Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  ‘How come?’

  He crosses his arms and adjusts his position. ‘Well, for a start I made the huge mistake of ticking the publicity box, so of course the Press had a field day.’

  ‘Oh, so those women at the Fayre recognised you from the newspapers?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He twists the corner of his mouth, remembering. ‘Sorry I took off like I did. It felt weird, that’s all. I thought I’d left that part of my life behind.’

  He frowns at the grotty flooring beneath his feet.

  Wanting to be empathetic, I knit my brows and glare down at it too. It’s a horrible pale grey lino, well-worn and quite grimy in places. Just like the entire building, really.

  I suppose at the age of nineteen, it must have been really odd being thrust into the limelight overnight. I know what the Press can be like; camping out on people’s doorsteps, following their every movement – to the gym, to the corner shop for a pint of milk, hoping to uncover a bit of scandal, just to get a story.

  That must have been weird. But what is it they say about today’s news being tomorrow’s fish and chip paper? Surely all the publicity would have died down fairly quickly?

  I sneak a look at him. What I can’t understand is why he doesn’t seem more cheerful. He won the Lottery, for goodness sake! What exactly has he got to be morose about?

  ‘So what was it like?’ I can’t help being curious. ‘When you first knew you’d hit the jackpot?’

  A tiny smile lifts one corner of his mouth. ‘Pretty awesome, I suppose. And shocking. And unbelievable. And totally mind-blowing. The idea that the sky’s the limit and you can buy practically anything you want. Who wouldn’t be elated by that.’

  ‘But it wasn’t all good?’

  He looks up and I can see the strain etched on his face. ‘Don’t get me wrong. It was great. For a while. I bought Mum and Dad a house, new cars. My sister got the horse she’d always wanted – well, several, actually, along with the stables she now runs for a living.’

  I smile. ‘That must have been nice. And you?’

  He gives a rather bitter laugh. ‘Me? I went completely off the rails. Holidays in the Caribbean for all my mates, flash cars, too many parties. I flunked out of uni after just one year, figuring I had no need for qualifications any more.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘And I had girls throwing themselves at me.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  He shrugs. ‘One day I woke up in the flash apartment I was renting to find the girl I was totally in love with helping herself to cash from my wallet. She made some excuse about needing to buy her mum a birthday present. But I knew.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That I’d never really know what people thought of me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Miranda wasn’t interested in me. It was the allure of the millions. I was her passport to a life of designer clothes and exotic holidays. She swore that wasn’t the case but it was too late. The damage was done. I couldn’t be with someone I couldn’t totally trust. So that was that.’

  ‘God, how awful. So didn’t you see her again?’

  He shakes his head, locked in some private anguish.

  Fury rises up in me from nowhere, and I think: What a bitch! I’d seriously like to slap that horrible Miranda girl!

  He folds his arms and crosses one foot over the other. ‘I spent the next few years drinking too much and searching for bigger and better ways of splashing the cash. Cave diving, extreme snowboarding, bungee jumping, diving off rocks into the sea, the more dangerous it was, the better. I suppose I was looking for the ultimate thrill to make up for the fact that I didn’t much like myself.’

  He smiles wryly. ‘Some of it was pretty cool, though. Especially the Extreme Ironing.’

  I laugh. ‘Extreme ironing? Is that really a sport?’

  His blue eyes crinkle up at the memory.

  ‘It is, actually. You have to iron a shirt in extreme conditions. So a mate and I dragged this bloody ironing board up Blencathra, a mountain in the Lake District, and we ironed our shirts balanced on top of a rocky ridge called Sharp Edge, with a sheer drop to almost certain death either side.’

  I stare at him in astonishment. ‘Erm – why?’

  ‘No reason. Just for a laugh. I was searching for something but never really finding it.’ He shrugs. ‘After Miranda, I didn’t know who I could trust. I suspected everyone of having half an eye on my wealth.’

  ‘That must have been awful.’

