Chapter 7
Graham
Beaufort’s
I’ve been standing, rooted to the spot, for over five minutes now, staring up at the grandiose sign adorning the facade of this sheet-glass building.
I used to walk past here all the time because I was in a theater group that rehearsed a couple of streets away, but I never knew this was the Beaufort HQ. Probably because I’ve never been all that interested in either fashion or big business.
All I ever wanted to do was teach.
When Lydia first told me her surname, it didn’t mean a thing to me either. She had to drop a few more hints before I realized that the suit my grandfather gave me for my Oxford graduation was made by her family’s firm.
For the umpteenth time, I straighten the collar of my dark green shirt and fiddle with the strap of my shoulder bag.
Then I glance at my watch: 2:55. I take a deep breath and start moving.
I follow a couple of business types in suits through the big revolving door and into the lobby.
Lydia once said that the original Beaufort’s shop and tailoring workshop, the one that all the other branches spread out from, got too small in the eighties, so they built this skyscraper right next door to it, for all the head office departments like marketing, PR, finance, and so on to move into.
It’s twenty stories high and leaves you with no doubt that important work is done here.
My palms are cold as I stand inside the doors, looking around. There’s a pale marble floor, and all the walls are made of glass. The logo is emblazoned on the floor, with the company name in a semicircle around it.
“How may I help you?” the young man at the reception desk inquires when I finally approach him. He has slicked, side-parted hair, and, like pretty much everyone here, he’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit that must have been made to measure for him.
I deliberately left my Beaufort’s suit at home in the wardrobe, but now I’m wondering if that was a mistake. My jeans and baggy checked jacket make me feel out of place here.
“My name is Graham Sutton. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Beaufort,” I reply.
The receptionist raises his eyebrows, then glances down at his computer, making a few clicks with his mouse.
“Ah, yes, there you are.” He types away at lightning speed, then rolls his chair over to a small black cupboard and pulls out a drawer.
Back at the desk, he hands me a square white badge, clearly printed with the words Visitor Pass, the Beaufort logo above it, and a barcode at the bottom.
“Head through security on the right, and then hold the badge up to the scanner. Once you’re through, you’ll find the lift on the left-hand side. You need the top floor.”
“OK, thank you,” I say, taking the pass and turning to where he pointed.
“Good luck,” he calls after me.
If only he knew how much I need it.
A woman and another man get into the lift with me. They look me over in surprise as they see the floor I’m heading for. I turn away from them, staring down at my shabby brown leather shoes.
It’s a high-speed lift, yet it seems to take forever to reach the twentieth floor.
All I can think about is Lydia. It’s been five days since I heard from her, and I’m sick with worry.
I spent the whole of Monday evening trying to get through to her, but her phone stayed switched off after our call. Late that night, I got an email:
I’m bringing you nothing but trouble. Maybe it’s for the best if you forget me. I’m sorry.
Lydia
I wrote back, but she hasn’t replied. I don’t know where she is, or how she’s doing. So, when I got a phone call from Mr. Beaufort’s secretary yesterday, I felt as though the ground was giving way beneath my feet.
If Lydia’s father wants to speak to me, that can only mean one thing.
He knows. And while that makes me even more anxious than my first day teaching at Maxton Hall, I’m also almost…
relieved? The last few days have been, without a doubt, the hardest of my life so far.
I’m suspended from work, will probably lose my job and with it my entire professional career.
But the sense of hopelessness is mingled with thoughts of Lydia.
We might actually be able to have a future together without living in constant fear and guilt.
It would be a high price to pay, but Lydia is worth it.
I’m the last person out of the lift. A dark-haired woman at another reception desk greets me with a reserved smile. “Do take a seat just over there, Mr. Sutton. Mr. Beaufort will be with you shortly.” She points to a row of chairs at the end of the corridor.
I walk over to them but don’t sit down. I stand by the glass wall that takes up the whole right-hand side of this floor, giving an impressive view of London.
I study the city where I grew up. The Thames glitters in the spring sunshine, looking almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the tumult inside me.
