by Mandy Baggot
Hayley took a sip of her cappuccino and turned to the view outside. Even with a layer of snow over the ground of Central Park the paths were filled with joggers, walkers, people going about their business as usual. It wouldn’t happen in England. In England, a couple of flakes of the white stuff and the whole country fell apart. Cars skidded, buses stopped running, schools closed and people hid under their duvets. New York wasn’t just a different city, it was a whole different world. But it was a world she definitely wanted to get to know better. She turned back to her ideas book, open on the table in front of her. Warty frogs and pigs with multiple tails weren’t something to inspire the fashionista in her but perhaps the architecture of the building was. She smoothed her pencil over a page.
‘Do you want to share?’ Angel asked, pointing to a portion of cake on her plate.
Hayley shook her head. ‘No, you go for it. I have plans for hot dogs and roasted nuts.’
‘I wish Uncle Dean could have come with us today,’ Angel said, crumbling part of her cake with her fingers.
‘He’s going to finish early, remember? So you can go crazy with the dog.’ Being English she felt she couldn’t say Randy too much in public. She drew a little more, curving a neckline like the exterior of the building.
Angel clamped her hands over her mouth Macaulay Culkin style. ‘We forgot to phone Nanny!’
Hayley looked up from her book and replicated her daughter’s look but with less of the sentiment. She hadn’t forgotten, she had avoided it. ‘She’s fine. She texted Uncle Dean.’
‘I feel bad,’ Angel said, propping her head up on her elbow on the table.
‘Don’t feel bad. It was my fault I didn’t remember to remember.’
‘You mean you forgot.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Do you think Nanny would have liked this museum?’ Angel asked.
Hayley smiled. ‘I think she would have moaned about the toilet facilities and the prices and she would have hated that painting of the dustbin.’
Angel laughed. ‘Shall I send her a postcard of it?’
Hayley closed the book and put her pencil down. ‘Angel Walker, that’s something I would do. And if you turn out like me, Nanny will call the vicar and get you exorcised.’
Angel frowned. ‘Like make me go running?’
‘Ah ha! Special dictionary required. E-X-O-R-C-I-S-E-D’
Angel picked up her rucksack and dug her hands inside.
Hayley smiled, picking up her coffee cup.
‘Exorcise. To free a person of evil spirits.’ Angel grinned and waved her fingers across the table. ‘Wooooo!’
‘Attagirl. Want to ride the subway?’
‘But we haven’t finished here yet!’ Angel folded her arms across her chest. ‘I want to see a piece called Grosse Fatigue.’
‘Just imagine me with bed hair and mix it together with fizzy wine and jet lag.’ Hayley grinned. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow.’
15
Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
Oliver was buzzing. Getting the fundraiser off his back first thing had set him up for the rest of the day. The meeting with the design and development team had been the cherry on top. Now the only thing hanging over him was the takeover of Regis Software. Maybe Clara had been right. Maybe he had taken his finger off the pulse with respect to that. Perhaps he needed to do more. He’d had an email from Mackenzie this morning saying the lawyers were dragging their feet over some moot point.
What would his father do? He shifted in his seat as that thought went through his mind. Why was he thinking that? Hadn’t he been telling everybody he wasn’t his father, that he was his own man? He shouldn’t need an eighties businessman’s guidance to manage a twenty-first-century company. Did he really need or want this merger? What were the benefits for both companies?
He picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a key. He waited for Clara to answer. ‘Clara, could you get Andrew Regis on the phone?’
* * *
Outside Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
Hayley’s eyes went from the dark grey street, the snow having been worn away, through the chrome and glass entrance doors and upwards, scanning the many floors to the spiral top of the offices.
The building of Drummond Global was like a real-life Lego construction, only made of metalwork and windows, not plastic bricks. It was a complete world away from the architecture of the Guggenheim. This was industry. People inside this multi-million-dollar organisation were all part of important decisions, deal-breaking negotiations, creating and selling vital technology. Dean was a global hardware genius, fitting right into this high-stakes world. It was another universe when compared to fresh-pressing and stain removal at the cutting edge of the dry-cleaning industry.
‘Is this where Donald Trump works?’ Angel asked, her eyes following her mother’s, her hands occupied with a giant hot dog. Hayley had devoured hers in thirty seconds and moved on to a pretzel that hadn’t taken much longer to finish.
‘No,’ Hayley said, her eyes following the line of the building and back down again. ‘This is where Uncle Dean works.’
‘Wow, it’s huge,’ Angel said through splutters of bun.
‘Yeah, it is.’
The sound of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ came bursting out of a boom box on the sidewalk, a breakdancing reindeer busting some moves. Hayley reached a hand out to Angel. ‘Come on.’
‘Hot-dog hands,’ Angel said, shaking the bread-covered sausage up and down and following.
‘We won’t be here long. We’ll just leave this jacket for Mr Meanie and we’ll go and get milkshakes.’
Angel answered with an indecipherable noise through sausage chomping.
Hayley pushed at the door and the warm air from inside buffeted her hair as she passed through the entrance. She heard another wow escape from Angel’s lips as they stepped into the foyer.
