Mr. Mayfair
MR. MAYFAIR
Beck
“Kevin Bacon is full of shit,” I said as I thwacked the small, black rubber ball with my racket.
Dexter lurched away as the ball ricocheted toward his bollocks. “What did he ever do to you?”
“The six degrees of separation thing—it’s bullshit.”
“What?” Dexter asked, panting. I was kicking his arse, and I knew that had to hurt his delicate ego. No doubt he’d chalk up his losing to that skiing injury he still complained about. As far as I was concerned anyone who skied deserved every injury they got—hurtling downhill with metal flippers on your feet could end only one way.
“You know, the idea that everyone on the planet is just six people removed. So, a friend of a friend of?—”
“You can’t blame that on Kevin Bacon. It’s not like he invented it,” Dexter said before serving.
“Okay then, if you’re going to be pedantic, Frigyes Karinthy is full of shit.”
“I can’t tell if you’re swearing at me or speaking Ukrainian.”
“Hungarian,” I replied, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. I measured exercise not on calories burned or time spent in the gym but on the amount I sweated. Someone needed to develop a machine to measure perspiration—I’d pay good money for it. As far as I was concerned it was effort that always earned the best results. “He developed the bullshit theory. I looked it up on Wikipedia.”
“Fuck,” he spat as the ball hit the plaster below the red line, giving me the victory I’d expected since we got onto the court. Dexter only lost at squash when he had business trouble, so I wasn’t going to crow about my win.
“Yeah, I get it. What’s the problem?”
I bent and scooped up the out-of-play ball as it trickled toward me. “The theory is flawed. I have dredged every single one of my contacts and I can’t get an introduction to Henry Dawnay.”
“You’re still trying to get a meeting with that old billionaire?” Dexter grinned, as if my failure in business was going to make up for his shitty performance on the squash court. “You might have to give it up.”
“Henry Dawnay is not just some old billionaire. He’s the old billionaire standing between me and nine-point-four million quid. And I’m not about to give up on that kind of money. I’ve plowed every contact I have and come up empty. I thought one of you lot would have some kind of connection to him. What’s the point in having rich, successful friends if they’re no use to me?”
“Us lot? You mean your five closest friends who’d walk through fire for you?”
He knew I was joking as sure as I knew United were going to win the league. The fact that the guys I’d forged bonds with as a teenager were rich and successful was simply circumstance. Their jobs weren’t important. They were the best men I knew outside my own dad. And I’d walk through fire for them just as I knew they would for me. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t complain about the fact that none of them had been able to score me a meeting with Henry Dawnay, even if it did make me sound like the moody git Dexter always accused me of being.
I rolled my eyes and nodded toward the changing rooms. I needed a shower and then I needed a plan. “I don’t need anyone to walk through fire for me. I need someone to introduce me to the man who owns the property standing between me and ten million quid.”
“You said nine point four.”
“Have I told you how annoying you are?”
“A couple of times,” Dexter said, pushing through the door to the changing room. “Look, if you can’t get an intro from someone you know, why don’t you track him down, bump into him, and introduce yourself.”
I fixed him with a thanks-for-the-advice-mum look. “I did. Last month in the lobby of the Dorchester. He shook my hand and swooped right out without stopping to get my name.”
Dexter winced, and he was right to. It’d been embarrassing. I’d felt like a nine-year-old boy meeting Cristiano Ronaldo.
I opened my locker door and pulled out my phone to check my messages. Two more missed calls from Danielle. Shit . Another thing I had to deal with. “I’ve managed to get access to his calendar so?—”
“How the hell have you managed that?”
“Don’t ask. You need plausible deniability so you don’t end up in prison.” From what I understood, I’d broken several British laws and a couple of international ones by getting that information. I hoped it was worth it.
“Well, I hope you and Joshua end up in jail.”
