by Bailey, Orla
“You won’t be sitting down. You’ll be dancing and socialising and networking the room.” He sounds absolutely certain about that.
The thought of all those high powered people gives me heart palpitations. My mouth is dry as a sandbox and I feel a faintness wash over me. He expects me to live up to his lofty expectations and frankly, a padlock is the least of my worries. My mind is a whirlwind of apprehension. Why can’t I be like other young women of my age? Normal. Confident. Not ready to panic at the slightest provocation.
I have to do this. For CaidCo. For Harry. For me. The thought makes me consciously sit straighter and cease my restlessness. I watch the city lights pass by my window in their blur of bright colours. Jack thinks I‘ve calmed down but I haven’t. I know too well that the closer I move to a panic attack, the cooler I appear. It’s like being in physical paralysis or drowning to the point of near-death. Beneath the appearance of calm I’m fighting my way out of a mental strait-jacket like a lunatic.
The limousine shifts into the queue of cars lining up to offload passengers at the Mansion House venue’s colonnaded entrance. The opulence of the occasion is impressed upon me with all the milling paparazzi, lights flashing indiscriminately, and the television news cameras trained on reporters and guests outside. Massive banners trail from the roof to proclaim the event. The City of London police redirect traffic and hold back a crowd of excited onlookers behind a cordon of hefty security personnel dressed in dark suits. I note their discrete earpieces and the way they constantly sweep eyes across the crowd, ever anticipating trouble.
They remind me of Blackstock arriving to collect me on Friday night when my life still seemed relatively normal. Clearly Jack’s driver is security trained too but it doesn’t make me feel any safer. My fears are mine alone to face. I’ve never needed a good stiff drink or three quite as much as I do right now. The worse thing is I know I’m being ridiculous but a lifetime of panic attacks isn’t easy to overcome.
It will take more than a padlocked charm to divert me, I swear to God.
Jack reaches into his inner pocket pulling out a gilt-edged card. “Hold the invitation, a moment please, Tabitha.” He offers it to me, his hand steady as I take it. Mine trembles.
I glance at the beautiful cursive lettering. I suppose I want to see how it’s worded. I read Jack’s name and expect to see a pretty standard plus guest but am surprised to see my own name – Ms Tabitha Caid – embossed in beautiful italics under Jack’s own and separated from it by a pretty little & sign. He wants me to know I belong here.
I do realise that no way would I have received an invitation in my own right to such a prestigious event. Jack must have requested it on my behalf and the organisers wouldn’t dream of refusing him however insignificant I am. I feel more kindly disposed towards him than I have for the past hour.
“My name is on it too.” I offer a contrite smile to Jack and he returns an acceptance of his own. He looks so desirable in his formal wear I feel lucky to be the woman at his side this year. Yet the magnitude of the occasion won’t allow my nerves to settle.
“Every situation has its positives, Tabitha. You must learn to focus on them. That’s what winners do.”
I glance back at the card with pride. Jack wants me here with him and he wants the world to know it. My hand slips willingly into his and the way he squeezes it makes me feel warm and safe. I wonder what I’ve been quite so crazy about. With Jack’s support, I can do this.
I read the invitation again. Then reread it in disbelief as I yank my hand from his. It flies to the collar. His collar. The humiliation. And not the worst one he’s engineered. My heart ceases completely then starts fluttering wildly as I shallow breathe.
“You knew.” I can barely gasp out the words.
“I did,” he admits. There isn’t a trace of shame in his voice. It’s as steady as a rock just the way it was in the boardroom when I confronted him with his previous treachery. This one outstrips all others. He doesn’t even try to avoid my disbelieving stare.
I read aloud the damnable words. “Black and White Ball, Jack. The dress code is strictly black and white. This ball is black and white.” I’m not even sure why I keep repeating the colours other than a hope, a prayer, that Jack will tell me there has been some terrible mistake. That he hasn’t done this to me deliberately.
I stare at his exceedingly suitable black and white formal attire then back at the lettering on the card, searching desperately for some explanation. Some tiny clause to do with the equal acceptability of violent blood red.
