by Mandy Baggot
‘She’s fine,’ Hayley stated quickly. ‘It was just full on at the Statue of Liberty, loads of people, an incident in the crown and …’
‘What incident?’ Dean looked concerned now. She really did need to stop embellishing her lies too much. She talked herself into trouble rather than out of it.
‘Oh, you know, a kid with a giant ice cream, you can imagine the rest,’ Hayley said, sighing. She hoped he could imagine the rest because she wasn’t sure what came next.
Dean scooted down at the edge of the sofa, his head on a level with Angel’s. ‘It’s a shame you’re not hungry, because Vern’s invited us over for dinner.’
Very slowly, Angel turned her head ninety degrees and faced him.
‘Really?’ she asked.
‘Really. He was on about making meatballs,’ Dean said.
Angel’s tongue ran over her lips. ‘And will Randy be allowed out?’
‘I expect so. That mutt rules the roost over there,’ Dean responded.
‘Yay!’ Angel exclaimed, bouncing on the sofa.
Dean stood up again. ‘So how about it?’ he asked, directing the question at Hayley.
She chewed up the pizza in her mouth, the melted cheese singeing her tongue as she chowed as quickly as she could to answer. ‘Can I take a rain check?’
‘Mum! No! I want to go,’ Angel whined.
‘You can go … if that’s all right with Dean. I just … there’s some things I need to do.’ She enlarged her eyes at her brother, hoping he would get her meaning. She needed to call some more galleries about Michel. She’d had no leads since they got here. As discreetly as she could with cheese hanging from her lips, she mouthed the man’s name.
Dean gave a nod of acknowledgement.
‘Can I come, Uncle Dean?’ Angel batted her eyelashes, all depression over what had happened at the house in Westchester disappearing.
‘Sure, with one condition,’ Dean said, pointing at Angel and adopting a serious expression.
‘What?’ Angel asked.
‘No “Alfie and the Toymaker” tonight and you play this game called Rabbit Nation on the Globe and tell me what you think.’
Hayley watched Angel’s concentrated expression, mulling the terms over.
Angel nodded. ‘Deal.’
‘Right, well, why don’t you go and get changed so you’re ready to go,’ Hayley said, standing up and stacking Angel’s pizza box over hers.
‘Can I borrow your red sparkly top?’ Angel asked, tipping her head a little to the left and giving her the benefit of the eyelash dance.
‘To roll around on the floor with Randy?’
‘Purrrlllease.’
‘Urgh! Go on then,’ Hayley gave in.
* * *
7th Avenue, Downtown Manhattan
Oliver had had way too much to drink and nothing to eat. Perhaps he was more like his father than he’d thought. Richard had never worried about healthy living. He’d been very much in the club of going with whatever hand Fate dealt him. He never worked out. He had never curbed his carbs or toned down the Scotch. And he’d beaten the curse. At least until his sixties, when it had finally caught up with him. And Cynthia had cried desperate tears, leant over his body and wept for another family member lost, her soulmate taken too soon, leaving her a widow. Andrew had comforted her, Andrew whose wife had succumbed to cancer just a few years before. A constant in their lives for so long. School friends who had struck out on their own, achieving success in the same field.
Oliver carried on, stumbling a little on the slippery streets. This takeover of Regis Software was supposed to be about combining their strengths, achieving a crossover into sectors neither of the companies had entered separately before. Regis Software had cornered the health industry, Drummond Global had strong contracts with NASA. But what if it wasn’t about that at all? What if this was all about Andrew Regis staking his claim on Richard Drummond’s property?
Maybe this was about Cynthia. Strengthening his position in the business to coincide with his personal life. Now his brain was working overtime. What if they got married? What happened then? He had enough suspicion to set Daniel Pearson to work. He just had to wait and see what turned up.
Now he felt sick and his vision was blurred. Spending the day in the bar had been the best way to avoid the phone calls he was sure had been jamming up the Drummond Global switchboard.
Oliver stopped walking and palmed his face, trying to clear his eyes and his head. He looked up through the darkness and along the street. Just how many blocks away from Dean Walker’s apartment was he?