I ignored his assumption that another member of our brothers-in-arms, Joshua, was involved. It was an obvious assumption—Joshua liked to hack into government agencies to unwind. The rest of us played squash. “I’m well connected—some would say powerful in real estate circles. I’ve got money and resources. For Christ’s sake, I know the brand of loo paper this guy uses. But apparently, it’s not enough to get a meeting.” Things would be very different if my birth certificate had carried my biological father’s name.
“You need to calm down and figure it the fuck out.”
“Great advice,” I mumbled as I scrolled through my emails. One was from Joshua with Henry’s itinerary and schedule for the next couple of months. I slumped onto the bench and opened the attachment, hoping to find he’d finally arranged a lunch or a meeting with someone I knew.
But no. Nothing. Although there was an entire week blocked out. Perhaps he was going on holiday?
“This is the guy who you want to buy the building in Mayfair from, right?”
“Yeah, I own every other piece of property in the row except that one—the most run-down of the lot of them, and he’s done nothing with it. It’s standing empty and prime for redevelopment. It’s prime for me redeveloping it.” It was a building I’d been obsessed with since I could remember.
“Look, worst case, you just work around it.”
I shook my head. “I don’t work around things. I take a wrecking ball to them.” I’d crunched the numbers. I wouldn’t make a profit if I didn’t have Henry’s building. And I didn’t take losses. And anyway, it wasn’t just the money.
It was the building my mother lived in when she found out she was pregnant with me.
It was the building my mother was evicted from as soon as her boyfriend, the owner of the building and my biological father, found out she was pregnant.
When he died, it had been inherited by a distant cousin, and since my mother told me the story when I was a teenager, I’d been laser-focused on buying that building. Maybe I thought if I owned it—owned what I should have inherited—wrongs would be righted.
Then I could tear it down and start again.
I’d rewrite history.
I studied the document Joshua had sent. Why had Henry blocked out an entire week? The man didn’t take holidays. I looked closer. The only reference in the entire week was M&K. I typed it into the search engine on my phone. What could M&K stand for? As I scrolled through the results, I couldn’t see how a furniture shop in Wigan or an American DJ could be relevant. Henry wasn’t just old money, he was titled—an earl or something, although he didn’t seem to use it. I was pretty sure he wasn’t shopping in Wigan or entertaining DJs.
I switched screens, and just as I was about to call Joshua to try to get more information, another email flashed up with an attachment. When I opened it, the dates of the M&K week were the first thing I saw. It was a glossy, electronic wedding invitation. Apparently Joshua had been just as curious as I had. A wedding that lasted an entire week? Did these people and their guests not have jobs? M stood for Matthew and K for Karen. The bride and groom. I plugged their names into Google. They were no one I knew. But there was no surprise there. They looked like the type to have met on a croquet field—Matthew was all sports jackets and straw boaters. I didn’t know how old-Etonians and people with inherited wealth looked different from most normal human beings, but they did. It must be the floppy hair or the air of entitlement they wore.
A society wedding would be a perfect place to approach Henry. He’d be relaxed and in a good mood as he spent time with his people.
But his people weren’t my people.
My money was as new as the dawn and that left me on the outside of the wedding party, peering inside, at the end of unreturned phone calls and unable to meet with Henry Dawnay.
“Speaking of wrecking balls, how’s Danielle? Managed to destroy that relationship yet?” Dexter asked, pulling me out of my Henry obsession.
I glanced up from my phone. “What? She’s fine.” I wasn’t sure she was exactly fine. I’d pissed her off. Again. The last conversation we had over dinner, she’d started to talk about taking things to a deeper level. But I liked the shallows—dinner a couple of times a week followed by a sleepover. I didn’t have time for anything else. The rest of the time I was working—figuring out the next deal, scoping out new opportunities, firefighting issues on current sites. It didn’t leave time for much else in my life other than for my five closest friends. As much as it might make me a dick, women were important in the generic sense. But a particular woman wasn’t. So the last few months it had been Danielle. Before that it had been Juliet and by the end of the summer, it was likely to be someone else. But I should return Danielle’s calls. I’d been busy and this Henry thing was getting to me.
