Chapter Two #3
It’s not something I talk about, even with Antony.
He doesn’t talk about his family, either.
I think he knows it’s a sensitive topic.
But he has this photo of his family from when he was little, and they look so happy and normal.
I used to envy him, but now it scares me, because Antony is a good person.
He got the family he deserves. What if there’s something wrong with me?
Is that why my father only tolerates me, and my mother abandoned me?
So, I have this persona, and mostly I think it’s been a win.
There is a downside, of course. I don’t have friends.
I know people—lots of people—and even more people would like to know me.
Except they don’t really want to know me.
They want to touch the glitter and see if it rubs off.
What they don’t realise is that I wear glitter because I’m always performing.
And it’s exhausting. The curtain never falls.
My eyes meet my reflection. Aside from Antony—and, since I started working at Wade and Walters, David—nobody looks out for me.
Jade is a mother in name only, and my father lives his life as a single, childless man who just happens to have a daughter.
There was a black time when I found that hard to accept.
In the past drink and drugs made it easier, and moving on to the next place and new people.
But I’m clean now and I want to stop moving.
Because all that other stuff that looks like living to other people—the parties, the yachts, the champagne and the shopping—is all window-dressing for a life without meaning.
You have to stop and stand still to find that meaning.
My fingers curl round the chip in my pocket. The voices in the foyer are getting louder. I feel my throat tighten. The rest of the board members are arriving. The meeting is about to begin.
Taking a breath, I find a scrunchie and smooth back my hair into a ponytail and then add a swipe of lip gloss. These are my people, not his. Okay, I’ve only been working here three months, and maybe they had doubts. But they know me, and they’ll have my back…
They don’t. It doesn’t help that by the time I get into the board room Renzo is already lounging at the end of the table like Caesar in the senate house, his dark-blue eyes shuttered by stupidly long dark lashes, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, I gaze at him, wondering how he can convey such authority just by existing.
There is a charged tension in the room that makes my stomach cramp as I take my seat.
But the worst is yet to come. The first half-hour is a nightmarish inquisition that Renzo tosses down the table with the same speed and ferocity as if he is serving aces at Flushing Meadows.
Nobody offers to help me out, but I do the best I can which, somewhat surprisingly, is better than I expect.
Still, though, I am glad when it’s over.
I have to admit that Renzo is well-informed; he has a clear understanding of the mess my father’s absence has created and the possible repercussions we are facing.
The entire board seems in thrall to his every word so that, every time he speaks, their heads jerk towards him as though he is the reigning tennis champion about to serve for the match point.
I feel sick to my stomach. Will the board abandon me?
I thought they would be on my side, but I’m now experiencing that invisibility I’ve so often dreamed about, and I don’t like it.
This is my family’s business, and I don’t want it to go from shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations on my watch.
The last thing I want is to be the family member who oversees its decline.
I suddenly register that the room is silent and that the board members are turned towards me expectantly. I have no idea how long has passed since I was asked the question they are all obviously waiting for me to answer. Or what that question even was.
‘Would you like to add anything, Hennessy?’ Renzo says then. His voice is smooth but there is an undercurrent pulsing beneath the smoothness that makes my head feel light. I know that he is flexing his muscles.
I shake my head.
‘I’ve emailed you all with my thoughts but I’m glad we’ve all been able to come together at this moment of crisis and work as a team,’ I say, my smoothness matching Renzo’s.
It’s the kind of bland, ambiguous statement at which Charlie excels, and I can sense my co-CEO is dying to unpick my words.
I hold my breath, because there is something terrifying about the dark, splintering gaze and the raw power of the man facing me at the other end of the table, and I remember what he said about pressing buttons.
But either I haven’t found his buttons, or I need to press harder, because he merely nods.
‘We should expect the share price to wobble a little when the story about Charlie breaks. But, once it becomes clear that we are responding swiftly and efficiently to deal with this situation going forward, I’m confident I can control the narrative and stop this turning into a soap opera.’
I clear my throat. ‘I think you mean “we”.’
‘Excuse me?’ His eyes arrow across the polished tabletop, and I force myself to stare back at him, even though I feel as if I have been flattened under a wardrobe.
‘We’re confident we can control the narrative,’ I say, lifting my chin, trying to ignore the way his dark gaze slams into me with the force of a blow.
‘Yes, we are.’
My pulse quickens as he abruptly gets to his feet.
‘And, to ensure that happens, Ms Wade and I will be working closely alongside one another.’
He moves towards the door. The meeting is over.
I can barely get out of the room quickly enough.
I crave distance from Renzo, from his bluntness earlier—that weird moment when we were standing so close and he was looking at me as if he was hungry, fierce, intent, and barely able to contain what he was feeling.
Thankfully a lift is already waiting, and it’s empty, so I won’t have to hang back and pretend I’ve left something behind.
I step inside, turning towards the panel of buttons.
As the doors close, I slump forward, angling my head against the glass exterior wall.
Glancing at my phone, I realise it has gone one o’clock.
I shut my eyes. I feel exhausted, as if I’ve been fighting a bear or some other intensely focused predator, and just about managed to escape.
But I’m still here. I’ve survived and, right now, given everything that’s going on, I’ll take that.
My eyes snap open as the lift comes to a stop. I step into the huge foyer and then stop mid-stride, swearing under my breath. I was so desperate to leave, I left my bag upstairs. My life is in that bag.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
I turn, my skin freezing. The second lift has reached the foyer. Renzo is holding my bag. Had it been anyone else, I might have made small talk, but nothing between us is small.
‘Thank you,’ I say. Then because I can’t deal with this anymore, with him anymore, I turn and walk swiftly towards the doors.
‘Hennessy, wait.’ There is a roughness to his voice that pulls at something inside me, but I am already outside.
‘There she is!’
‘Hennessy!’
I hear my name and look up automatically, then swear as a mass of men hurtle up the steps towards me, cameras and booms thrust forward as if they’re jousting knights. Except these aren’t knights, they’re paparazzi.
‘Do you know where Charlie is?’
‘Is it true your father has gone on the run?’
‘What’s going to happen to Wade and Walters?’
There is an explosion of flashes and, before I have time to blink, I’m surrounded by a wall of shouting reporters and photographers.
I can’t help it. I know I should be able to cope; I know that the more cowed you look, the more they attack, but even now after all these years I find it overwhelming.
‘No!’
I cry out as they surge forward, and my bag gets knocked out of my hands. I try to reach down for it but in doing so I trap myself.
Suddenly they are stumbling backwards, parting as if in response to some unseen command, and then I see him—Renzo—shouldering his way towards me. He is the one making them move and, catching sight of his face, it’s not hard to see why.
He scoops up my bag with one hand and cups my elbow with the other, and he propels me towards a dark SUV that has magically appeared at the curb.
Yanking open the door, he loosens his grip on my arm, and I clamber inside. He follows me in and, as the car starts moving, I inch away from the window as the mass of photographers and reporters swarm forward.