CHAPTER SIX
WEEPINGINPUBLIC—on a train, for instance—was a skill Fliss had mastered years ago. As a teen, when she’d been a veritable outcast given the side-eye wherever she went, she had left most of her tears on her pillow. Later, though, when Granny had been struggling and Fliss had felt very helpless, she’d put on a brave face at home and let emotion overwhelm her when she’d been on the bus to work.
It was a matter of having a scarf or a handful of tissues at the ready and taking slow, careful breaths. She liked to wear earbuds so if someone asked with concern whether she was all right, she could claim to be listening to a very sad book. She always kept the sobbing very contained, not making a production of it. She simply let the pain wash over her and leak out her eyes.
Not that Saint deserved her tears. She wasn’t crying over him anyway. She was crying over the fact that Granny and her baby would never meet. And because her memory of a magical night had been revealed to be smoke and mirrors. It had been sleight of hand that was akin to a lie. She felt like a sucker.
She was crying because even though she wanted her baby and knew that she would make this work, she was overwhelmed and scared. She didn’t have a strong network of support. She had some loose friendships in London, all singletons who were living their single lives, and Mrs. Bhamra, who was healthy for her age but an octogenarian all the same.
Fliss would tell her eventually, but she didn’t want to worry the woman. She would wait until she’d paid her back for loaning her the deposit on her bedsit—which was nicer than the one she’d had in London, Saint. It had a window onto a well-tended garden and a kitchenette and her own loo. Her landlords were a pleasant older couple who spent their days birdwatching and their evenings talking about it. The house was situated a short bus ride to her day job and a few blocks from the pub where she picked up shifts when she could.
As she approached the station, she mopped the last of her tears, half-thinking she should tell the pub she was available if they needed her to come in tonight, but she was exhausted—emotionally and physically. She had barely slept last night, knowing she would see Saint today, then she’d been up early to get into London.
Her day had been an endurance event of cleaning her room, selling what she could online, then taking the last of her handmade clothing to a nearby consignment shop. She’d had that awful meeting with Saint, then returned to the house to change and catch her housemates as they’d come home from work. She’d said her final goodbye and turned over her key.
The remnants of her time in London were now in a small backpack, a couple of cloth grocery bags and Mrs. Bhamra’s rolling suitcase. Fliss might yet sell her sewing machine—a professional-grade Juki—but Mrs. Bhamra had said she would take it as security against the money she’d loaned her, so Fliss was hanging on to it for now.
Wearily, she gathered everything as the train stopped and made her way to the curb.
She was comparing the cost of taking a ride share home against walking to the tram when a swanky black sportscar pulled up before her. The driver’s door opened and Saint rose from behind the wheel.
He wore the same clothes as earlier but had added mirrored sunglasses and a leather jacket that made him look Top Gun sexy.
Drat. She’d left her sunglasses on the train. She looked back into the station but knew they were gone.
“I’ve been parked over there for thirty minutes. I was starting to think I’d missed you.” He opened the boot.
“I thought I made it clear that your infamy is a liability for me. I don’t want to be seen with you.” Her heart was in her throat from more than alarm and surprise. What did it mean that he was here?
“So get in. No one will see you.” He started to take her suitcase, then checked as he realized how heavy it was. “What the hell is in here? A body?”
“The last man who crossed me, yes.” She stared into the two miniature reflections of her own glower.
“A woman in your condition ought to ask for help with heavy tasks like that,” he said with false benevolence. “Good thing I’m here now.”
“Lucky me.” God, she hated him for the effortless way he set the rolling bag into the car. Her bags went in beside it.
She really wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she sank into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief, then slouched low, peering out to see if anyone was pointing a phone their way.
The boot thumped closed, and Saint slid behind the wheel. “Where do you live?”
“Why are you here?” she asked at the same time.
“Why do you think?” he asked.
“You have an unquenchable thirst for sadism? Head north,” she said as he pulled away from the curb.
“I checked the condoms. They all leak.”
“Oh my God.” She sat up, twisting to face him, crying with persecution, “I did not sabotage your condoms!”
“I know you didn’t.” He was maintaining an annoyingly dispassionate tone. “My life is full of vultures and sharks, Fliss. People want to take advantage of me all the time. Sometimes there’s collateral damage.”
“Who would do something like that?” she asked with astonishment, but she could guess. He seemed to have a talent for alienating the women he’d slept with. “Don’t refer to my pregnancy that way,” she added in a grumble, falling back into her seat. “It’s gross.”