* * *
Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan
Hayley had gone through all the M De Vos’s on the internet’s version of the phone directory. Why she thought she would have more luck here than she had at home in England she didn’t know. No one claimed to know or be the Michel she’d met in Vipers ten years ago. But would even the man himself remember her? It was one night. She might remember every man she’d ever slept with, but what if he had a hundred conquests … or more? She swallowed. She didn’t want to think that for lots of reasons. Because it made him promiscuous and her not just careless about contraception but downright insane. She also didn’t want to think about lots of little Angels or Gabriels around the world if the artist had sown many seeds.
She picked up the glass of white wine she’d poured and took a mouthful. None of the other galleries would be open now unless they had an exhibition. It would be better to call them in the morning.
The intercom sounded, making her jump. She got down from the kitchen bar stool and padded across to the machine on the wall. She was dressed for bed in a red and white polka dot onesie, Angel’s cat slipper socks on her feet. It was far too early to be Dean and Angel, besides, Dean had a key. Unless he’d forgotten it. She hoped it wasn’t someone she had to let in.
She pressed the button. ‘Hello.’
There was the sound of scuffling and she straight away thought it was kids pranking about. But then someone spoke.
‘I guess you’re happy now.’
She furrowed her brow. The owner of the words was slurring over them. Maybe it was a down-and-out.
‘I think you have the wrong apartment.’ She was about to let the button go and return to her wine when the man spoke again.
‘You’re all the same, you know. You all use people to get what you want.’
Familiarity kicked in. It was Oliver Drummond and he was drunk.
‘Oliver? Is that you?’
‘Now my mother is doing it to me too. She set up this deal and now I know why.’
What was he doing here? How did he even know she was staying here? Had she told him she was staying with Dean? He was drunk and annoyed and she was on her own. In a onesie. But he was Dean’s boss and she had run away after kissing him last night.
‘Listen, stay right there.’ She paused. ‘I’m coming down.’
She let go of the button and raced out of the room towards the stairs.
* * *
He was going to be sick. All he could taste was the amalgamation of beer, whisky and peanuts he’d inhaled from the bowl on the bar. It was all fighting for release and he was swaying, holding onto the plaster of the façade outside the apartment.
The door opened and there she was. Hayley. The woman he’d kissed last night, the woman who had sold him out to the press. What was she wearing? She looked like Santa Claus. A cute Santa Claus. He really was drunk.
‘You look terrible,’ she announced.
He nodded his head in acceptance, then remembered he was supposed to be furious with her and adopted the appropriate facial expression. ‘You,’ he said, pointing a finger at her, still swaying. ‘You went to the newspaper.’
‘What?’
‘The front page of the New York Times. You sold your story to a journalist.’
He clamped a hand onto the stair rail to the left of the short run of steps he was stood at the top of. He raised his eyes
and found no shock on her face, just a lot of anger.
‘How dare you,’ Hayley stated, shaking her head at him.
‘How dare I? I’m the injured party here,’ Oliver slurred.
‘Look at you! Sponsored by Budweiser and rolling up here throwing accusations about.’
He had no response and his eyes rolled back as balance became a real issue.
‘Get inside,’ she ordered, shifting back from the door and opening it wider. There was no way she was going to have the perfect couple from across the street being witness to this.
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because if you make an arse of yourself in front of my brother’s apartment I’ll never forgive you.’
He lost his footing and stumbled off the top step. Suddenly his arm was being grabbed and he was pulled forward, up the step he’d fallen down and over the threshold of the apartment.
‘Get up the stairs, go into the bathroom and vomit.’ She sighed. ‘Then I’ll make coffee.’
Just her words made his stomach lurch like he’d come down off the top of a roller coaster. She pushed him in the direction of the stairs and suddenly he was crawling up them at pace, using the wall for support. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it.
26
Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan
Oliver had been in the bathroom for almost twenty minutes before he finally emerged, pale and perspiring. Hayley watched him shuffle towards her and she picked up the tray she’d prepared and turned quickly. She knew her body language was saying ‘angry’ but, in truth, she was feeling much more than that. A small part of her was worried about him. He’d obviously been daytime drinking and that couldn’t be just down to a newspaper article, could it?