  It’s funny, I’ve always assumed that a wad of cash could be relied on to sort out most of life’s challenges. But listening to Charlie, I’m beginning to realise money can create just as many problems as it solves.

  ‘I started making up different identities for myself.’ He rubs his jaw thoughtfully and I can hear the rasp of his five o’clock shadow. ‘Pretending I was someone else.’

  ‘What, telling fibs about yourself? But why would you have to do that?’

  ‘It began as a joke. But I suppose looking back, it was a way of protecting myself against the Mirandas of the world.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘Girls used to come up to me in bars and say, ‘Hey, aren’t you the guy who won the Lottery?’ And I’d laugh and say, ‘No, I just look a lot like him. Actually, I’m Stan from Chichester. Or Ollie from Blaenavon.’

  I stare at him. ‘Or Ronald McDonald from London?’

  He laughs. ‘Yes, I suppose old habits die hard.’

  ‘Did they come up to you a lot in bars?’

  He nods. ‘All the time. People think you’re public property if they’ve seen you on the telly. They think they can say anything they like to you. Sometimes they yell across the street that you’re a scumbag who deserves to be castrated.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I stare at him in horror.

  He shrugs it off. ‘Jealousy. But anyway, I found I quite liked bamboozling people and the tales got more inventive as time went on. Things got better when I moved away to London. No one knew me there.’

  ‘Was that the first hotel you bought? In London?’

  He nods.

  ‘And when was that?’ I give a guilty smile. ‘Sorry, this is like twenty questions. You can tell me to bugger off, if you like.’

  He laughs softly. ‘It’s high time you knew all this.’ The expression in his eyes makes my heart start to gallop.

  I swallow hard. ‘So you bought the London hotel … ?’

  ‘Four years ago. When I finally came to my senses and realised I needed to do something worthwhile with my life.’

  ‘Instead of the extreme ironing.’ I smile shyly.

  His mouth twists at one corner. ‘Instead of the extreme ironing.’

  The door opens and Carol pops her head round, totally destroying the moment.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks uncertainly from Charlie to me and back to Charlie. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘No,’ we chime together.

  Carol shoots me a dark look then gives a ‘ray of sunshine’ smile to Charlie, ‘Are you coming along?’ She points to her office.

  ‘Yes, sure,’ says Charlie smoothly. ‘Sorry, I’ll be there in a sec.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Put out, Carol withdraws.

  I look up at Charlie. ‘I’m glad you told me all that.’

  He just shakes his head and gives me that smile. And my insides do a little forward roll.

  A thought occurs. ‘Did you tell Carol you’d won The Lottery?’

  He smiles. ‘Yeah, I did. That first night in London.’

  No wonder she came back from London with a personality transplant, singing from the rooftops! She’d found a Lottery winner to bail her out! She must have thought all her Christmases, birthdays and closing-down sales had come at once.

  ‘It was a night of confessions,’ Charlie’s saying. ‘I knew Carol would understand the problems I’d faced. Because she’d been there herself.’

  He sees my confused look and shrugs. ‘Carol’s spent her whole lif
e with people assuming that just because her family is wealthy, she can’t possibly have any problems in life. As if money can solve everything. Which, of course, it can’t.’

  ‘Right.’

  I never really thought about it from that perspective.

  In fact, if I’m honest, maybe I was one of those envious people on occasion, assuming that Carol’s family wealth was a buffer against life’s challenges.

  Another thought occurs. ‘I – erm – I suppose there’s no need for us to have that drink now, is there? Now that you’ve told me everything.’

  He opens the door, watching me with those intense blue eyes, and my heart flutters around like a trapped bird. ‘I’d very much like to have a drink with you. How about tomorrow night?’

  Heat rises up my neck. ‘That would be … lovely.’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says, and strides off to Carol’s office.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I spend the following day trying – and failing – to quell the butterflies and by the time I get home, I’ve already decided what I’ll wear.

  I’m becoming much more confident with colour. I think I used my dull clothes to merge into the background and even though I’m not exactly sure what’s changed, it definitely feels good. For tonight I’ve chosen my most flattering skinny jeans, boots and a little kingfisher blue cardigan with gold buttons.

