Chapter 5 Nancy
I LET OUT A SILENT SIGH of relief when Alexander left. I’d heard almost nothing throughout the introduction as I was painfully aware of his eyes on me every time I looked up. Worse still, my gaze seemed set on gravitating towards his.
Not ideal.
It was embarrassing enough that I hadn’t recognised him from our encounter in the lobby.
While I’d researched Toverton PLC and its successful shift into the tech sector after Alexander’s succession of his father as CEO, I hadn’t bothered with the reams of gossip about the family behind the business.
My life was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the so-called ‘duke’s heir’—silver-spooned, playboy, tech bro all wrapped in one giant red flag.
He even had a bad boy scar, like an anti-hero from a mafia romance, and from what I’d heard about the ruthless Toverton dynasty, that wouldn’t be far from the truth. The whole thing almost made me snort.
Lord Alexander Toverton was the last guy to get caught up with in some ridiculous tête-à-tête, making eyes and tripping over sentences.
I knew better than to let that womaniser anywhere near me.
Not that he’d be interested in the slightest now he knew who I was.
I’m sure my biker-girl look had caught his interest if only for the novelty, the poor graduate in a Next suit, not so much.
Whatever he thought didn't matter, though.
I knew what I needed to do: focus, keep my wits, and give him a wide berth for the entire audit.
When midday hit, David called time on the morning session, and Ayesha made her way around the table.
The woman had a warm, inviting complexion and two big, brown eyes like a Disney princess.
But the first thing that had caught my attention was her wide grin, skirting a line between innocence and ingrained sarcasm. I was instantly intrigued.
“Shall we enjoy our usual delectations while checking out the business district?” Ayesha asked. Over the last three weeks, we’d shared a few breaks over our packed lunches, while the all-hustle-all-the-time Oxbridge set queued at Pret A Manger for an overpriced salad.
“It’s like you read my mind.”
We grabbed our bags and shuffled out with the crowd towards the lifts. As we passed the reception, I heard India comment to her friend, Sasha, “The diversity duo off to lunch.”
Classic. I hadn’t heard that one in a while. I looked over at Ayesha, but she was busy texting and hadn’t heard, so I let it go. Those two stuck-up pricks weren’t worth the breath anyway.
I hit the call button for the lift and checked my phone. Mum had messaged that she would leave early for work, but there was leftover pasta bake in the fridge. Thanks, Mum <3, I texted back.
India and Sasha stood in front of us as the lift descended. She looked over her shoulder and gave me a thin smile. “Congratulations on securing the deal accounts.”
“Thanks, but I don’t believe it’s any more prestigious than the other auditing tasks,” I said, remaining stony.
“Oh, I doubt it. Working one-on-one with David for six months on sensitive data. I guess he’s priming you for forensics.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. It’s not a discussion we’ve had.”
“Well, however you can get a foot forward, I suppose. It’s that whole positive discrimination thing, isn’t it?” India said with a snide edge.
My lips thinned. “Excuse me?”
“It just seems strange, you know. You’re the only scholarship graduate on the team, and you joined a month later than everyone else, yet you get the best role.”
“I earned my place here, just like everyone else,” I said calmly, though the Jaws theme was playing murderously in my head.
“Of course you did, and I’m happy for you.” India turned back to face the doors, cutting me off.
“I don’t need you to be happy for me, thanks,” I replied to the back of her head.
“Touchy.” She glanced at Sasha, who sniggered.
I bit my cheek to avoid saying another word to those assholes, but something about India’s accusation sat with me. What if she’s right? We stepped out of the revolving doors into the fresh air, and I let out an exasperated breath.
“Don’t let her get to you. She’s just jealous,” Ayesha consoled in understanding, having been marked by the pair because she was an international student who’d managed to extend her visa.
“I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. It just frustrates me. I’m always busting my ass. As much as anyone else, anyway, and definitely India, but I’m still accused of not earning my spot.”
“I hear you. That’s why my advice is to take the opportunity and run with it. Having that much one-on-one time with David is valuable, and the best way to get your own back on those snobs is to succeed.”
“You’re a wise woman, Ayesha.”
“Just one of my many talents.” She flashed her brows. “Now, let’s find a bench. I’m starving.”
I smiled at her, feeling a little better as we made our way down the skyscraper-shadowed street.
The rest of the afternoon was spent planning. David took me through the data gathering we’d start the following day so I could hit the ground running. By five-thirty, my head was spinning. I had pages of notes I would need to review that evening to ensure I was ready for whatever came at me.
Ayesha was right. The best revenge was success.
I exited the lift, already wearing my motorcycle gear, and scanned my keycard at the turnstiles. Halfway to the doors, my name echoed around the lobby, and I looked behind to see the receptionist waving me over. “Nancy Cooper?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I have an envelope for you.” She reached over and handed me a slip, then turned away to pick up a call.
“Thanks,” I murmured, confused by what seemed to be a sealed, empty envelope.
I pushed through the revolving doors and walked past a taxi and a blacked-out Range Rover as I tore through the paper.
Inside, I found a single business card. It was velvety to the touch and gilded with the name Alexander Toverton.
My hand trembled as I read his mobile number and email underneath.
I turned it over and found a note on the back:
You’re welcome to park in the basement. Code: 5693
Despite its brevity, I re-read it several times.
Alexander must’ve assumed that my bike was parked nearby and organised this for me.
It was a strangely thoughtful gesture. Then my stomach twisted.
The ludicrously busy and hot Lord-cum-CEO went to the trouble of organising this for me… He’d thought about me.
I stood frozen by the top box and attempted to calm my nerves. What a ridiculous thing to think, I scoffed. He hadn’t thought about me. Or, he hadn’t thought about me specifically. I was working alongside David and on sensitive data. The sort of business data Alexander would want protected.