‘Sit down before you fall down,’ she ordered, nodding towards one of Dean’s couches.
‘Why does it sound like I don’t have a choice?’ he asked.
‘Because you don’t.’ She brought the coffee pot, mugs, glass of water, Advil and shortbread biscuits over to the coffee table and put the tray down. Then she sat in the nearest chair and watched him gingerly lower himself to the cushioned seat.
‘Feel rough?’ she asked, despite being able to see the answer.
‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded his head then put his hands to it.
‘Room spinning? Walls caving in? Mouth like an under-watered pot plant?’
‘OK, you can really stop now,’ he groaned.
She leant forward on her seat and reached for the glass of water and the painkillers. She held them out. ‘Here, drink this and swallow these.’ His hand shook as he took the glass and when he offered his other she tipped the pills into his hand.
She watched him put the tablets into his mouth and swallow them down with a couple of gulps of fluid.
‘So, you spent the whole afternoon in a bar and then you came round here to accuse me of speaking to the newspaper.’
He just looked at her, blinking his dark eyelashes over those full hazel eyes, nothing but vulnerability staring back at her. He looked lost.
‘Can you at least wait until the pills have kicked in?’ He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.
‘If I wait, guessing the alcohol to blood ratio, you’re probably going to fall asleep.’
He made a frustrated noise, pulled at his hair and sat back in the chair. ‘Why is it so bright in here?’
‘That’s the disco-ball side of my brother. He likes glitter and sparkles, the brighter the better.’
‘Yay.’
‘Ooo attitude. A minor recovery.’ She reached for the coffee pot and poured herself a mug full. Then she sat back and nursed it in her hands. ‘So, let me be clear. I did not contact any journalist or talk to anyone about you. Either another woman did – there must be hundreds of candidates in line – or your office or apartment is bugged.’ She took a sip of the coffee. ‘This is New York after all.’
* * *
He felt his lips work into a smile then. Her Englishness was coming out now. He still had no idea what she was wearing but she looked cute, even through his blurred vision. Her dark hair framed her heart-shaped face and those clear intense eyes did something to him. He drank a little more of the water. She hadn’t sold him out. He should have known that. If she was going to tell a story it would have had far more embellishment and a mention of Superman.
‘Is that what you think about New York? That it’s all espionage and underhand dealings?’ he asked.
‘After the day I’ve had I’m thinking it’s a cross between that and the Gilmore Girls.’ She let out a sigh. ‘But I didn’t drown my sorrows in the nearest glass.’
‘No?’ Oliver said, indicating the wine glass still sat on the breakfast bar behind them.
‘That wasn’t because I had a bad day. That was just because I like wine.’ She put her lips to the mug. ‘And anytime you want to apologise for accusing me of being a grass I’m ready to take it.’
‘A grass?’ he asked, looking blankly at her.
‘Spilling my guts. Being a snitch, an informant, you know, telling, ratting you out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, his voice soft.
‘Yes, you should be.’
‘And I am.’
‘Quite rightly.’
‘Do you ever let anyone else have the last word?’
‘Only my daughter, and we really fight like hell for it.’
He laughed then, unable to help himself, despite how terrible he felt. He pulled himself forward and put his water back on the table.
‘So what made you ditch work for beer?’ Hayley asked.
‘Bad meeting.’
‘Not the Globe? ’
He shook his head. ‘No, not the Globe. It was more of a personal thing.’
Should he tell her? About his mother and Andrew Regis? It wouldn’t mean anything unless he explained. His head was pounding now. He opened his mouth to speak.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Hayley interrupted. ‘It’s none of my business.’
He nodded. ‘I deserve that.’
‘What?’ she asked, looking confused.
‘I came here drunk, yelling like some immature jerk off. I shouldn’t expect you to be my counsellor.’
‘Is that what you need?’
‘Probably,’ he admitted.