“Collateral damage?” He slowed as traffic became congested and turned his head to give her a penetrating look. The turmoil in the dark depths of his eyes belied the remote tone he was using. “Why would you be offended? Unless you’re admitting the baby is mine?”
She bit her thumbnail and looked out her side window. “You’re going to take the second exit after this one.”
Aside from directions, they didn’t talk again until he pulled into the cul-de-sac below the cozy brick house situated on a terraced lawn above them. It was accessed by a flight of stone steps cut into the retaining wall.
“You were going to carry this bag up these stairs?” Saint asked with disapproval as he took them from the boot and carried them himself.
“Is it too heavy for you? I can take it.” The machine was twelve kilos, and she moved it around all the time, admittedly with an “Oof” of effort every time.
He didn’t set the case on its rollers for the uneven path alongside the house to the back porch. He carried it to the door she unlocked, then brought it inside.
“Leave it down here,” she said as she started up the narrow, creaking stairs. “I was going to take it to Mrs. Bhamra’s on my way home. Now I’ll have to do that tomorrow.”
“Who’s Mrs. Bhamra?” He followed her into the converted attic and looked around.
The single bed was under the lowest side of the slanted ceiling, but Fliss was still able to sit up without smacking her head. There was a bistro table that looked out the dormer window. A four-drawer bureau supported the microwave. There was a mini fridge and two-burner stovetop in the kitchenette, and open shelving displayed her handful of dishes and dry goods.
“Tea?” she offered because she could tell she wouldn’t get away with offering him a tip for his chauffeur duties and holding the door for him to leave.
“Coffee?” he countered. “Something stronger?” He was looking at the sketchbook she’d left on the table where she had scrawled out ideas for adding maternity panels to some of her existing clothes.
“You’ve come to the wrong place for caffeine and alcohol.”
“Right.” He lifted his head. “How is everything? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.” She’d had a scan a week ago, wanting to be sure everything was okay before she’d contacted him. It was.
She filled the kettle and set it to boil.
“I need to hear you say it, Fliss.” He stood with his hands hooked into his pockets, his expression mostly hidden behind his sunglasses.
He’d been right—it was annoying to try to read someone when they were wearing such an impervious shield.
“What?” She played dumb.
“Tell me it’s mine.”
She took off her light jacket and hung it on the hook by the door, ignoring his request because it felt too much like relinquishing what little agency she had.
“Why are you here?” she asked instead.
“You’re having my baby. We have things to talk about.”
“Like the fact that you have put me in the impossible position of being either an unfit mother who can only afford a bedsit.” She waved at her humble home. “Or a parasite who regards her child as a meal ticket?”
He looked to the window, profile carved from granite except for the way his cheek ticked.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Mrs. Bhamra gave me butter chicken when I picked up the case yesterday. There’s lots.”
“No, thank you. Who is she? Your landlady?”
“A friend of Granny’s. I should text her, actually, so she knows I’m back safe.” It was nice to have someone worrying about her again. She texted, then started to scoop the cold chicken and rice into a bowl.
“You don’t have to eat leftovers. I’ll buy you dinner. Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere. I’m tired.” She set the bowl into the microwave and started it, then finished making the tea. In her mind, she heard Granny gasp in horror that she dropped a pair of teabags straight into cups, but she didn’t actually own a teapot anymore. The one that had been Granny’s had broken—along with her heart—ages ago. She’d never replaced it.
Fliss carried the cups to the table and left them there while she closed her sketchpad and moved it with the pencils to the bed.
“What do you know about me?” Saint asked. “What have you heard or read?”
“Are you asking how much I’ve stalked you online? I didn’t have to. We were mentioned in the same articles. Although I had to quit reading once I got the gist that I’m a penniless, thieving whore. Better that than a philandering billionaire sociopath, I always say.”
He swore under his breath and removed his sunglasses to push a finger and thumb against the inside corners of his eyes.
“Oh, am I supposed to tell you what I’ve read, not what I know?” she asked without heat. “You’re famous for being rich and good-looking. Your father invented a microchip or something. Your mother was a prize model on a game show. That was all before my time, so I don’t know much about either of them. Celebrity trivia isn’t something I follow. Unless it’s fashion related, but even at that I was fifteen when I said to Gran, ‘Did you know Stella McCartney’s father is a famous musician?’ I didn’t know who the Beatles were, only that Stella’s work was fur-free and leather-free. I knew which of her gowns had been on which red carpets. I know your shoes are Ferragamo and your shirt is Tom Ford. Trousers are a private tailor, I’m guessing. Jacket is Gucci, obviously.”
He’d hung it on the chair back, and she could read the tag inside the collar.
