Chapter 15
15
DRUMMOND GLOBAL OFFICES, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
Oliver was buzzing. Getting the fundraiser off his back first thing had set him up for the rest of the day. The meeting with the design and development team had been the cherry on top. Now the only thing hanging over him was the takeover of Regis Software. Maybe Clara had been right. Maybe he had taken his finger off the pulse with respect to that. Perhaps he needed to do more. He’d had an email from Mackenzie this morning saying the lawyers were dragging their feet over some moot point.
What would his father do? He shifted in his seat as that thought went through his mind. Why was he thinking that? Hadn’t he been telling everybody he wasn’t his father, that he was his own man? He shouldn’t need an eighties businessman’s guidance to manage a twenty-first-century company. Did he really need or want this merger? What were the benefits for both companies?
He picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a key. He waited for Clara to answer. ‘Clara, could you get Andrew Regis on the phone?’
Outside Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan
Hayley’s eyes went from the dark-grey street, the snow having been worn away, through the chrome and glass entrance doors and upwards, scanning the many floors to the spiral top of the offices.
The building of Drummond Global was like a real-life Lego construction, only made of metalwork and windows, not plastic bricks. It was a complete world away from the architecture of the Guggenheim. This was industry. People inside this multi-million-dollar organisation were all part of important decisions, deal-breaking negotiations, creating and selling vital technology. Dean was a global hardware genius, fitting right into this high-stakes world. It was another universe when compared to fresh-pressing and stain removal at the cutting edge of the dry-cleaning industry.
‘Is this where Donald Trump works?’ Angel asked, her eyes following her mother’s, her hands occupied with a giant hot dog. Hayley had devoured hers in thirty seconds and moved on to a pretzel that hadn’t taken much longer to finish.
‘No,’ Hayley said, her eyes following the line of the building and back down again. ‘This is where Uncle Dean works.’
‘Wow, it’s huge,’ Angel said through splutters of bun.
‘Yeah, it is.’
The sound of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ came bursting out of a boom box on the sidewalk, a breakdancing reindeer busting some moves. Hayley reached a hand out to Angel. ‘Come on.’
‘Hot-dog hands,’ Angel said, shaking the bread-covered sausage up and down and following.
‘We won’t be here long. We’ll just leave this jacket for Mr Meanie and we’ll go and get milkshakes.’
Angel answered with an indecipherable noise through sausage chomping.
Hayley pushed at the door and the warm air from inside buffeted her hair as she passed through the entrance. She heard another wow escape from Angel’s lips as they stepped into the foyer.
It was the grandest office Hayley had ever been in and looked more like a high-tech hotel. There was a cream, tiled floor that had been polished so well, you could almost use it as a mirror, a central terminal with a bank of screens dominated the rest of the area and at the far end of the room was the reception desk, a sculpted metal affair with three women – scratch that, three models – in matching grey and pale-blue uniform sat behind it.
‘Fashion alert at twelve o’clock,’ Hayley whispered to Angel. ‘Grey and pale blue. What were they thinking?’
‘They need some tangerine in there,’ Angel replied. ‘Or some deep plum.’
‘Nice work.’
‘Wow! Look!’
Before she could say anything else, Angel was skating across the slick floor. Her daughter stopped just in front of a giant Christmas tree. It was easily three feet wide and its star topper almost touched the ceiling. The annual spruce in Trafalgar Square had nothing on this. Then she creased her brow at the scene. Two men in overalls were working deftly with the swags, baubles and bells but it looked like they were taking the decorations off rather than putting them on.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ she called to Angel.
She went up to the reception desk, undoing the zip of her backpack as she moved. Smiling at one of the blonde-haired receptionists, she pulled the jacket out of her bag. Angel arrived at her side.
‘Hi, good afternoon. Could I just leave this for Oliver Drummond?’ Hayley draped the jacket over the desk and watched the receptionist’s friendly smile turn into misunderstanding. ‘He left it in a restaurant last night and I’m just returning it. ’
The receptionist didn’t look like she wanted to take ownership of the jacket or do anything about it. ‘I’m afraid Mr Drummond is out right now.’
‘That’s fine. I don’t need to see him. I’m just dropping off the jacket,’ Hayley said. She pushed the item a little nearer the receptionist.
The woman nodded and then picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll just give his PA a call.’
‘That’s OK, I don’t need to see anyone, honestly. I’m just doing a favour for my brother.’
‘Clara? I have someone here for Mr Drummond.’ The receptionist paused for a moment. ‘With an item of clothing.’ She then looked at Angel. ‘And a child.’
What on earth was going on? Why couldn’t she just leave the jacket and be on her way? She should have just said the jacket was for Dean and let him sort it out. She was stuck now, waiting for a personal assistant who probably had a heap of important computer stuff to get on with.
‘Thank you,’ the receptionist said into the phone before replacing the receiver. ‘Clara will be right down. Would you care to take a seat?’