“When’s the last time you took her to dinner? Or even had a conversation with her outside the bedroom?”
“Jesus, are you my therapist now?” Guilt prickled beneath my skin, and I kept my eyes on my phone. I’d cancelled dinner this Saturday. Again. She’d been pissed off, so I’d given her some space. But it was Thursday. Shit . I should have called her back by now. If I confessed to Dexter, he’d tell me I was a dick. But it wasn’t like I planned it that way. I was just wrapped up in everything else I had going on, and somehow Danielle had fallen off the bottom of my call sheet. I switched screens and dialed my messages to check her tone of voice and see if I was still in the dog box.
I deleted the three “Call me back” voicemails. The fourth escalated into “Where are you?” The fifth another “Call me back.” She sounded calmer, more relaxed. Perfect. Just as I’d hoped. But the sixth voicemail was one I hadn’t been expecting. Or maybe it was. I listened as she dumped me—her tone resigned, her words cutting.
“You okay?” Dexter asked, studying my expression.
I ended the call. “Yeah. I’m a selfish, piece-of-shit workaholic. And Danielle Fisher’s ex-boyfriend.”
For the second time this morning, I got a well-deserved wince from Dexter.
I shrugged—as if it couldn’t be helped. As if it wasn’t entirely my fault. “I should have called her back sooner.”
Dexter nodded as he fixed a towel around his waist. “Yeah, you should have. But at the same time, if she was the right woman for you, you wouldn’t forget to ring her. Or avoid her calls. You’d want to speak to her.”
“And what the fuck do you know about dating the right woman?”
“I know,” he said.
“But it’s not Stacey,” I said, referring to the woman he was currently sharing a bed with.
“Stacey’s not... Just because I fucked up with the right woman doesn’t mean you have to. Learn from my mistakes.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to the email from Joshua. “I’ll be sure to mention to Stacey she’s in an interim role next time I see her.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“You first,” I replied. I was being a dick. Danielle had sounded kinda resigned, like I’d lived down to her expectations, which stung. It was the tone my form teacher had used when I’d told her I had no intention of going to university. My grades had been good, but I wasn’t interested in more studying. I didn’t belong in that world. I wanted to be out in the world earning money. I doubt she’d use that tone with me if I ran into her now. She’d thought I was being lazy except it was the exact opposite. University was good for people like Henry and whoever this Matthew and Karen were—I had better things to do. I needed to earn my fortune.
But no matter how rich I got, I still didn’t mix in the circles that Henry Dawnay did.
Well, that needed to change. I had to figure out a way to score an invite to the society wedding of the year.
Beck
I traced my finger down the guest list for a second time. I must have missed something. Some one.
“I checked it three times, sir,” my assistant, Roy, said from the other side of my desk. “I even searched against contacts of your contacts.”
By the time I was out of the shower and back at my desk, Joshua had sent me the guest list from the wedding Henry was attending, and I’d been determined to find my way in. The groom’s father was well known in the City—a partner in one of the oldest investment banks in London. I knew the type—hated it when clubs in London were forced to let women in, longed for the days when no one expected you back in the office after lunch. I should be grateful—they were the men who left meat on the bone that I came along and gobbled off. The bride’s father was a landowner, so he didn’t do a lot except drive about in a Land Rover dressed in tweed. If I just knew someone who would be going. Then I could get them to speak to Henry at the wedding and talk me up, explain how I was good for my word and easy to trust—maybe even mention how I had a business proposition for him. I’d have to be careful who it was. Dexter and I goaded each other, but if he was going to that wedding, Henry would think I was his fairy godmother by the time Dexter was done—any of the six of us would do the same for each other. We were brothers in all but name. But anyone else? I wasn’t sure I’d trust someone outside our circle with something so important. It would be better if I was a guest at the wedding myself. Then Henry would be a captive audience and I was sure I could convince him to sign on the dotted line.
