Title not found

by Creator not found

  “My man said I could have his breakfast this morning.”

  Amy tuts to the ceiling. “Well, if the boss calls it. Eggs?”

  “Poached please, flower.” He hops up to a stool next to me. “You don’t mind me being here for breakfast, Scarlett, do you?”

  I laugh through my coffee. “You have more of a right to be here than I do, Jackson, and don’t pretend he hasn’t told you to babysit me whilst he’s gone.”

  “He said nothing of the sort,” he laughs.

  “No crutches today?”

  “Nah, it’s healing up nicely already.” He proves his point by flexing his injured leg then straightening it flat and flexing it again. “I’d like to be driving again next week.”

  “Isn’t that a little soon?”

  He scoffs and shakes his head. “If I don’t get back soon I think Kenneth might lose a limb.”

  “One porridge with seeds,” Amy announces, placing the steaming bowl in front of me. “You can put your own honey on to taste.” She pushes a very pale looking substance towards me.

  “What’s Manuka?” I ask, reading the label.

  “Oh, one of those healthy things.”

  “I hold the pot up in front of my face. “It’s honey?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. It has some superhuman properties or some rubbish. Gregory insists on it, won’t have any other kind. Crackers if you ask me, it’s ten times the price of ordinary honey.”

  “Hmm, tastes okay I suppose.”

  I gobble up my porridge, drink my coffee then finish up getting ready for work.

  “Kenneth is downstairs. Do you have his number?” Jackson asks, still munching his way through poached eggs on toast.

  “Yes. Gregory put it in my phone last night.”

  “Alright then. Call me if you need anything. Let’s try not to do anything to make the crazy fool jump straight back on that jet home.”

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, Dad.”

  “There’s no need for cheek, girl. I’ll be at Lara’s this afternoon seeing Sandy but I’ll be back tonight.”

  My eyebrow instinctively rises.

  “Get out of here!” Jackson snaps, clearly suppressing a smirk.

  Kenneth drives me to work where Margaret has left a latte on my desk with my mail. I’ve got one conference call this afternoon, otherwise I can get my head down into some documents. I look around for my desk phone but it’s disappeared.

  “Margaret?” She’s in my office almost immediately, wearing my favourite of her outfits, her cute peach tweed suit. It’s just so Margaret. She removes her glasses and lets them hang round her neck by a silver diamante chain. “New chain?”

  She rolls her eyes with a blush. “Just a little sparkle.”

  “I like it. Erm, where’s my phone?”

  “The whole office has been upgraded to Lync messaging. You have to use your headphones, see?” She hands me a headset with a microphone which is already connected to my machine. “Pop it on and I’ll show you.”

  She clicks the Start menu, leaning across my shoulder for my mouse, and opens the Lync application. “I’ve already loaded in your contacts. If you want to make a call you click here. If a call is incoming all you have to do is click there. Give it a try today and see how you get on. I’ll arrange for the IT team to give you a lesson if you like.”

  My shoulders sag as I sigh. “More bloody change,” I mutter under my breath. “Thanks, Margaret, I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

  “You know where I am if you need me.” With that, she turns on her nude kitten heel and walks back to her desk. She’s such a hip granny.

  Adjusting the microphone into position, I dial my favourite contact at the firm.

  “Hey foxy lady!”

  “Hello yourself. I’m trialling this bloody no phone malarkey.”

  “Mmm, slight pain in the arse, it has to be said. But check out the instant messaging piece. There’re so many emojis it’s pretty cool. Now I can just send you one of these instead of drafting an email.”

  A tiny icon depicting a cocktail glass flashes up in my instant messaging box. “Ha, I like it. Actually, Gregory’s been his stubborn self and made me another appointment with the Fashion Police at Harrods tomorrow. Come with me?”

  “Now, now, don’t be like that, Lucas was a delight, the cute little thing.”

  “You mean when he wasn’t stealing our carbs and telling me I make designer dresses look like a sack of potatoes?”

  She laughs and I know her head will be thrown back in her chair. “He didn’t say that, he just said, ‘Ew, darling, that’s all wrong.’”

  “Same thing. I need another evening dress and some country clothes.”

  “Country? But you’re City.”

  “Yes, apparently City doesn’t work for fox hunting.”

  “Fox hunting! Bloody hell! Where?”

  “No idea. The country somewhere.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yup. So you’ll come to Harrods tomorrow? We could have a girls’ night in with a bottle of wine after.” I silently beg her to say yes and not leave me in the apartment alone.

  “I’m there.”

  “Great, thank you. Now let me work out how on earth I’m supposed to disconnect this call.” There’s no need. Amanda’s obviously sussed this damned technology and the line goes dead.

  Abdulla Ghurair’s work keeps me distracted for most of the day but the space from Gregory thing really isn’t going to plan. I miss him immensely. By lunchtime, I’m starting to wonder whether he’ll have landed in China yet, he must be close. Will he call me or text me to let me know he’s landed safely? I have a wave of irrational fear that something could’ve happened to him midflight and I’m exceptionally grateful when Outlook flashes a reminder on my screen that Neil and I have the distraction of a conference call with Abdulla at two thirty.

