by Mandy Baggot
Angel slapped a hand over her eyes. ‘Mum, you’re far too old for him. You’d have a much better chance with Prince Andrew.’
‘I think I might be a bit old for him too, if you believe the rumours.’ Hayley sighed. ‘All right, not Prince Harry or Prince Andrew then, how about … Jude Law.’ She waited for any immediate objections. ‘Not too old, not too young, handsome, has children …’
‘Mum!’
‘Well, if my dream was to marry Jude Law I’d have to …’
‘Do something with your hair,’ Angel answered.
Hayley put a hand to her hair and opened her mouth in shock. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’
‘Let’s get back to Jude Law. He’s growing on me.’
‘I think I want to know what’s so wrong with my hair that Jude Law wouldn’t want to marry me.’
Angel put her fingers out, slipping them between the strands of Hayley’s brown hair.
‘You should get it cut,’ Angel announced. ‘Short. Like Anne Hathaway.’
Hayley examined the ends, split, dry and in need of help. She wasn’t going to find anyone as cheap as Brenda back home, but maybe she’d try if she was a living, breathing fashion alert as her daughter seemed to be suggesting. She cleared her throat.
‘Back to the question.’ She took hold of Angel’s hands. ‘If my dream was to marry Jude Law, I could, theoretically, stalking laws allowing, put myself in his world. But obviously not until I’ve had my hair seen to.’
Angel smiled. ‘But he still might not marry you.’
‘No, but I could do everything to make it happen. From being in the right place at the right time, to believing it was possible.’ She squeezed Angel’s hands.
‘But what if you don’t know where the thing you asked Father Christmas for is? Or how to find out.’
Hayley released one hand, placing it on her daughter’s head and smoothing down her silky hair. ‘You have to trust in your wish, Angel, that’s all I’m saying.’
All her daughter had to do was ask and she would tell her what she knew. But she sensed she wasn’t ready. Either that or she was worried what her asking would do, concerned about how it would make Hayley feel.
‘Lie down and close your eyes. And when I’m out of the room make your wish,’ Hayley said, standing up. She eased Angel back onto the pillow, stroking her hair.
‘Night, Mum,’ she said, her voice breathy as sleep started to overcome her.
‘Goodnight, Angel.’
12
Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
Today Oliver was untouchable. Today nothing was going to get to him. Not the chest pains, not his employees who didn’t understand the complex nature of his position and definitely not his mother’s threats about Christmas. He was going to be that business magnate all the newspapers said he was. A worthy successor to his father’s throne. Not the son who had ruined one career and was playing around with a second.
He had a macchiato in his gloved hands and the streets weren’t too snow-ridden thanks to the constant stream of citizens ploughing through. Horns blasted and brakes squealed as a large guy trying to carry a Christmas tree swayed into the road. The flags hanging from the buildings either side of him battled against the harsh wind and two men pedalling rickshaws fought against the elements, their passengers huddled up under blankets. Oliver smiled to himself. This morning he was going to take control and get a buzz going about the Globe.
Taking a swig from the cardboard cup with his name written on it, he pushed at the doors to his building. Standing on the matting just inside, the coffee caught in his throat.
Right in front of his eyes, to the right of the long stainless-steel reception desk, three men in coveralls were erecting a Christmas tree. A real Christmas tree at least ten feet tall. The scent of pine and greenery whooshed up his nose uninvited. What the hell was this doing here? He blinked hard and refocussed. No, it was still there. He gritted his teeth together. This had to go. He couldn’t have that monstrosity staring at him every time he entered and exited the building. When they had it upright, it would be bedecked. Gold, red, silver bells, stars and those damn jolly Santa Clauses. It wasn’t going to happen.
He closed his eyes. He needed to keep hold of his resolve, own the day. Without even looking at the women behind the desk waiting to greet him, he marched towards the bank of elevators. He’d show the season of goodwill exactly what he thought of it. Goodwill was exactly where the tree was heading.