It was the grandest office Hayley had ever been in and looked more like a high-tech hotel. There was a cream tiled floor that had been polished so well you could almost use it as a mirror, a central terminal with a bank of screens dominated the rest of the area and at the far end of the room was the reception desk, a sculpted metal affair with three women – scratch that, three models – in matching grey and pale blue uniform sat behind it.
‘Fashion alert at twelve o’clock,’ Hayley whispered to Angel. ‘Grey and pale blue. What were they thinking?’
‘They need some tangerine in there,’ Angel replied. ‘Or some deep plum.’
‘Nice work.’
‘Wow! Look!’
Before she could say anything else, Angel was skating across the slick floor. Her daughter stopped just in front of a giant Christmas tree. It was easily three feet wide and its star topper almost touched the ceiling. The annual spruce in Trafalgar Square had nothing on this. Then she creased her brow at the scene. Two men in overalls were working deftly with the swags, baubles and bells but it looked like they were taking the decorations off rather than putting them on.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ she called to Angel.
She went up to the reception desk, undoing the zip of her backpack as she moved. Smiling at one of the blonde-haired receptionists, she pulled the jacket out of her bag. Angel arrived at her side.
‘Hi, good afternoon. Could I just leave this for Oliver Drummond?’ Hayley draped the jacket over the desk and watched the receptionist’s friendly smile turn into misunderstanding.
‘He left it in a restaurant last night and I’m just returning it.’
The receptionist didn’t look like she wanted to take ownership of the jacket or do anything about it. ‘I’m afraid Mr Drummond is out right now.’
‘That’s fine. I don’t need to see him. I’m just dropping off the jacket,’ Hayley said. She pushed the item a little nearer the receptionist.
The woman nodded and then picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll just give his PA a call.’
‘That’s OK, I don’t
need to see anyone, honestly. I’m just doing a favour for my brother.’
‘Clara? I have someone here for Mr Drummond.’ The receptionist paused for a moment. ‘With an item of clothing.’ She then looked at Angel. ‘And a child.’
What on earth was going on? Why couldn’t she just leave the jacket and be on her way? She should have just said the jacket was for Dean and let him sort it out. She was stuck now, waiting for a personal assistant who probably had a heap of important computer stuff to get on with.
‘Thank you,’ the receptionist said into the phone before replacing the receiver. ‘Clara will be right down. Would you care to take a seat?’
Hayley let out a frustrated noise and moved towards a selection of dark grey leather sofas that looked like they’d been manufactured out of Jurassic World models.
‘Your face is all red and blotchy,’ Angel remarked as they sat down. She started to finish her hot dog.
Hayley put her fingers to her cheeks, feeling the heat there. An errand for Dean was going to make her look like a stalker. One of those obsessive types that wanted to drink the victim’s pee or roll in their bed sheets to be close to them. Actually the rolling in the bed sheets held a certain appeal.
The only saving grace was Oliver Drummond was out. He need never know she was here. She could be any anonymous woman with a child bringing back a jacket he’d mislaid.
The entrance doors opened, an icy breeze whipping through into the reception and, along with it, the man whose jacket she had on her lap. There he was. The rich guy she’d helped escape down an alley. Oliver Drummond. He was unbuttoning a black woollen coat as he entered, revealing a well-fitting charcoal-coloured suit. Highly polished leather shoes were on his feet, but her eyes quickly moved upwards, over the width of his chest, his brown-blonde hair spiked and scattered with snowflakes and those unmistakeable eyes.
‘That’s him!’ Angel stage-whispered, hot dog bun specks falling from her mouth.
Hayley swallowed, watching him make his way across the floor, another man at his side, engrossed in conversation. She needed to stop looking at him. If he turned his head, even one inch, he would see her. And then it happened. He looked to the bank of sofas where they were sitting and their eyes connected. She felt the look deep in her belly and hated herself for it having any effect at all. Drooling over Channing Tatum was one thing, this, especially when the business pin-up was only metres away, was another. Just as quickly as their eyes had met he turned back to his companion, still walking to the elevators at the end of the room. He’d dismissed her. Looked and then looked away. He really was the fickle philanderer she’d first pegged him as. Unwanted disappointment struck.
‘Did you know Oliver Drummond is one of the richest men in America?’
‘I’ve told you lots of times before, Angel, money isn’t everything,’ Hayley snapped. She was annoyed at herself. How fickle she was!
‘I know. Uncle Dean says he’s nearly always miserable,’ Angel followed up.
‘Yes, well, right now I know how he feels.’ What was she doing with this damn jacket? She should have strode across the reception area and thrown it at him. Then he might have remembered her. Not that she was bothered that he hadn’t.
Hayley got to her feet the second she realised a woman wearing a black business suit that was a little too small for her, a coral statement necklace at her décolletage, was heading past Oliver Drummond and his companion towards them. A poker straight expression was on her face.
‘Hello,’ Hayley greeted, gathering the jacket in her hands. ‘I’m sorry about all this. I just …’
‘Hello. I’m Angel.’
Hayley watched as Angel held her hand out to the woman, a beam of a smile on her face.