“You can go in now, Mr. Sutton,” says the assistant.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Then I take a deep breath, walk past the chairs to the door, and press down on the handle.
Lydia’s father’s office is just the same as the rest of the building—neat, cool, and emotionless. There’s a silver filing cabinet to the right, alongside a simple gray sofa with metal feet. To the left, there’s a large glass desk.
Mr. Beaufort is standing behind it, at the window. His hands are linked behind his back, and he only turns around once I’ve shut the door behind me with a quiet click. His eyes are chilly as he looks at me.
“Sit down, Sutton,” he orders, pointing to one of the chairs facing his desk.
For a moment, I’m startled by the lack of a greeting, but I don’t back down in the face of his challenge. “Mr. Beaufort.”
He comes over, takes a seat himself, and leans both arms on the glass top of his desk. There’s a huge black computer screen on one side and piles of paper, catalogs, sketches, and designs on the other. My eye rests on them for a moment, then I look up at Mr. Beaufort again.
“I’m sure you know why I invited you,” he begins, without batting an eyelid.
“I have an idea,” I reply.
“I am assuming that my daughter has informed you of her change of address.”
I look calmly back at him, trying not to show that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“There is no changing the past. But I strongly advise you not to throw your professional prospects away on a relationship that can have no future.”
It feels like a punch in the solar plexus as he bats away our love in so few words. He doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know what connects Lydia and me, how much we have both helped each other move forward. And he has no idea that we need each other more than ever now.
I didn’t come here in the expectation of being given his blessing.
No father wants his daughter to get into a relationship with a teacher, that’s obvious enough.
But his tone is disrespectful, and the way he’s trying to intimidate me is ridiculous.
He has no right to order me around, and none at all to threaten me.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, Mr. Beaufort.”
“Then let me speak a little more plainly, Mr. Sutton,” he says after a moment.
He leans forward, linking his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his knuckles whiten as they stand out.
“From now on, you will break off all contact with my daughter. If I find out that you have continued to speak to Lydia or come anywhere near her, I will make sure that you regret it.” He says those words with the calm certainty of a man who always gets his way and tolerates no contradiction.
For a moment, I wonder if I should actually be afraid of him, but I can’t help thinking about Lydia. About what we’ve been through so far and what the future holds for us.
Last Saturday, at the Spring Ball, I finally realized that I can’t fight my feelings for Lydia any longer.
I’ve made my decision. I know perfectly well that it won’t be easy.
Her father might be the biggest obstacle in our way, but he’s certainly not the only one.
But without Lydia, there’s no color in my life.
Nothing makes sense without her. And whatever happens, I’m not giving her up without a fight.
I won’t let anyone take Lydia away from me, least of all a father who has done nothing for her all her life but put her down, when she has the potential to achieve so much.
“With all due respect, Mr. Beaufort, that is quite impossible,” I say, my voice every bit as cool as his.
Now it’s his turn to blink a few times. Apparently, he’s not used to being told no. But within a split second, he’s got himself back under control. He leans back a little and exhales audibly.
“Fine. Then we will have to take a different approach.” The next moment, he leans down and pulls a briefcase up onto the desk. He pushes it toward me, its clasps at the front, and clicks it open.
As he lifts the lid, I grind my teeth so hard I can hear them squeak.
The Queen’s face looks up at me a hundred times over.
My shirt collar suddenly feels unbearably tight, and I have to fight the urge to loosen it. I slowly lift my gaze and stare into Mr. Beaufort’s emotionless face.
“You may see this as compensation for the inconvenience,” he continues, unfazed.
My pulse is racing, and I’m trying in vain to breathe deeply. “I don’t want your money, Mr. Beaufort.”
He raises an eyebrow. “This is a more-than-generous sum.”
“That’s beside the point!”
Shit, I’m raising my voice. I didn’t intend to, but this man is leaving me with no choice. “Don’t you understand what your behavior is doing to your daughter?”
Now it’s his turn to grit his teeth. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” he growls, his voice deadly quiet.