* * *
Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan
Someone had drugged her. That was the only explanation as to why her brain didn’t feel connected to any other part of her and why her limbs were as heavy as solid rock.
Hayley turned back the bright turquoise duvet cover that was over her and attempted to slide out. Planting two feet on a sheepskin rug, she stood and hit her head on a glitter ball-style lampshade.
She let out a groan and put her hand to her temple, mussing her bed hair over her eyes. As she came to and the room came properly into focus, she realised where she was. New York. Her brother’s gigantic apartment, where everything shouted out his love of sparkles and flamboyance. There was a signed photo of Elton John in a gilt frame on the turquoise wall and below it a sculpture of Liberace, a pink feather boa around his neck. She shook her head, smiling. Her brother was such a stereotype.
She staggered to the door, almost getting her fingers caught in a decorative gold swag on the handle, and pulled it open. The smell of syrup enveloped her and the sound of Frank Sinatra was coming from the kitchen.
She made her way along the hall.
‘Angel Walker, you’re meant to get at least some of the ingredients into the pan!’
Hayley stood in the doorway taking in the scene before her. Angel had a jug in her hand and Dean was in charge of a large pan on the state-of-the-art hob. Last night she’d barely been able to take in the details of Dean’s home. Now, in the morning light, she saw just what an amazing pad Dean had. This kitchen/dining/living space was the jewel in the apartment’s crown. With chocolate brown chenille sofas, rugs, perfectly placed knick-knacks and a fifty-inch plasma TV in the lounge area, a ten-seater contemporary dining table with a chandelier over it and then, this fabulous kitchen. It spoke of Dean’s success, a success Hayley had always been proud of, if not a little jealous.
‘Hey, good morning,’ Dean greeted, spotting her leaning against the doorjamb.
‘Good morning.’ She waved a hand attached to a floppy arm. ‘I think I’m still on English time.’ A yawn took over. ‘Actually, scratch that, I know I’m still on English time.’
‘We’re making pancakes,’ Angel announced.
‘So I smell.’ She made her way over to the breakfast bar and hauled herself up onto a stool.
‘D’you want some coffee?’ Dean offered, taking a step back from the cooker.
She looked him up and down, from his immaculately polished brown brogues, his snug fit suit trousers, to his pale blue shirt and accompanying waistcoat. Suddenly, in the pyjamas she was wearing, with her terrible hair, she felt like a poster girl for The Big Issue.
‘Can I be really English and have tea?’
‘I’ve got orange juice with bits in,’ Angel said, holding aloft a glass.
‘Sure,’ Dean answered, going back to tending the pancakes. ‘Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earl Grey or Rooibos?’
‘The first one,’ Hayley answered. ‘I can do it if you tell me where the tea cupboard is.’
‘You sit there. You’re my guests.’ Dean, spatula in one hand, reached his other towards a bright red cupboard to his right, opening the door.
‘We’re not really guests, Uncle Dean, we’re family,’ Angel reminded him.
‘I know you are but you’re on holiday. You’re here to relax, take it easy and enjoy. Besides, I have to go in to work this morning so you’ll be doing the tea-making for yourselves until this afternoon.’
‘Ohhhhhh,’ Angel said, sou
nding disappointed.
‘Angel, not everyone gets to have school holidays,’ Hayley said, picking up a fruit she didn’t recognise from the sequinned bowl on the breakfast bar.
‘I wish I did.’ Dean served some pancakes up onto a plate. ‘But I’ll be back about three and we can go and see Vern and Randy like I promised.’
‘Yay!’ Angel exclaimed.
Dean put the plate of pancakes on the breakfast bar then lifted Angel up onto a stool, pressing a fork into her hand. She used the other hand to steer her New York guide book towards her.
‘So what d’you think you’ll do today?’ Dean asked, pouring hot water into a floral teapot.
‘We could go to the Empire State Building and then we could visit the Statue of Liberty and the Guggenheim museum and …’ Angel started, eyes like marbles.