“And you’re sure that I don’t know anyone ?” I might not have been to the right schools or grown up in the right circles, but I’d been successful for years. I was earning more money than most of London put together, and I dealt with lawyers and people in business all day, every day. But I didn’t know a single person who would be at this three-hundred-fifty guest wedding.
“As sure as I can be. I’ve cross-referenced against your contacts and your LinkedIn page. And I checked the last five years’ Christmas card lists to see if I’d missed anyone.”
It wasn’t so surprising. We might all be British and living in the same city, but I still existed on a different planet to these people.
“I don’t suppose there are any single women on the list?” There must be someone going without a boyfriend. I was single. So I’d track them down, seduce them, and be available as a plus one for weddings and bar mitzvahs. No, that was a shitty plan. I needed to be sure I was getting into this wedding—I wasn’t going to leave it to chance. I wanted some kind of guarantee or contract or something.
“The ones invited with an un-named plus one are at the bottom of the list,” Roy said. I turned the page to find one male name and three female names.
“Do you have their ages?” Or photographs.
“No, sir. I can find that out for you though.”
I needed to know exactly who these three people were.
Candice Gould
Suzie Dougherty
Stella London
Three single women—it had to be my way in. As invitees to M&K’s wedding, they had something I needed more than oxygen. I might not be able to guarantee a plus one by seducing them, but everyone wanted something . And I had considerable means at my disposal. I just needed to figure out what they wanted and then do a swap—a plus one for a pony or a week on a yacht or whatever it was people who didn’t work wanted in life. I just needed to track them down and make them an offer they wouldn’t want to refuse.
One of these women was the key to the Dawnay building.
Stella
Another day, another dollar, so the phrase goes. But for me another day meant another twelve hours at my crappy office with the crappiest boss who ever lived. Placing people I didn’t know into jobs they didn’t want was the worst. It might have only been two months into the role, but I’d never get used to being a recruitment consultant.
My mobile buzzed on my desk beside me and I glanced over my shoulder toward my boss’s empty office. She hated people taking personal calls. If breathing took time out of the day, she’d ban that too.
It was Florence. She never called me at work. Taking my life in my hands, I swiped to accept the call. “Hey,” I whispered.
“Are you in front of your computer?” she asked.
“Of course I am. I’m chained to it, what?—”
“I’m five minutes away. Whatever you do, don’t check your emails. Get your coat and meet me downstairs.”
Florence must be crazy. I was constantly checking my emails. “I’m staring at my inbox, Florence.”
“I mean your personal emails. Promise me. Log off and meet me downstairs or I’m going to march into your office and haul you out.”
“It’s only just gone six. I can’t just leave. What’s the problem?” It sounded serious. “Are you and Gordy okay?” She and Gordy were the perfect couple. If there was trouble in paradise, then anything was possible.
“I’ve just turned into Monmouth Street. Have you got your jacket on?”
Oh God. She didn’t say that they were okay. Florence needed me. And she trumped the wrath of my boss. “I’m coming,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and my chin as I logged out.
I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and headed to the exit, ignoring my boss’s assistant’s pointed look at the clock as she saw me leave.
I saw Florence as soon as I stepped out of the lift. She was facing me from the other side of the glass doors of the office, her shoulders slumped, her forehead furrowed, and her face as pale as a corpse. It was clear something catastrophic had happened.
I was going to kill Gordy.
“I’m so sorry, Florence,” I said, and I opened my arms and pulled her into a hug.
She held me so tight, I struggled to breathe. She must be devastated. We all thought Gordy was one of the good guys.
“I wanted you to hear this from me,” Florence said as she pulled away and snuck her arm around my shoulder.
“Of course. I’m here for you,” I replied as I grabbed her hand. “I’ll help you bury the body if you want me to.”
She frowned as if she was surprised by my offer, but how could she be? There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Florence. For either of my two best friends.