  Nothing too fancy.

  It’s ‘a drink’, that’s all, I tell myself, as I put mascara on with a shaky hand.

  The phone rings just as I’m trying to decide on whether to leave three top buttons open or two. Three and my bra is almost visible.

  It had better be two, then.

  It’s Charlie on the phone.

  ‘I’m calling at Carol’s to pick up the accounts,’ he says. ‘So I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’

  The accounts?

  A cold hand squeezes my insides.

  So by the time he gets here, he might know.

  Oh, Hell. He’s had such a hard time learning to trust again after Miranda. How on earth is he going to react to the knowledge that Carol has been deceiving him all along, just so she can get her hands on his money?

  ‘Is that okay?’ he’s asking.

  ‘Great!’ I say quickly. ‘I – er – don’t suppose you’ll have time to look at the accounts tonight, though.’

  ‘No. Probably just a quick glance at the bottom line.’

  Bugger!

  ‘Okay. See you soon.’

  I hang up, feeling slightly sick.

  I’d planned exactly how tonight would go.

  We’d have a drink or two, Charlie would be feeling mellow, and when I finally broached the subject of the accounts, I’d make sure I broke the news gently; tell him in stages so that it wouldn’t be a complete shock.

  But instead, he’s about to be whacked over the head by The Bottom Line. Unless I can break the news first.

  I finish my make-up, pull on my boots and coat and do a last check in the hall mirror.

  Three buttons?

  Yes, definitely.

  All the time, I’m picturing Charlie’s face when he sees those accounts.

  I suppose if he knows the worst, I can stop worrying about having to tell him myself. But what if he’s so distraught he decides to cancel tonight? I’ll have to be prepared for that. After a bombshell like this, he won’t exactly be in the mood for socialising. But then again, he’ll probably need a drink. Or two. And a shoulder to cry on …

  I jump when the buzzer goes.

  I’m half-expecting him to say, ‘Listen, I’ve just had some bad news. Do you mind if we … ’

  But instead, he says, ‘Good evening. Your limo awaits, ma’am.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I sound a little breathy. ‘I’ll be straight down.’

  I get in the car and we drive off, and to my surprise he tells me he’s booked a table at a new restaurant in town.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Not just a drink, then. Maybe this qualifies as a real date!

  He glances over. ‘Sorry, I should have checked with you first. You haven’t eaten already, have you?’

  I smile and shake my head, marvelling at how calm he seems.

  Perhaps devastating betrayals are all in a day’s work in the cut-throat world of business. Or maybe Charlie’s just really good at coping with life’s little upsets and I should take a leaf out of his book.

  Or … maybe he hasn’t looked at the accounts yet.

  I glance over my shoulder at the back seat, searching for the dog-eared red file with ‘Financial Accounts’ printed on the front in stark black capitals.

  Nothing.

  It must be in his briefcase …

  Suddenly, I tune in to hear Charlie say, ‘… so is that okay?’

  He’s looking at me expectantly but I’m not sure what—

  ‘The food’s first class,’ he adds. ‘And it’s got a great atmosphere. I think you’ll like it.’

  Oh, the restaurant!

  ‘I know I will.’ I smile happily.

  He gives me an enthusiastic grin. ‘Oysters it is, then.’

  ‘Oh, er, lovely!’

  I carry on smiling but it’s a bit of a strain.

  I absolutely loathe oysters.

  The restaurant is sleek and minimalist with little chrome tables and a long marble counter at the back, over which diners can see the kitchen staff moving about efficiently, preparing our feast.

  I wonder if they do anything apart from oysters?

  A girl dressed in unisex head-to-toe black with a long white apron leads us to a table in the corner and gives us each a large menu printed in an elaborate typeface.

  I shuck off my coat and slide onto the banquette with Charlie opposite. He passes his coat over and as I lay it on top of mine, my eye suddenly catches something sticking out of an inside pocket.