‘Whoa! Hold that enthusiasm. Mum is going to need a New York minute to get over the jet lag,’ Hayley interrupted. ‘And New York isn’t just tourist attractions, you know. When I came here last time I tried to take in the local culture. The sounds, the scents … the galleries.’
The very first place she wanted to go was the gallery at the top of her hit list. New York Life. She just wasn’t sure how to pitch it to Angel. Telling her about the search was going to get her hopes up. She wanted to have some sort of sniff of hope before she told her daughter what she was doing.
‘But we’re only here for a few weeks and I want to ride on the ferry too and visit the New York Public Library and …’ Angel carried on, flicking over a page in her book
‘Angel, I promise, we will do all those things but …’ Hayley began. Her head was starting to throb.
‘Did I mention I have an Xbox?’ Dean said, diverting Angel’s attention as he poured the tea.
‘Do you?’ Angel’s eyes were wide again. ‘Dylan at school has an Xbox and I played it when I went to his birthday party. Do you have Lego Batman?’
‘You can download any game you like.’
‘Cool.’
Dean put a fine bone china cup full of tea in front of Hayley. ‘So what d’you say? Mum gets a long shower while you fight off the Joker and Penguin and then you can head out and suck up the big city.’
Hayley mouthed a thank you and put a finger through the delicate drinking vessel, bringing it to her mouth like it contained a life-preserving potion. ‘So, have you got a busy day ahead?’
Dean nodded, a mouth full of pancakes. ‘Oh yeah. Thanks to a panicky text from Peter at seven a.m.’
‘What’s happened?’ Angel asked.
‘Oliver Drummond has called a meeting for the whole design and development team at ten.’ Dean shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you how many meetings like this we’ve had. He will have been over the specifications of the Globe again and decided to tweak something that doesn’t need tweaking and me and my team will have to go back to the drawing board just to satisfy his ego.’
‘He sounds horrible,’ Angel said. She drank some of her orange juice.
‘Maybe the meeting won’t be like you think. It might be a good thing,’ Hayley suggested.
‘He’s delayed the sign-off for months now. Before too long the project just won’t be viable and me and everyone else working on it will have wasted so much time and money.’
‘What exactly is the Globe?’ Angel asked.
Dean smiled. ‘It’s like the iPad, only better because … I helped design it.’
‘Wow!’ Angel said.
‘Listen, I promise, no matter how this meeting goes I’ll bring one home and show it to you later.’ Dean got down from his stool and hurriedly finished his coffee. ‘I’ve got to go, get the heads-up on this meeting.’ He smiled at them both. ‘Anything you want, anything you need, eat it, drink it, play with it, treat this place as your place, OK?’
‘OK,’ Angel replied, putting her hand out for a high five.
Dean connected his hand then bent to kiss Hayley on the cheek. ‘Have that long shower and don’t do too much.’
‘Angel, did you hear that? We aren’t to do too much.’
‘Did you know Solomon Guggenheim’s first collections of paintings were displayed at the Plaza Hotel? Can we go there too?’ Angel raised her head out of her book.
‘Sounds like we are doing too much,’ Hayley said.
‘See you later. I’ll be back by three. Enjoy the Guggenheim.’ Dean waved a hand as he headed out the door.
‘Please tell me it has a café.’ Hayley picked up her teacup and put it to her mouth again.
Angel nodded her head, looking up again. ‘It does. And they sell fizzy wine.’
‘Perfect,’ Hayley answered.
Angel smiled. ‘Did you bring your ideas book to New York?’
‘I did.’
‘So maybe we could go to some fashiony places too,’ Angel suggested.
‘Maybe,’ Hayley answered.
‘Oh no, fashion alert. Uncle Dean’s forgotten his jacket.’ Angel’s eyes went to the dining area.
Hayley looked at the tailored grey suit jacket hanging over the back of the chair. Stylish, expensive – everything Dean had was top of the range to her bargain basement.
‘Can we drop it in to him?’ Angel asked.