  With one ear engaged on the conference call and the other listening for any sign that Gregory has landed safely in China, I continually check my emails and text messages but nothing comes. Then I’m dragged away from my distractions by the inevitable matter of a secondment to Dubai. Abdulla seems set on the idea of me being the secondee. Neil doesn’t say a final decision hasn’t been made but thankfully buys us a couple of weeks before we have to confirm that request because, as he explains to Abdulla, there are more pressing matters to deal with in the first instance. I can breathe a sigh of relief for now but I’ll have to make the decision imminently. The way I’m feeling, beside myself with complete nonsensical and unfounded worry, tied up in knots at the thought that I’m missing Gregory so much already, I might not make it to Friday with my sanity intact. There’s no way I can accept the secondment.

  Suppose I decide not to go. Would it really be that bad? I refuse a potentially enormous client and let Neil and the firm down. There’s no way around it, if I don’t go I’ll be placed indefinitely in the not-concerned-about-the-interests-of-the-firm bracket.

  I call Jackson just after four.

  “Scarlett? Is everything okay?”

  Suddenly feeling very silly, I confirm that there’s really nothing wrong. “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from Gregory?”

  “You really have it bad don’t you? No, I’ve not heard from him. He should touch down shortly, half past four, quarter to five, give or take for wind and what have you.”

  “Thanks, Jackson. Are you with Sandy?”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear from him. And she’s right next to me. Would you like me to put her on?”

  “Erm, yes please, just for a sec, I’m at work.”

  “Scarlett, sweets?” Her bubbly voice is my ultimate reassurance.

  “Hey, Sandy. How are you?”

  “Not bad. I’m just having a couple of hours’ break
before I get started on dinner. Are you alright?”

  “Mmm hmm, sure. Are you enjoying your break with Jackson?”

  Sandy scoffs. I imagine her rolling her eyes at the phone. “That’s really none of your business, missy. Get back to work.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your break,” I sing, receiving a puff of air before Sandy hangs up.

  My iPhone rings. Quickly grabbing it, I see a number I don’t recognise. “Scarlett Heath,” I say.

  “Scarlett, it’s Amy here, would you like me to make you dinner this evening?”

  “Oh, hi, Amy.” I try my best not to let my disappointment show. “Erm, no, gosh, it’s fine. I’ll make myself something.”

  “Scarlett, darling, this is my job. Now, what would you like? I do a mean fish pie?”

  “A mean fish pie sounds perfect, thank you.”

  “Excellent, I’ll leave it in the oven so you just need to reheat it whenever you get home. Pop it on two hundred for half an hour, that should do it.”

  “You’re a star, Amy.”

  “I know,” she chuckles. “I’ll most likely be gone when you get home but you can get me on this number if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Is this what life with Gregory would be like? Me completely dependent on him, tracking his movements, dealing with his staff?

  A last minute meeting drags me away from staring at my silent iPhone. It’s almost eight fifteen by the time I get back to my desk, so I do a final check of my emails and decide to call it a day. I text Kenneth and he’s waiting outside when I step out to the blustering wind and rain.

  Following Amy’s instructions, I set my mean fish pie off heating in the oven and take a shower, coming back to the emptiness of the lounge that now feels bigger than ever, and curling up on the sofa in my oversized jumper to eat my dinner. Everywhere I go, my iPhone comes with me. Still nothing. The feeling of unease I have is increasing and it’s not just because I’ve not heard from Gregory. This is the first time I’ve been in the apartment alone for any length of time. I’ve never stayed here alone and my mind is beginning to wander to the spot of the floor which was covered in a crimson pool on Saturday night.

  I used to feel like this as a child when my father was working the night shift. What I wouldn’t give to know Sandy was in the bedroom next to me tonight.

  I squeal when my iPhone beeps to announce a text.

  How’s my girl? I miss you.

  Biting my bottom lip in an attempt to slim the excessively wide smile spreading across my face, I reply.

  Your girl is missing you too. I’m wishing it was Friday already.

  Me too, baby. I’m heading out for a run before breakfast. Sweet dreams, don’t let the mites bite.

  I laugh to myself.

  I think you mean bed bugs, baby. The saying is don’t let the bed bugs bite.

  There better be nothing biting you except me.

  He really is adorable.

  * * *

  Bolt upright in bed, I pant, my palm instinctively feeling my chest. There’s no hole, no blood, no bullet. My nightdress is soaked, my hair stuck to the back of my neck. Glancing around the dark bedroom I realise I’m alone, I’m safe. My shoulders stop heaving as my diaphragm regains control, expanding and contracting with my lungs in a regular pattern.

  Retrieving my iPhone from under the pillow, I learn it’s after five in the morning. There’s little chance of me going back to sleep and I’m not sure I can face it. I take myself to the bathroom and splash cold water over my face and in my dry mouth. Then I find my gym clothes in my section of the walk-in—we really are going to have to do something about expanding my space if I stay here. Clad in Lycra, I slot my iPhone around my arm in a holster and traipse to the gym room.