“That’s kind of impressive.” He sounded sincere.
“It’s not. All it really tells me is that you’re rich and have decent taste.” The microwave dinged, so she brought her dinner to the table.
“That smells really good.”
“Take this one.”
He shook his head, waving at her to eat as he seated himself across from her, but sat sideways in the chair. He braced his back against the wall and hooked his arm over the railed back of the chair. His other arm rested flat on the table.
“My father came from oil money,” he said. “His father was a mean drunk, and Dad’s three older brothers were cut from the same cloth. Toxic masculinity is their default.” He gave a curl of his lip. “None of them saw any value in my father’s passion for computers. My grandfather forced Dad to take business courses and put him in sales, which was the worst possible place for him. As soon as the old man died, he had his brothers buy him out and used the money to develop his microchip. It was a hit.”
“Are his brothers nicer to him now?”
“They might be if Dad was nicer to them.” Saint played with the handle on his teacup. “Growing up, Dad was the quintessential nerd—before it was cool to be one,” he added dourly. “Once Grayscale took off, he was all business. The cutthroat kind. He moved to California and began eating start-ups. He discovered that having money made him very attractive, too. Name a starlet from the eighties and there’s probably a photo of him with her.”
That actually sounded like a fun game, but Saint kept talking, not giving her a chance to play.
“He met Mom at a party. Like most of his dates at the time, she was quite a bit younger than him, very glamorous looking, but she was straight off the farm in Iowa. Their affair didn’t last long. She came with her own baggage, stuff she never talks about. She told me once she was looking for someone who would make her feel safe. Dad was already in his forties, swimming in money, but he’d never been married or had any long-term relationships. At first, she thought he was shy, but it turns out he’s withdrawn and incapable of meaningful connection. She broke it off, then she found out she was pregnant.”
“Oh?” This story was sounding uncomfortably familiar.
He nodded slowly, not looking at her.
“Dad’s friends—advisors, I should call them. They knew he was still on an upward trajectory and had their own reasons for wanting to protect their stake in that. They told him to pay Mom off. She convinced Dad that I deserved to know my father. What if I was a boy? Wouldn’t I inherit the company? Shouldn’t he raise me to take it over?”
“Sexist. What if you were a girl?”
“Tip of the iceberg,” he dismissed with a flick of his fingers. “Mom wanted to keep working. Dad said no. He wanted a trophy wife, one who would smile as she stood next to all the great things he made to improve the world.”
“Like you?”
He made a noise of grim amusement. “I stopped trying to be his pride and joy long ago,” he admitted drily. “I watched Mom do it for too long and realized it’s a lost cause.”
“Are they still married?”
“Yes. At first she stayed for me. And because she wanted more children. She didn’t want to fail,” he added with a wince of understanding. “No one does. But while they were pretending to make it work, Dad had a string of affairs and Mom had three miscarriages. Their prenup was weighted heavily in Dad’s favor if she left him. She might not have married him for his money, but she contributed enough to his success that she feels entitled to a bite of it. She could embroil him in a big, ugly divorce if she wanted to, but she doesn’t have his level of ruthless disregard and he knows it. It’s become a marriage based on spite.”
“Family dinners must be fun.” Fliss poked at a chunk of chicken, having lost her appetite.
“They’re a nightmare,” he assured her. “Dad says it doesn’t make financial sense to give her half his fortune when I’ll only inherit from both of them. It’s better to keep it whole. That’s his way of claiming he’s being stubborn for me. It’s not for me.” Saint shook his head. “He fears that she’d come after shares in the company. If she got them, he wouldn’t have majority control any longer.”
“What’s your relationship with him like?”
“Terrible,” he said conversationally. “But I will inherit Grayscale eventually, and I do want it. I don’t overlook what it cost my parents to create this titan of the industry, but I also think, why? Why suffer that long, hating your partner, only to demand I be grateful for their sacrifice? Mom has her horses and Dad has his coven of toadies who scurry around telling him how smart he is, but is that really enough to compensate for all those years of being cruel to each other?”
“When they could have parted and found love elsewhere?”
“When they could have not actively hated each other. I don’t understand it. I really don’t.” He picked up his cup and brought it to his lips but didn’t sip. “I only knew that I never wanted to lock myself into a lifetime of the same thing.”
Ah. Fliss had wondered why he was telling her all of this.
“I don’t expect you to marry me, Saint,” she said quietly, ignoring the way her heart felt pinched in a vise.
“I know,” he said simply, causing her pulse to lift and dip as she felt understood and believed but also rebuffed. Then his arrow-sharp gaze hit her. “I still have to.”