We crossed the street and found an outside table at the bar opposite my office on Monmouth Street. One of the few positives about my job was that it was based in the West End and surrounded by bars and restaurants. “We’re going to need wine,” I said.
We were going to need a shovel. If she didn’t kill Gordy, I would.
We ordered a bottle of wine and took a seat. “So you saw?” Florence said. “You seem very calm.”
“Saw what?” I asked. “Oh,” I said, pulling out my phone. “You said there was something in my personal email.”
“You didn’t see?” Florence asked.
“What?”
She pulled my phone from my grasp and grabbed my hands. “What body are you helping me bury?” she asked.
“Gordy’s, of course. Tell me what he’s done.”
She shook her head. “It’s not Gordy. It’s Matt.”
My stomach dropped straight through the seat of my chair and I froze. If Florence had raced over here from where she worked in the City at six on a Wednesday, it couldn’t be good news. Had he been in an accident? Had his dad died?
“He’s getting married,” she said, squeezing my hands.
I pulled away from her as I tried to understand what she was saying. “Of course he’s not getting married. We’ve only been apart two months.” I didn’t like to say we’d split up because it wasn’t an accurate description of what was happening. We were just apart right now. It was just a temporary thing. He was just freaked out that all our friends were getting married and people kept asking us when we were next. He was just doing that guy thing where, just before they pop the question, they have a man meltdown. Just look at Prince William and Kate Middleton. They had a three-month break before William proposed.
“I’m so sorry, Stella.”
Florence looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears, and my heart began to gallop. She was serious. “What do you mean? Who to? How do you know?”
“The invitation was delivered to Gordy’s office. And then there was the email follow-up with the schedule. Never mind.”
I tried to swallow but my throat was too tight. I reached for the glass of wine that Florence was hastily pouring. “I don’t get it. There must be some mistake.” How could Matt be getting married? He hadn’t proposed to me, and we’d been going out for seven years. We’d been living together for six. It wasn’t possible. Florence must have it wrong.
Florence shook her head. “It gets worse. I really don’t know how to say this, but he’s marrying Karen.”
I shivered as my body turned cold.
I couldn’t speak.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t think.
Florence slid a white card in front of me.
I traced the embossed writing with my fingertip as my stomach churned slowly and relentlessly, like it was mixing concrete. It was the invitation I would have picked out for my own wedding—thick white card, a thin gold surround, and an elegant black font. Simple. Classic. Refined.
Apparently stealing the love of my life wasn’t enough. My best friend had to have my taste in wedding invitations, too.
“Karen and Matt?” I searched Florence’s face, looking for answers. “ My Matt? My Karen?”
Florence tilted her head to the side. “For some reason, they’ve invited you. I had no idea they were even a thing. Neither did Gordy.”
They sent me an invitation? I suppose I was the common denominator between them. “How long have they...?” Was this the real reason Matt left me? His excuses when he left seemed so lacking, looking back?—
I’m not sure we were meant to be together forever .
We don’t want the same things in life .
I’d assumed he was just getting jittery as we approached the time for weddings and babies.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“Karen swears it’s since you two split up but...”
“You spoke to her?” Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t had an actual conversation with Karen or an in-person catch-up for... Well, I couldn’t remember how long. We messaged each other. All the time. Most days. But I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in weeks.
“Called her as soon as Gordy called me when he got the invite. It was delivered to his office. Which was weird. It wasn’t like I wasn’t going to find out.”
I was only taking in half of the words that Florence was speaking. “What did she say?”
“Just that...” Florence paused and drew breath. “She and Matt had realized they had feelings for each other and it was serious, and she didn’t really say anything more. As soon as I mentioned you, she made up some excuse about another call and rang off.”
So my boyfriend was getting married. Ex-boyfriend. Potaytoes Potahtoes. The man I’d shared a bed with for seven years up until two months ago was getting married. On any other day, that would have been the worst thing that could have possibly happened. But to my best friend?
Why?