  The cross-trainer and treadmill feel a little ambitious in light of my lack of sleep, so I opt for the spin bike, at least I can warm up a little first. Ne-Yo’s “Closer” fills my ears and my legs begin to find life. Ten tracks into my workout playlist, my legs are most definitely awake, sprinting to the chorus of each track and keeping a steady pace to the verses. A bead of sweat tickles my face as it rolls to the end of my nose. I’m happily too tired to think about anything other than turning my legs to the beat in my ears.

  When I hit sixty minutes, I climb down from the bike and cross my foot over my opposite knee, bending to stretch out my glutes.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Jackson stands in the doorway dressed in sports shorts and a vest. I wipe the back of my hand across my brow to mop up the influx of sweat. “Not the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had,” I admit, switching legs to stretch the other side.

  He flicks his head to the lat pulldown machine on the non-mirrored side of the gym. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all.” I finish my leg stretches and lie down on the spongy gym flooring to do some bums and tums.

  Jackson grunts on each yank down of the bar. After his set of ten, he smacks a fist into the punch bag that’s suspended from the ceiling by a metal frame. His lats look fierce.

  “How’s the leg?” I ask, making my way over to him.

  He looks at his injured thigh with pursed lips. “I’ll let you know later. I’m going to try some exercise on it today.”

  “Jackson, I was wondering if you would teach me some stuff. Just some punches, that kind of thing, on the bag.”

  Jackson eyes the bag, then me.

  “I’d just feel better if I knew how to defend myself a little.”

  He nods twice, then shakes his head. “Girl, he’ll never let anything come near you again, trust me.”

  I sigh. “I appreciate that he thinks he can control everything, Jackson, but there are some things he can’t stop. We’ve seen that. I know Pearson’s gone. I know that’s over. But I’d just feel better.”

  “Come on then. Show me your fist,” he says, standing on the opposite side of the punch bag to me, holding it still.

  I clench my fist and hold it up. “You’ll break your knuckles if you punch like that, kid. You do it like this.” He demonstrates, forming his own fist, then takes my attempt and adjusts my thumb position. “That’s better.”

  He resumes holding the punch bag. “Let’s try a hook. You need to swing from your shoulder, that’s where you’ll get the power.”

  I swing my hardest punch at the bag. Jackson holds it still. “Lift your elbow a little and punch through the bag, not at it. Carry your arm right through the impact.”

  “Like this?” I throw my hook at the bag, shaking my fingers after the impact to stop the sting.

  “Atta girl! Nice hook! D’you want to wear the gloves?”

  I nod quickly on a giggle. “Yes, please.”

  My cardiovascular system has had a serious work out by the time we finish. I collapse in a heap on the spongy floor with Jackson looking on, laughing. My arms flop over my face, which feels like the Savannah in the heart of summer. Even if I had the strength to do it, I don’t ever want to move again but a hand pulls my arm, forcing me to stand on my jelly legs. “You need to stretch those arms and your back.”

  “Jackson, I can’t. I can’t breathe.”

  He laughs but lifts my arm across my chest. “Stretch.” Another man to boss me around. Jackson and Mr. Controlling are a good pair.

  “He cares for you, Scarlett.” Jackson’s voice is low but he’s staring at me intently.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “He’s crazy about you, kid. But I’m not sure he knows it yet.”

  “How can he not know whether he cares for me? I don’t understand him. One minute I feel like I’m just in his way, the next he says he’s missing me.”

  “This is new to him. Now there’s so much other shit going on too but give him time to work it out and he�
��ll get there.”

  I really hope so, but there’s as much chance of Gregory deciding he cares for me as there is of him deciding he doesn’t care enough. His words come back to me: so she can move on. What does that mean? Does he want me to move on or is he really just afraid of letting me see who he really is? He said he wishes I wanted to leave but he won’t tell me to go. I don’t want him to be with me through obligation, through owing me a debt. I want us to be in this together. But sometimes it feels like he pushes me away. If we weren’t in this position would I be contemplating damaging my career by not going to Dubai for a man who really might not want to be part of the same team?

  “Sandy seems happy,” I say, desperate to change the subject and my wayward thoughts as I move to a tricep stretch. “You make her happy.”

  Jackson looks at me with eyes lit like I’ve never seen on him before, wide sparkling espresso browns, just a shade darker than his glistening skin.

  “I try,” he says, trying to be all butch, but there’s no mistaking the slight curl of his lips. “How’re you holding up with everything?”

  “I’d be lying if I said well. I can’t stand the thought that I’ve killed a man but what’s eating me up more is watching Gregory suffer for my wrong.”

  “You know, Scarlett, he doesn’t see it like that. He dragged you into all this and he wants to fix it for you. Darlin’, that kid’s mind has been black as long as I’ve known him. But not with you, for the first time. I don’t know whether he’s more afraid of losing you, getting you caught up and hurt in his next mess, or you feeling the way he has for years.”

  “I don’t want him to blame himself.”

  “I know, kid, I know. He’ll fix this case. It won’t go to trial but he needs your help with the rest.”

  “The rest?”

  “If he’s going to stop hating himself for what he thinks he made you do, you need to show him you’ve accepted it.”

  “But I haven’t. I don’t know if I can.”

  He takes my hand and encourages me to sit on the weight bench beside him.