‘Are we going to have time between all this culture?’
‘We might have to miss out the fizzy wine.’
Hayley slid down from the stool. ‘Going for a shower. Make the Xbox game quick! Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 89 – there’s so much to do!
13
Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
How was the chick in the red dress? Did she have a favourite animal ;)
Oliver smiled and shook his head at Tony’s attempt at text humour. Ten o’clock was nearing and he was nervous. He worked the fingers of both hands over the pliable material of his stress ball, trying to grind out the tension. He leant forward in his chair and pressed a button on his phone.
Two rings. Three rings. Impatience coursed through him. Where was she? Four rings.
‘Oliver,’ Clara finally spoke through the connection.
‘Where were you, Clara?’ he barked.
There was a short hesitation before the answer came. ‘I was collecting your mail.’
He shook his head in frustration. ‘Could you come to my office?’
‘Would you like the mail?’
‘Is it ready?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Look, forget the mail, just come in here.’ He ended the call and stood.
This week he had let situations get the better of him. He’d given in to his medical condition and, in the aftermath, he had dwelt on it all way too much. Today, and every other day going forward, was going to be strictly business, emotion free. The second he dropped his guard, even just a centimetre, he lost sight of the big picture, what he wanted. And, for the most part, all that was was to be left alone. No questions, no complications and no promises.
He paced now, his irritation fuelling every step. How long did it take to walk the corridor for God’s sake? Perhaps he ought to suggest she wore shoes she could actually move in. There was a knock on the door and then it was pushed open, Clara appearing a little flustered and distracted, her leather portfolio in her hands.
‘I need you to take a letter,’ he barked before the whole of her had entered.
‘Of course.’ She bustled in, heading for the chair opposite his.
‘It’s to Luther Jameson. The usual address.’ Oliver began to gather speed as he walked up and down in front of the windows showing off the Manhattan skyline.
‘Luther Jameson?’ Clara asked.
He turned to look at her, saw her pen poised over her pad, hesitating.
‘Is there a problem with that?’ He ground his teeth together, just waiting for her to dare to oppose him.
‘No, I …’ Clara began.
He cut her off. ‘Dear Luther. I was sorry to miss you at the golf club last month. I hear a good time was had by all and a consid
erable sum of money was raised for the McArthur Foundation. Unfortunately, due to prior commitments, I will be unable to attend the fundraiser on …’ He paused, turning back to Clara. ‘Add the date in there whenever it is. But, to go some way towards an apology I enclose a cheque for $25,000 in addition to Drummond Global’s annual donation. I hope you have a successful and lucrative night for the charity and I wish you and your family a wonderful Christmas.’ Oliver let out a sigh. ‘He isn’t Jewish, is he?’
Clara kept her eyes fixed on the notes she was taking.
‘Clara, is the man Jewish? Does he celebrate Christmas?’
‘I’ll check.’
‘Send it out today, I’ll sign the cheque.’
Clara was unmoving.
‘That’s it,’ Oliver said, walking back to his desk. ‘You can go now. I’ve got a meeting with design and development at ten.’
Clara got to her feet, hugging the portfolio to her chest. ‘Oliver …’
‘There is one other thing,’ he interrupted. He breathed in hard. ‘I don’t know who organised that monstrosity of a Christmas tree in the lobby but I want it gone. Today.’
He sat down in his chair and put his hand on the mouse next to his keyboard. This was how a day should be started. Controlled, conducted, nothing left to chance. Long may it continue.
* * *
Boardroom One – Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
As Oliver arrived at the boardroom door he could hear the hubbub of voices. He strained his ears, trying to catch snippets of the words. He could imagine what they were saying. They all thought he had called them here to pull apart the latest version of the Globe. All the revisions it had been through had been necessary. Since he’d started on the project, he knew he wanted to create something to really rival Apple. Lots of companies had tried but he was going to be the one to succeed. Because, despite what some people thought, he did know this business. His father had made sure of that.