Black and white. Black and white. “It says black and white,” I screech.
I gape at my couture gown like I might only have imagined this colour. Disbelief turns to grim reality. Red. Valentino Red. Scarlet Red. The blood red of betrayal. No matter what shade I call up, the dawning realisation only gets worse. And worse.
I wheel round to face him. “You knew.” I spit out the same accusation, pure and simple. He’s engineered my very public disgrace. The ultimate punishment in the eyes of the business world for daring to challenge the great Jack Keogh over whom he chooses to do business with.
Jack doesn’t turn a hair. “Of course, I knew.”
“How could you do this to me?” I’m barely capable of speech.
“Not to you, Tabitha. For you.” His eyes hold mine without an iota of remorse.
I can no longer contain myself. I’m completely crushed; totally ashamed of myself for how carelessly I’ve allowed my guard to drop around him. I look about me. The line of cars has advanced nearer – much nearer – to the main entrance of the Lord Mayor’s official residence where Jack expects me to alight in a maelstrom of media bloodsuckers. They circle like vultures locating the scent of carrion flesh.
And any minute now, it will be mine.
He expects me to stand in front of everyone, dressed in scarlet, standing out like an incriminating blood stain on a pure white and very dead body. How could he do this to me? And so calmly. How could he be so spiteful? So cold-heartedly cruel?
Unadulterated rage sweeps me up in a torrent and tosses me over the falls.
“You bastard.” I lift my hand to strike him. This is my nightmare made real.
The glacial expression in his Arctic eyes is all it takes to instantly quell my impulse and I lower my open palm. Instead I check for an escape route as I unclip my seatbelt. The door on the pavement side, will deposit me directly in front of the high society crowd with all the reporters and cameras. It isn’t an option. His door will mean scrabbling right past him before I step into oncoming traffic and I don’t imagine for one moment he will let me get that far.
Jack secures my hands in his. His tone cautions me unequivocally. “Your behaviour is entirely inappropriate,” he warns. “I have made the decision and I had your complete agreement to do so,” he reminds me. He pulls me into the seat again.
I’m dumbfounded at his treachery. It’s the perfect moment to point out this is the second worthless deal I’ve agreed to willingly. As if I needed any reminder the only way to get out of it is to call time on my business aspirations. His poker face, par excellence, waits for me to fold my hand of cards.
On the other hand, if I play his mean little game and walk into the ball dressed in scarlet, I’ll sign my own commercial death warrant. These people are my potential future clients. My competitors. My judges. How can I demand they take me seriously when I can’t even follow a simple edict like dress in black and white, like them? I’d be sticking two fingers up to their solemn annual event. Jack has sealed my downfall, watertight.
I have nowhere to turn and nowhere to hide.
I’m surprised he isn’t laughing. He indifferently expects me to accept my miserable fate, to need no explanation. What other possible reason can there be for such abject degradation?
I claw at the collar that’s choking me, trying to rip the eternal knot of inevitability in vain from my neck. Its tiny padlock crushes my spine. In frustration I turn my criminal
fingers to the too-tight bodice of my dress. I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight.
I don’t know what to do.
Chapter Sixteen
An explosion of flashbulbs bursts through the window as the limousine glides to a halt at the front of the queue. Blackstock has expertly aligned it for us to exit right onto the red-carpeted drop-off point.
My eyes careen through the blacked-out window, over the seething mass of onlookers heaving behind the barriers. The volume of so many excited voices invades the false sanctuary of the car increasing my turmoil. Noises grow louder then more distant in alternating waves, washing over my head.
I stare, open-mouthed as a liveried doorman moves in to open our car door. He might as well be carrying a shotgun aimed at my head.