  Could it be … ?

  I’m dying to look but obviously, I can’t.

  So I pick up the menu and run my eye down the list of dishes.

  Oysters.

  And more oysters.

  Apparently, there are so many ways to serve them.

  Bread, I think, spying a basket on a nearby table. I’ll have lots of bread.

  And fish pie! You can have fish pie!

  It’s right down at the bottom of the menu, a bit of an afterthought.

  I lower the menu slightly and take a surreptitious peek at Charlie, who’s studying the wine list.

  Everybody in the world – except me – considers oysters to be a rare treat. I’m so flattered Charlie thought to bring me here. How can I possibly order fish pie and spoil everything?

  Ordering fish pie would be like going to a gloriously authentic Thai restaurant and deciding you fancy the chicken and chips.

  ‘Shall we order a large platter to share?’ he’s asking. ‘I think it’s a dozen.’ He checks the menu. ‘Yes. A dozen. Then we can take it from there.’

  ‘A dozen. Lovely. Yes. Fabulous.’ I smile winningly at the waiter who takes our order.

  When we’re alone again, Charlie pulls in his chair and leans over. ‘You look great, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I give him a shy smile. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’

  He’s wearing a fitted white shirt, open at the neck, the sleeves rolled back, revealing smooth, tanned forearms, nicely muscled. I’m entranced by the faint white fan of smile lines at the corner of his eyes.

  Our waiter brings the wine and I take a sip. It’s crisp and fragrant and deliciously cool.

  ‘Actually, can you fish around in the pockets?’ Charlie says, pointing to his coat. ‘There should be a bag.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I do what he says, slipping my hand in and feeling around in the silky depths, studiously avoiding the pocket containing the document.

  I pull out a small bag made of stiff brown paper and dangle it by its handles. ‘This one?’

  He nods. ‘I got it for you. Open it.’

  My heart beating fast, I look inside
and draw out a tiny snow globe. It fits snugly in the palm of my hand and contains a smiley, wooden angel with golden wings. Flushed with delight, I shake it up and watch the glittery snow fall.

  ‘It’s gorgeous. Thank you.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ he says in a matter-of-fact way. ‘She’s all the way from New York. I saw the dimples and I had to buy it.’

  I give a self-conscious laugh. ‘But I don’t have dimples. I have a dimple. Weird.’

  He gives me one of his heart-stopping grins and says, ‘Ah yes, but sometimes, less is more.’ Then he reaches over and starts tracing my dimple with his forefinger.

  Instantly, I stop breathing. Where he’s touching me, the skin feels deliciously tingly and yet scorched at the same time – and I have this terrible urge to grab his hand and kiss it.

  Maybe I should be reckless for once and just go for it. He must like me, otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested going out. But perhaps he’s just being friendly.

  Just because he bought me the snow globe, it doesn’t necessarily mean he fancies me.

  Oh my God, what’s he doing?

  ‘Sorry.’ He moves over to my side and slides onto the banquette next to me. ‘But you’re too far away.’

  ‘For what?’ I look at him innocently, my heart almost pulsing out of my chest.

  He’s so close, his thigh is pressed against me and I’m breathing in his lovely musky male scent.

  ‘This,’ he mutters, bringing his mouth down on mine and sending my head into the spin cycle of its life. He’s pulling me closer, kissing me softly at first, capturing my upper lip between his. Then as my hands creep up and I feel the solid muscles of his back, the kiss intensifies …

  Somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind, I’m aware we’re in a restaurant, snogging in full view of everyone. But I don’t care. I can’t stop. I never want to stop.

  Suddenly he pulls away.

  And I’m left literally gasping.

  He looks a little ruffled himself.

  ‘God, sorry. Not sure what happened.’ He’s still gripping my arms but forcing a bit of distance between us.

  I glance around, feeling suddenly giggly and light as a feather, as if I’ve drunk a whole bottle of wine, not just half a glass.

  He pulls a hand through his hair and grins. ‘Do you think anyone noticed?’