The woman reached out, took Angel’s hand in hers and shook it. ‘Hello, I’m Clara, Mr Drummond’s personal assistant.’
‘Wow,’ Angel said, as if she’d just announced she was the first female Pope.
Hayley pushed the jacket towards Clara. ‘I think the receptionist got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t want to see Mr Drummond I just … my brother works here, and Oliver … I mean Mr Meanie … Drummond, sorry, Mr Drummond, he left this jacket in a Chinese restaurant last night.’ She shook her head at the scenario. ‘He forgot it this morning … Dean, my brother and … he asked me to drop it in.’
‘Chinese food again, huh?’ Clara remarked, folding the jacket over her arm. ‘One day he’s going to turn into a deep-fried noodle.’ She smiled at Angel who grinned, all eyes and teeth. At least one of them was functioning like a normal human being.
‘Right, well, we’ll be going. Come on, Angel,’ Hayley said, grabbing her daughter by the sleeve of her coat.
‘Did you know that as well as being one of America’s richest men, Mr Drummond is also one of the world’s most eligible bachelors?’ Angel piped up.
Hayley wanted the ground to swallow her up. For someone who was so intelligent, Angel had no idea what might not be appropriate in polite conversation.
‘I didn’t know what it meant at first but then I Googled bachelor and …’
Hayley put an arm around Angel and stifled her into her coat. ‘We’ll be going now.’
Clara smiled. ‘What was your name again?’ The question was directed at Hayley.
Hayley stroked Angel’s hair, pressing her face into her side as her daughter attempted to struggle her mouth away to freedom.
‘Lois,’ Hayley croaked. Angel let out a stifled noise that sounded like a gagged hostage.
As she turned them both away from Clara and headed rapidly to the door, she was already cringing. She didn’t let Angel go until they were outside, sucking in the frozen winter air.
‘Why did you do that?’ Angel moaned, rubbing at her lips with her fingers.
‘Why did I do that? Why did you come out with the top ten amazing facts about her boss?’
Angel shrugged. ‘I only know two.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘You were acting all funny,’ Angel carried on. ‘And why did you say your name was Lois?’
Hayley pointed down the street. ‘Oooo look, a bodega! Let’s see if they have Yorkshire puddings and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.’
16
Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
Oliver splashed some water onto his face, letting the beads of moisture take away the heat there. The conversation with Andrew Regis today had been a little odd. When he’d tried to get out of the man exactly what the outstanding issues with the merger were, Andrew hadn’t had much to say.
Oliver stood up, palming his face, letting the excess water fall into the square basin in front of him. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, catching the last drips off his chin then planting his hands down on the bench, steadying himself.
He’d suggested another meeting to iron things out, talk about the future for the companies and then Andrew had hit him with it. Talk about the past. Tales of his father’s avant-garde approach to business back in a time where firms were struggling, the economy was in a sticky patch and unemployment figures were higher than ever. Weekends in the Hamptons and barbecues on the beach. Andrew had brought all those images flooding into focus and, along with it, every ounce of pain, regret and anger Oliver felt. Plus the giant sceptre of fear that was always hanging over him.
There had been times, wonderful, care-free times, when death hadn’t lurked in every corner of the Drummonds’ lives. There had been laughter, so much laughter, a childhood Oliver wished he’d been more appreciative of at the time. Their beach house at the Hamptons had been sold but he still remembered everything about it. The way his mom had decorated it in a nautical, seaside theme. Cool blues and greys, driftwood sculptures on the dresser, photos in bare wood frames, shells and sand in pots, nothing uniform. He and Ben had spent endless days on the sand, chasing each other, chasing girls when they were older, and running after every last sunset before they had to come inside. Then it was movies with popcorn, w
rapped up in striped rugs, their hair still wet, sand sharp between their toes. Richard always wanted comedy so he could laugh out loud. Cynthia preferred romance so she could cry. Ben liked action movies and if Jackie Chan was in one he’d loved it even more. Oliver had never minded what they watched as long as they were all together.
He swallowed back the memories and stared at himself. What was he doing? Looking for all the answers like they were etched on his face? There was nothing there except the eyes he’d inherited from his mother, the long straight nose of his father and the hard, tense jaw which was all his own. He needed to get it together. Just because it was that time of year again, didn’t mean he could fall apart.
He sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the pull of his chest wall and the spasm of an ache that happened when he straightened his shoulders. He shrugged them up and down, trying to release the tension. Maybe it was stress. Perhaps it was better to believe he was weak than face the notion he was going to drop dead at any moment. He scoffed. Tony would be chastising him if he was here now.
As if the reminiscing hadn’t been enough, Andrew had also mentioned the McArthur Foundation fundraiser. The businessman had bought two tables and he was taking his top performing employees. Oliver remembered opening his mouth to tell Andrew he wouldn’t be attending but something had stopped him from committing to the sentence. It was plain and simple guilt over his non-attendance, over his mother’s disappointment and disapproval, over everything in his damn life right now. Fucking guilt he shouldn’t have to bear. At this rate, guilt was going to kill him sooner than any heart attack.