My body shakes. Half my muscles dissolve; the other half, lock rigid in total shock. I snatch at superficial and highly inadequate breaths, aware of my own hoarse gasping but completely unable to draw up a single passable lungful. The shallow panting makes my head spin and it’s only the fact I’m seated that prevents me passing right out on the floor. The limousine’s super-chilled air swims ineffectively over my clammy skin. No amount of breathing practice can save me now. I’m well past the point of no return. Words refuse to exit my moving lips and I turn in desperation to Jack, tears making him waver before my pleading eyes. The hopelessness of my only possible rescuer being my sole persecutor pounds through my throbbing skull.
Jack hits the intercom addressing Blackstock, cabined way up front. “Drive on.”
Blackstock’s instant reaction to his order hurls me back against the window. I catch a glimpse of the startled expression on the doorman’s features as his hand is five seconds from getting ripped off but my own wild-eyed, freaked-out reflection in the smoky glass is what finally forces an abrupt stream of oxygen into my lungs, before I pass out. Jack snaps my seatbelt shut.
Why has he done this to me? Does he want me to know how easily he can destroy me, if he chooses to?
He misreads the question in my eyes. “A deferment, Tabitha. We’re going back but we need to get you straightened out, first.”
Blackstock is hidden behind his blacked-out glass partition. Jack gives him a further instruction which goes over my head as I struggle to maintain my superficial oxygen supply.
I can’t speak. Jack monitors me closely and doesn’t relax. I detect the stream of annoyance – disappointment – in the rigid lines of his body despite his guarded demeanour. I wonder if he can’t bring himself to remonstrate with me but his silence punctures me more than any blazing row ever could. I’ve never wanted to get away from him as much as I do right now. My hand flutters over the door handle ready.
Jack drops his arm weightily over mine, preventing me acting on my thoughts.
“Breathe. Concentrate on nothing but inhaling and exhaling. In and out. Again. Again.” The words sound clipped.
He leans over to the bar, extracts a bottle of mineral water and holds it to my lips. I flap my arms blindly as if he’s trying to finish me off, almost knocking it out of his hand.
I focus outside. Inside, the atmosphere is too fraught to bear. The financial heart of the city blurs quickly before we skirt an area largely unpopulated at this time of night. I’ve long ago lost all sense of direction. It’s taking me longer than usual to master my breathing. Nothing seems to be working except my frantic heart-rate which has elevated ready to burst.
The car halts down a totally deserted side street, the engine ceases and fear grips my belly as I continue my struggle for air. If I’m disposed of here in the darkness, the only trace of my scarlet existence will be the mockery of my name on a card proclaiming a Black & White ball. It wouldn’t disgrace Agatha Christie. My compromised lungs haul at air fruitlessly.
Jack hits the intercom once more. “Take a walk, Blackstock, I’ll call you when I need you."
I try to get a grip on my wild imagination. Jack isn’t happy with me for spoiling his grand entrance. When Blackstock steps out and heads off into the distance, I’m totally shocked. I turn, silently pleading for his retreating figure to turn and save me, incapable of speech. I wheel around until my eyes lock on Jack’s. When he releases my seatbelt, my pulse surges dangerously. What has he done that for? I slick the tip of my tongue along my air-scorched lower lip.
“You’re pushing… me… too hard.” I gasp out the accusation. “I’m not fearless… like you.”
“I don’t expect you to be fearless. And the reason I push you hard is because I know you can rise to it.”
I’m disturbed by the resolutely determined look growing in his Arctic blue eyes as I continue the battle to save myself. The thought occurs I might need to make a run for it.
“Keep those breaths coming. But slow it down now. Draw deeper.”
I focus on his voice. Considering everything, his voice is steady and I wonder fleetingly what exactly it would take to make the guy lose it. Is there anything he can’t handle faultlessly? Although it doesn’t matter what Jack expects, my stupid lungs won’t obey either of us.
“You did this.” I’m close to tears. I’ve nothing to be sorry for. Jack should be apologising to me. He set out to humiliate me, not the other way around. My fight reaction starts to engulf me as the adrenaline surges and my muscles tense.
“I’m teaching you how to handle the unexpected.” He pauses. “You allow unimportant stuff to crowd out your primary focus. It’s not the way to be a winner.”