* * *
Despite the smart suit that probably cost hundreds, if not thousands of dollars, Oliver looked so far removed from her idea of one of the world’s richest men. He was less confident here, hungover, his demeanour slightly crumpled. Seeing him like this, his defences down, human, made her shift a little in her seat. An eligible bachelor, her brain added all by itself. She put her cup on the table. ‘I can listen.’
He shook his head quickly. ‘No. There’s no point.’
‘What d’you mean, there’s no point?’
‘I’ll just end up sounding like the selfish asshole I am and you don’t need that hassle.’
‘I don’t like people making judgement calls for me.’ She sniffed.
‘No?’
‘I thought I’d made that clear last night.’
‘When I insulted your wish.’
‘I’m over that. I thought I made that clear too.’
She swallowed. Despite his dishevelled appearance and the fact he reeked of booze, she was dipping her toe into dangerous waters here. The memory of their kiss in the snow was pushing its way into her frontal lobe. If she let her brain pull her back to that place, she could still recall the texture of his lips on hers, the weight and urgency of his mouth …
‘My mother’s dating.’ He nodded. ‘My father’s best friend.’
‘A little Dear Deirdre I guess.’
‘It’s been over a year. Things move on.’
‘But it doesn’t sound like you’re happy about it.’
‘It isn’t about her moving on necessarily. It’s who it’s with.’
She watched him grit his teeth
and rock forward on the sofa.
‘And I know how that sounds. Like I’m a kid with issues,’ he added.
Hayley held her hands up. ‘I wish my mother would date anyone, just to stop her watching gardening programmes. No judgement here.’
‘Andrew Regis was my father’s best friend since school,’ Oliver began. ‘We’ve been in discussions about Drummond Global taking over his company and now I know why.’
‘You think it’s because he’s dating your mother?’
‘Yeah I think that.’ He reached for the coffee pot with a shaking hand. ‘And I’m also thinking a lot of other stuff too. Like what are his other motives for this merger. Like whether this relationship started before or after my father died.’
‘Oh, Oliver,’ Hayley said. She watched him pour himself a coffee then warm his hands with the mug.
‘Don’t sympathise. A counsellor would just sit and listen and quietly think about bringing the appointment to an end as soon as was reasonable.’
‘Shall I yawn and look at my watch?’ she suggested.
She saw him smile. ‘That might work,’ he replied.
‘So have you spoken to your mum about it?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s other things going on with us right now.’
‘Like what?’
‘You’re good at this.’
‘Good at what? Conversation? Yeah, I have to admit I do like to talk. Particularly that last word.’
He took a sip of his coffee and settled back into the sofa.
‘And that was a highly proficient swerve from the topic,’ she said.
‘Let’s just say she wants me to do something I just don’t want to do.’
‘Mothers do that. I do that with Angel.’
‘I don’t expect you’d make her stand up in a room full of people and talk about a dead relative.’
‘Your father?’
‘No, my brother.’
* * *
And there was Ben sweeping into his mind again. His short dark hair, his engaging smile, the perfect American-dream poster boy. His jealousy and grief always intertwined so freely, both jarring, both painful to recapture. He’d loved his brother, desperately. He recalled the first time he’d thought they’d lost him. They were out on the ocean just a few hundred yards away from their summer beachside retreat, larking about on the boat when the weather had taken a turn for the worse. He’d done everything his father had taught him to get the boat to shore, Ben had taken charge, tried to quell both their panic. But they just seemed to be drifting further and further out to sea. And then a wave had rocked the vessel so hard it had flipped his brother overboard. He still remembered the waves, smashing against the side of the hull, angry white crests, hiding his brother. He had stared into the water, eyes straining, looking for the bright orange of Ben’s lifejacket. What seemed like minutes had ticked by until finally he’d surfaced, spitting, coughing, his arms flailing against the current. Oliver had strained over the side of the yacht, uncaring for himself, holding the wooden oar at arm’s length and praying for Ben to reach it. He had and they’d lain on the deck knowing if the elements took them they would be going together. Less than five minutes later, Richard had turned up on a speedboat and they were safe.