It was a power play to let me know he knew who I was and what I was going to be privy to.
And maybe it was a kind gesture too. More likely he was showing off to David.
I’d overheard one of the team saying that the two were friends from uni, although I couldn’t understand how.
They were as opposite to each other as I was to Alexander.
No, he was just a super-organised guy, happy to help out the team his friend was overseeing.
It was in his best interest. And a man like that wouldn’t look at someone like me seriously, not when he had his pick of supermodels or socialites to play with—or so Mum had relayed through The Daily Echo's theatrical headlines.
I pocketed the card in relief and pulled on my helmet.
The weather was clear as I rode west along the Thames, the setting springtime sun transforming its murky grey waters into hues of pink and blue.
I parked outside my block, pushed through the door, and found the lifts out of order for the second time in a month.
Sighing, I turned to climb the fourteen flights to the flat.
Who needs to pay for the gym? I reached the front door, holding my side to ward off a stitch.
The flat was quiet and smelled of stale patchouli incense that Mum liked to burn in the afternoons.
Apparently, it helped realign her chakras before work.
I hung my biker jacket, removed the contents of my pockets, and wiggled out of my armoured trousers on route to the kitchen.
Filling a glass, I downed the water in a few gulps, then filled another and popped the leftovers into the microwave.
Mum had kept the balcony door cracked in an attempt to air the flat, and the soothing London murmur filtered through—distant music and sirens, followed by the high-pitched shink of an Overground crossing the railway bridge.
I paced around, waiting for the ding, and picked up Alexander’s note.
His penmanship was elegant and swept right in handsome cursive.
Hours of practice at private school, no doubt.
I turned the card and ran my thumb over his embossed name, then paused.
Why did he give me his business card?
He could’ve written a note on a Post-it, but he used his business card so I’d have his number.
Oh god, he probably expects me to thank him.
That’d be the polite thing to do after he’s gone to this trouble.
I opened WhatsApp and typed in his number.
A formal photo of him popped up, slightly side-on, showing off a slate-grey three-piece suit and a forest green tie that matched his eyes.
It should be illegal to look that good in a suit.
I clicked into the text box and lingered over the keyboard, wondering what to type.
Good evening, Lord Toverton, I started. A bit formal, but formal was good.
It created distance. Thanks for the offer of parking for my motorcycle.
That’s very thoughtful… Wait, I shouldn’t put ‘thoughtful’.
It made it sound personal like ‘I’m thinking of you’.
I tapped delete and replaced it with, I’m very grateful, and signed off with, best…
No, wait, I couldn’t sign off with ‘best’.
Best basically meant ‘you’re not worth the two seconds it takes to tag on regards or wishes’. I replaced it with, Thanks, Nancy.
I reviewed the message a few times to check it had the right tone—formal but friendly, then I lingered over the send icon, heart thrumming. Finally, I tapped it. There! Gone. Done. Fine. Then I noticed my profile picture.
Shit!
Unlike Alexander’s formal photo, mine was taken on a night out with Jemima and Kim.
The three of us were lined up cheek to cheek, arms around each other, with me in the middle as the shortest. My big, burgundy-painted lips were turned up at the edges, hinting at a smile as I pulled a flirtatious pout.
I considered changing the photo, but clicking back, two blue ticks showed he’d already received and read it. I sighed.
I’m sure Lord Toverton will have a good laugh at my drunken pic.
The microwave pinged, and I retrieved the plastic container, slumping down on the sofa, but as I blew on the first forkful of scorching pasta, my phone buzzed at the counter. I looked around slowly, then went to check, finding Alexander’s name on the screen.
I placed the handset down, returned to the sofa, and turned on the television.
A reality show featuring marooned twenty-somethings flirting by a pool sprang to life.
I ate without tasting the meal and stared blankly at the screen, counting the mouthfuls.
Once finished, I returned to the counter to read the message.
You’re very welcome, Nancy. Did you have a good first day? Please, call me Alex.
I exhaled in relief. It was written in the same tone as mine.
There was nothing odd about it. The last guy who’d got my number had sent me three increasingly provocative texts followed by a dick pic.
While I doubted Alex would be that perverted, I was worried he might see me as an easy conquest, some on-tap office fun, but he seemed professional. I text back.
Thanks, Alex. It was a great first day. Your building is impressive and has excellent facilities. I’m looking forward to getting started on the audit tomorrow.
Three dots popped up, and a peculiar thrill travelled through me that, wherever he was, he was messaging me.
Great to hear. Have a nice evening, and see you tomorrow. A
I frowned. Am I going to see him tomorrow?
I hadn’t thought I’d have any more to do with Alex.
I was only an apprentice auditor, after all.
If he had any queries, he’d speak to David.
I shook it off. It was probably just a friendly phrase…
but then he’d signed off with ‘A’. Was that sneaking in something less formal, a personal touch?
I rubbed my temples. Dear god, what am I talking about?
It’s just an initial! Everyone does that.
It wasn’t like he’d put a little x or something. I decided to reply with:
You too. L
It was brief, but it wouldn’t encourage any more conversation. I plugged in the handset and retrieved my notes to review on the sofa.
By nine, I could barely keep my eyes open. I prepared for bed and got under the covers, yawning as I bypassed my latest steamy romance for a mindless game of Block Blast!, and there it was. Alex had reacted to my last message with a red heart emoji. My heart seized.
I stared at the tiny icon for some time, then re-read our chain of messages until, finally, with no answers to the riddle forming in my head, I set an alarm, pulled on my satin bonnet, and turned off the lamp to try to get some sleep.