stood up and started to pace around the room. Spain or America. So she was flying. But where from? If it was the United States, that ruled out any of the small airports. But if it was Spain … She could be anywhere. North, south, east, west; there were airports in all directions. I could call the airlines but they wouldn't tell me anything. It was hopeless. It was infuriating.

  And then I saw something. Just a piece of paper crumpled in the garbage bin, but it was more than I'd seen anywhere else in the apartment. Dashing over, I took it out and opened it carefully. And then I punched the air. It still didn't tell me her eventual destination, but it did confirm the purchase of one ticket on the Heathrow Express. Which meant she would be at Paddington Station. I looked at my watch—her train left in twenty minutes.

  Jumping up, I ran from the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time and diving out of the front door into a passing cab.

  “Paddington,” I gasped. “As quickly as you can.”