“Is she pregnant?”
Florence sat back in her chair. “You think that’s why?”
Why was any of this happening?
Why was Matt getting married to someone else when he was supposed to be marrying me?
Why was my best friend getting married and hadn’t told me?
Why were they marrying each other?
“I’m not sure any explanation would really be an answer,” I said. “But if they’d shagged and she’d got knocked up that might be some kind of logical reason for a quick wedding.” It was certainly easier to understand than my best friend catching feelings for my boyfriend because that led to questions—how long had they had feelings for each other? Had Matt always wanted Karen when he was with me? Had they been having an affair? For a few months? Years? Since the beginning of our relationship?
“I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me,” I said. “It wasn’t like I wouldn’t find out. She was going to let me find out by opening my invitation.”
“I don’t have an answer to that, other than she’s a total bitch.”
That would have to do. For now. “I guess that’s why she invited me. To announce the news. Because she was too much of a traitorous coward to tell me to my face that she’d stolen my boyfriend.”
“Do you think they were having an affair while you two were still living together?”
“That’s at the top of my list of questions I have for them both.” Had I seen any signs? Since we’d moved to London, Matt had worked late a lot. But we’d come down from Manchester because he was offered his dream job. Of course he was going to put body and soul into it.
When had he had time for an affair?
We were at the stage where I bought Matt’s underpants and he reminded me that I’d not called my brother for three weeks.
We were a team.
We were in love.
We were going to spend the rest of our lives together.
Or so I’d thought.
I should be crying, but for some reason the tears hadn’t arrived. Perhaps I didn’t believe it was true. Perhaps the fizzle of anger I was beginning to feel had dried them out.
Karen had been a part of my life since the day we’d both started school. I always felt slightly unkempt next to her. Even then. At five, her knee-high white socks never fell down, wrinkling at the ankles like mine did. At thirteen she never suffered with acne and wrestled with cover-up, and in our twenties, I’d never seen her with a single clump of mascara or eyeliner that was smudged.
Karen had known Matt since before we were a couple. She’d come up to visit me in Manchester, during our first term at university, twirling in, making the boys drool and swapping make-up tips with the girls in my block. She’d been struggling to fit in at Exeter, which made no sense to me. All my friends loved her.
When Matt pulled me onto the dance floor during the summer ball, told me I brought out the best in him, and he liked my boobs, I was thrilled Karen had already met him so she could help me overanalyze every part of our relationship.
Seven years later, Karen knew Matt almost as well as I did.
“Maybe you should go to the wedding and when they do that bit about impediments, you can stand up and ask that question,” Florence suggested. “But obviously, you can’t go.”
“Of course, I can’t go,” I replied. Despite the invitation, I was almost certainly the last person Karen wanted at her wedding. It wasn’t as if seeing my ex-boyfriend—the man I’d thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with—marrying my ex-best friend was top of my list of things to do this summer.
“Are you going to go?” I loved Florence like a sister, and if Karen was capable of sleeping with my boyfriend, what could she do to Florence?
“Of course not,” she replied.
“But Gordy will want to go. And he won’t want to go without you. If more time had passed and I was married or at least dating someone, I’d definitely go.” If nothing else, I’d love to see Karen’s face when she got my RSVP.
“There was a schedule that came with the invitation,” Florence said.
I frowned. I’d been so focused on the white card that looked so much like the one I would have chosen, I’d forgotten about the email.
“It’s like a week-long thing up in Scotland.”
I slumped back in my chair, grateful that my jacket covered the mole-hill sized goosebumps that popped up all over my arms. “His uncle’s castle?” I asked.
Florence nodded and the dull churning in my stomach kicked up a gear like an idling car put into drive.
“That’s where he always said he wanted to get married.” We’d visited last summer and hiked, ridden horses, slept under the stars. It had been amazing. Magical even.
“He’s a ginormous wanker,” Florence said.
Matt Gordon was having the life he and I had always planned—with someone else.