Unimportant stuff? Like distress? Humiliation? Self-preservation? I stare incredulously. I swallow past the huge lump in my throat, my fingers clawing robotically at the metal collar.
“Your expectations… are unreasonable.” He set me up to fail in the first place and my voice returns, with anger at its heart, as my wheezing levels out.
“Am I the only one to have faith in your inner strength?” His look of complete self-assurance frustrates me even more.
“Bull-shit! This isn’t about strength. It’s about supremacy. Yours. What the bloody hell did you expect?”
“I expected you to behave like the poised, intelligent woman you are.”
“You can’t have believed I wouldn’t react,” I scream. “You have me dressed up like a vampire at a virgin’s ball.”
He laughs mirthlessly. “Melodrama, Tabitha? This gets better. Your enemies will feast on that. What sort of reputation are you planning on building for yourself?”
Not the same one he’s intent on building for me, that’s for sure. He can go hang. As my breathing settles my temper soars. Words wheel round my head shrieking like gulls.
“You made damn sure I found out right at the last minute, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” I completely lose it. “Why did you even bother to give me that much notice? Eh?” I thump him hard in the chest with the heel of my hand. Twice. “Why not just let me walk into the lion’s den completely oblivious that I was tonight’s banquet and entertainment all rolled up into one? Think what fun you could have had before I finally got it!”
I ignore the warning signs as he absorbs my wrath: ice shards in his eyes, the pulsing at his tight jaw but my blood’s up and I’m in full unstoppable flow.
“Of course, you wanted me to fall apart, right in front of everyone. And be sure to get it on camera, so you could laugh over it for years to come. You could have posted it on the internet. Think how many hits you would have got. Pretty good advertising.” I heave up another full breath and continue. “I don’t know what I was thinking, trusting a word you said. You got me so mixed up in your bloody little power games, I began to believe you actually might be trying to help me. I’ve been an utter fool. You planned this atrocity right from the start. Of course. Jack Keogh hasn’t built his grotesque empire without being a megalomaniac tactician. Well I’m sorry to disappoint you.” I wrench at the door handle and shove. “But I’m not playing. I’ll find my own bloody way home. Enjoy your mind-numbingly boring black and white ball. It won’t be getting any colour out of me.”
>
“Done?” He reaches out a hand, tugs the door closed and flips the central locking switch which shuts me up instantly.
I watch astonished as he removes his jacket and unhurriedly hangs it.
“Let me out of here.” I rattle the secured door hard.
He ignores me. One hand reaches for a cufflink and I watch in horrified fascination as he deftly releases it. He grasps my wrist flipping my hand over and drops it into my open palm, closing my fingers around it.
So he’s finally returning the unwanted gift now we both know this is over. He kept them just for this moment? The pain I feel is a bruise deep inside my heart. I grip the metal so hard in my clenched fist I feel physical discomfort.
Jack rolls up one sleeve. He casually turns the shirt cuff over and over until it’s firmly locked just above his elbow. My eyes are transfixed on his uncovered forearm. The strength of heavy bone, defined muscle and sinew forged from years of racquet sports and gym-busting physical endurance holds my attention like a magnet. I’m mindfully aware once more of how huge his hands are. My chest heaves with the deep thumping of my heart and I’m in danger of descending into a second panic attack.
Jack removes the second cuff-link. He holds it out to me in a ritual and I take it blindly in my other hand through the barrier of tears I prevent from spilling, over and over. A sharp pain pinches at the nerves between my eyes. Is he doing what I think he’s doing?
Hyperventilation followed by my breath-draining tirade has left me light-headed and more than a little removed from what is going on. Jack repeats the process with his second sleeve. He pulls his bow-tie undone, letting it hang around his neck and opens the top two buttons on his shirt. Why is he undressing?
“You have the cufflinks?”
I nod tamely.
“Don’t lose them. Don’t drop them,” he orders.
“Why are you being so weird?”
“Am I?”
I shake my head. His body language tells me everything I need to know. “Are you going to spank me?”