Chapter 17
17
DRUMMOND GLOBAL OFFICES, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
Why did he do this to himself? Oliver had the McArthur Foundation website up on his PC screen. His intention had been to check the list of sponsors attending the fundraiser just to update himself on who was on board with the project. What he was doing now was reading the heartfelt stories from families the charity had helped. It was torturous. It brought back memories of Ben. It physically hurt how much he missed him. And every day, it hit him how much better suited Ben would be to this role than he was. Ben had been the dream son. The more academic one, who passed his driving test first time and won the spelling bee. Ben had been kind, thoughtful, doing anything for anyone. Oliver had been the brat. He’d always thought of himself first and everyone else a good while later. Because he hadn’t needed to be the good son. That was Ben’s job. Ben had the halo and it was pointless to even try to compete. Football was the only thing Oliver had had. The only thing he’d shone at. The only area of his life he owned. He swallowed. That’s where he should be now. Playing professionally, living the life he was destined for, not slipping into his dead brother’s shoes and living out his destiny. The Globe was going to make the difference. The Globe was going to be the game changer. It was about putting his stamp on things, feeling differently and not living in the shadow of ghosts.
He clicked his mouse onto another page and there he was, staring back at him. Ben. His mother had no doubt got the photo uploaded. It was the photo their father had taken when Ben had won the prize for innovation at the annual Manhattan Chamber of Commerce awards. A piece of software Ben had created had changed the way not only Drummond Global worked, but businesses across the world.
Ben smiled out at him, joy etched on his face, life seeping from every pore. Oliver had been there that night, sat with the family, clapping his brother to victory. He had been so proud of him but jealous in equal measure. His brother might have had a short life but he’d got his dream.
The door of his office opened and Clara breezed in. He hurriedly minimised the screen.
‘Have you given up on knocking, Clara?’
‘I’m sorry. When you told me you weren’t working late tonight, I presumed you wouldn’t still be here at 8p.m.’ She slipped some files into his in-tray.
‘And what are you still doing here? Has husband number two left you?’
The expression that filled every inch of her face told him that his attempt at a joke hadn’t gone down so well.
‘I was just packing up,’ Clara said, turning her back on him and heading for the door.
‘Hey, wait up a second.’ He stood up and his movement or maybe his words made her stop. ‘You haven’t explained why you’re still here.’
She faced him again. ‘You don’t need to concern yourself with the answer, Oliver. I turn up on time every day and I work late. I am the model employee.’
‘I’m not saying you aren’t.’ He tried again. ‘Have I missed something?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘So everything is OK in the house of Fortaine?’
‘Oliver, this has never been something we talk about.’
He nodded his head. She was right. He had always drawn the lines very succinctly. Emotional attachment of any kind was time and effort wasted. But Clara had worked for him since he’d taken over, for his father years before that. For business purposes, he should know a little of what was going on in her personal life, shouldn’t he? If she was distracted at home it might make her distracted at work. He drew in a breath. He’d started this now, there was no going back.
‘I know we don’t. But I’m asking you now. What’s going on?’
The question was broad enough to draw out a response. He put his hands on the back of his chair, pressing the leather underneath his fingers. He could see Clara was struggling with this. Why had he said something so flippant without thought?
‘I don’t know if he’s going to be there,’ she admitted through a tapered breath.
Oliver didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Clara to be so honest. Now he was way out of his area of expertise. Flattery was the extent of his talent with women. Comforting was never part of his agenda.
‘We’re going through a difficult patch at the moment,’ Clara elaborated.
She was wringing her hands together, pushing and pulling at the skin, and he didn’t know what to do. He was no good with stuff like this. It freaked him out .
‘Is there anything I can do?’ It sounded pathetically weak and a little insincere. But it was all he could come up with.
‘I don’t think there’s anyone else. I mean, who would put up with him? He’s lazy and ungrateful and his psoriasis is very bad at the moment,’ Clara continued.
Oliver moulded his fingers into the fabric of the chair a little more, trying to work out how to make this situation he’d created a whole lot better. Should he let her talk? Just stand there and listen? Weren’t people supposed to feel like a weight had been taken off just by talking their load away? That’s what the therapists had tried to tell his mother anyway.
‘It’s been like this since he lost his job.’ Clara sighed. ‘He worked for that company for twenty years and in the end, it counted for nothing.’
He moved quietly, coming around his desk and pulling out the seat opposite his desk. He didn’t need to do anything else; Clara was already lowering herself down into it.
‘It does something to a man,’ Clara continued. ‘When you give everything you have to a role you love, dedicate yourself to a company like that and then all you’ve ever known is just taken away so fast.’
She was struggling to hold back the tears now. This was a big deal to her. When had she started struggling so much? He hadn’t noticed anything at work. Or was that merely because he hadn’t been looking? Because he was always so blinkered by what was going on in his own life?
Clara carried on. ‘I’ve tried to get him to look for something else but he just can’t see past the stigma of being made redundant. Because he thought he was never going to work any place else, he thinks he can’t work any place else.’
Oliver racked his brain trying to remember what it was Clara’s husband did. He didn’t even recall his name. Mike? Mark ?
Then it was like Clara came to and she turned her head, focusing on him.
‘Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry.’ She got to her feet. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. You don’t want to hear about all this. And I shouldn’t be bringing it into work.’ She got to her feet, straightening her jacket.
‘You haven’t been bringing it into work.’ He paused. ‘And I asked.’
‘I know but…’
‘Why don’t you have tomorrow off?’ Where had that idea come from? He had never done that in his life before and the absolute shock on Clara’s face told him she thought he was ailing for something.
‘No, that’s ridiculous. I’m fine,’ she insisted.
‘I know you’re fine. I’m just suggesting you take a day, spend some time with…’ He really couldn’t remember her husband’s name.
‘William,’ Clara offered.
‘Yes. Just take a day, Clara.’ He swallowed. A feeling he wasn’t familiar with began to take a stranglehold on him. It was the McArthur Foundation website. Looking at that had turned him into a ball of weakness. He put a hand on one of the buttons of his jacket and fastened it up.
‘Are you sure?’ Clara asked, her voice soft and full of vulnerability.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He threw an arm towards the door. ‘Now get out of here, get some takeout, go home.’
He watched her take one step and then she stopped, looking back at him.
‘And what are you going to do?’ she asked.
‘Me?’ What was he going to do? He’d been riding the crest of business success earlier. He wished he’d never opened the stupid website. It had killed his mood. He couldn’t let that happen.
‘I’m going to go home, get a shower, call Tony and head out into the bright lights of the city.’
‘No more Chinese food,’ Clara said as a warning.
‘Perhaps Spanish tonight.’
Clara took a breath and gathered herself. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’
He waved a hand quickly, almost desperately. He couldn’t handle any more sentiment. ‘Go home.’
She smiled again and headed towards the door. Just as she was about to cross the threshold, Oliver had an urge to stop her, to ask her if she’d finished the letter to Luther Jameson. He hadn’t signed the cheque yet. He could change his mind. He could give the McArthur Foundation fundraiser his support. He could speak there; he could take his load off.
As the thought of standing up in front of a function room of people soaked into him, he felt his heart convulse and he had to swallow down the nausea. Clara waved a hand at him and it was all he could do not to throw up. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t changing his mind. It was inconceivable and that was the way it was going to stay.