Hayley let out a frustrated noise and moved towards a selection of dark-grey, leather sofas that looked like they’d been manufactured out of Jurassic World models.
‘Your face is all red and blotchy,’ Angel remarked as they sat down. She started to finish her hot dog.
Hayley put her fingers to her cheeks, feeling the heat there. An errand for Dean was going to make her look like a stalker. One of those obsessive types that wanted to drink the victim’s pee or roll in their bed sheets to be close to them. Actually, the rolling in the bed sheets held a certain appeal.
The only saving grace was Oliver Drummond was out. He need never know she was here. She could be any anonymous woman with a child bringing back a jacket he’d mislaid.
The entrance doors opened, an icy breeze whipping through into the reception and, along with it, the man whose jacket she had on her lap. There he was. The rich guy she’d helped escape down an alley. Oliver Drummond. He was unbuttoning a black, woollen coat as he entered, revealing a well-fitting, charcoal-coloured suit. Highly polished leather shoes were on his feet, but her eyes quickly moved upwards, over the width of his chest, his brown-blonde hair spiked and scattered with snowflakes and those unmistakeable eyes.
‘That’s him!’ Angel stage-whispered, hot dog bun specks falling from her mouth.
Hayley swallowed, watching him make his way across the floor, another man at his side, engrossed in conversation. She needed to stop looking at him. If he turned his head, even one inch, he would see her. And then it happened. He looked to the bank of sofas where they were sitting and their eyes connected. She felt the look deep in her belly and hated herself for it having any effect at all. Drooling over Channing Tatum was one thing; this, especially when the business pin-up was only metres away, was another. Just as quickly as their eyes had met, he turned back to his companion, still walking to the elevators at the end of the room. He’d dismissed her. Looked and then looked away. He really was the fickle philanderer she’d first pegged him as. Unwanted disappointment struck.
‘Did you know Oliver Drummond is one of the richest men in America?’
‘I’ve told you lots of times before, Angel, money isn’t everything,’ Hayley snapped. She was annoyed at herself. How fickle she was!
‘I know. Uncle Dean says he’s nearly always miserable,’ Angel followed up .
‘Yes, well, right now I know how he feels.’ What was she doing with this damn jacket? She should have strode across the reception area and thrown it at him. Then he might have remembered her. Not that she was bothered that he hadn’t.
Hayley got to her feet the second she realised a woman wearing a black business suit that was a little too small for her, a coral statement necklace at her décolletage, was heading past Oliver Drummond and his companion towards them. A poker straight expression was on her face.
‘Hello,’ Hayley greeted, gathering the jacket in her hands. ‘I’m sorry about all this. I just?—’
‘Hello. I’m Angel.’
Hayley watched as Angel held her hand out to the woman, a beam of a smile on her face.
The woman reached out, took Angel’s hand in hers and shook it. ‘Hello, I’m Clara, Mr Drummond’s personal assistant.’
‘Wow,’ Angel said, as if she’d just announced she was the first female Pope.
Hayley pushed the jacket towards Clara. ‘I think the receptionist got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t want to see Mr Drummond. I just… my brother works here, and Oliver… I mean Mr Meanie… Drummond, sorry, Mr Drummond, he left this jacket in a Chinese restaurant last night.’ She shook her head at the scenario. ‘He forgot it this morning… Dean, my brother and… he asked me to drop it in.’
‘Chinese food again, huh?’ Clara remarked, folding the jacket over her arm. ‘One day, he’s going to turn into a deep-fried noodle.’ She smiled at Angel, who grinned, all eyes and teeth. At least one of them was functioning like a normal human being.
‘Right, well, we’ll be going. Come on, Angel,’ Hayley said, grabbing her daughter by the sleeve of her coat.
‘Did you know that as well as being one of America’s richest men, Mr Drummond is also one of the world’s most eligible bachelors?’ Angel piped up.
Hayley wanted the ground to swallow her up. For someone who was so intelligent, Angel had no idea what might not be appropriate in polite conversation.
‘I didn’t know what it meant at first but then I Googled bachelor and?—’
Hayley put an arm around Angel and stifled her into her coat. ‘We’ll be going now.’
Clara smiled. ‘What was your name again?’ The question was directed at Hayley.
Hayley stroked Angel’s hair, pressing her face into her side as her daughter attempted to struggle her mouth away to freedom.
‘Lois,’ Hayley croaked. Angel let out a stifled noise that sounded like a gagged hostage.
As she turned them both away from Clara and headed rapidly to the door, she was already cringing. She didn’t let Angel go until they were outside, sucking in the frozen winter air.
‘Why did you do that?’ Angel moaned, rubbing at her lips with her fingers.
‘Why did I do that? Why did you come out with the top ten amazing facts about her boss?’
Angel shrugged. ‘I only know two.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘You were acting all funny,’ Angel carried on. ‘And why did you say your name was Lois?’
Hayley pointed down the street. ‘Ooh look, a bodega! Let’s see if they have Yorkshire puddings and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.’