Chapter 4
I haven’t slept. I’ve tossed and turned in the heat of my bed, too lethargic to move the ten steps required to turn on the air con. My mouth is dry and my body feels the wrong side of thirsty, the hungover side.
What am I supposed to do now?
That’s the question I’ve been asking myself for the six hours I’ve been staring at the ceiling.
It’s not like I can hand myself in to the police and request a trial.
I’d put everyone else in jeopardy and I don’t know if I could stand the uncertainty of another investigation, the police interrogating people I love.
And whilst I’m raging at him for what he’s done – everything he’s done – there’s no way I’d turn Gregory over for corruption.
I’d never want him to risk his freedom again.
He took the blame for me. He committed multiple crimes but he did it for me.
Living with what I’ve done is my penance.
I grab the TV remote from the bedside table.
Crystal Grand homepage: teasing pictures of Crystal Grand Singapore, Crystal Grand Sydney, Crystal Grand…
Dubai news, in Arabic…
Dubai early-morning soaps… whoa… not soaps… stuff that should not be shown on TV in my room!
With a grumble, I throw the remote to the opposite side of my bed, where the duvet is in a ball from a heated tantrum about two hours ago. Peeling the thin cotton sheet from my clammy body, I shower, rinse off my unsettled night, then pull on my gym clothes and head to the ground floor.
The gym is empty but for one other ex-pat, a muscle-bound fitness trainer. I have free run of the machines as I watch BBC World News on the screens.
Cranking the treadmill up to a run, I hammer the belt with my feet and I try to focus on nothing but the sound of my breathing and the images of stock markets around the world.
It’s around two in the morning in London.
Gregory should be sleeping. I wonder if he’s alone.
My stomach churns at the thought of anyone, ever, being in his bed with him.
I hold my blink for seconds until the only image I see is of him, naked in his satin sheets.
I wonder if his nightmares have stopped.
The tread automatically cuts out at an hour, so I move on to the stepper for twenty minutes, then the bike for a ten minute cool down. Any other Friday, I probably would have hit the outdoor pool for a few lengths too, but my dry martinis and lack of sleep are catching up with me.
Instead, I stand on the poolside and dip my toes in the water.
‘Mind if I join you?’ Paddy appears next to me wearing white trousers, shirt and shoes.
‘Of course not. Why are you here so early?’
‘Volunteered myself for pool duty today,’ he says, leaning down to scoop a sample of water into a clear test tube.
‘So, you’re here for tax breaks, then?’ My very slight smile is more for his benefit than my own.
Unusually for Paddy, he doesn’t return the gesture. He puts a lid on his test tube and gives it a shake. ‘Actually, no. Woman.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m over it now.’
‘Mind sharing your secret?’
He offers me a pitiful curve of his lips and I can’t help but think how much I wish it was Gregory standing in front of me with his half-smile.
‘I take it your guest was unwanted last night?’
I scoff into the sports cap of my water bottle. ‘You could say that.’
‘Want to vent?’
‘I really don’t.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, I’m around all day. They say we Irishmen make the best listeners.’
‘Really? Who are they?’
He winks, a cheeky, very Paddy-like wink. ‘Women. All women.’
I chuckle as he walks away, thankful for the only interaction I’m likely to have today besides cleaners and maybe a waiter at lunch.
I spend most of the day working from my hotel room, preparing additional enquiries of the construction company Mr Ghurair intends to acquire, venturing as far as the lobby café.
This is one of the most mundane parts of a corporate lawyer’s job: endless due diligence.
Who owns the company? Who owns the assets, the machines, the tools and the cement?
Will the company be in breach of any contracts with suppliers or customers if the acquisition goes ahead?
Are there any hidden red herrings that could impact the value of the company?
I’m the lawyer on the ground in Dubai but there’s a team back at Saunders, Taylor and Chamberlain in London.
Amanda is leading the due diligence from there, which has worked out great.
She needed work and really could use a big deal before she goes off on maternity leave and her career flatlines for a couple of years.
I needed support. And working together gives us more reason to talk regularly.
As virtual as our relationship might be, she makes me feel less lonely out here.
The downside is that Friday is supposed to be my weekend in the Middle East but everyone is working in London so I am, too. The distraction probably isn’t a bad thing.
I shut down for the day at four and head out to wander the dry streets, which are practically empty because everyone is chauffeured in Dubai.
The late-afternoon heat is surprisingly welcome after the chill of the air con in the hotel.
I soon find myself barefoot on Jumeirah Beach, water lapping at my feet and sand gritty between my toes as I look out across the turquoise sea.
A burnt-orange haze lingers in the air, adding character to the horizon and serving as a constant reminder of the yellow dessert beyond the wealth of the city.
I’m so lost.
* * *
A now familiar waiter clears the dinner plate from my table on the balcony of Broadway, visibly disappointed that I’ve only eaten half my fillet.
As the first act of a 1950s-style rock ’n’ roll medley draws to a close and I finish the last dregs of my dirty martini, Paddy appears.
His bicep is tight under the short sleeve of his white cotton shirt and his messy dark waves are tucked behind his ears.
There’s a full glass of what looks like champagne, golden and lightly effervescent, on his tray.
‘Hey lady, you look better than you did this morning.’
‘Wish I could say the same about you.’
He shakes his head with a short laugh. ‘So listen, your man there asked me to bring this over.’ He gestures to the full flute with a flick of his head.
I look to the bar and see a gathering of six people – no obvious drink-gifters. ‘Thanks, but—’
‘No drinks from strangers,’ he says in a mocking, bored voice that sounds almost mid-yawn. ‘I told him what you’d say.’
‘Yet you’re still standing here with a drink for me?’
‘He tipped me more than I’ll earn in my shift to bring you this particular drink.’
‘What is it?’
Hand on the stem of the glass, he flashes me a mischievous grin. ‘Before I tell you, I’ve got to know. If I’d asked you on a date, would I have had a chance?’
I feel my cheeks heat as I smile. ‘You mean, would I have been your rebound ex-pat?’
He laughs. ‘To be sure.’
‘I don’t think two broken hearts make a whole one, Paddy.’
He nods, one curt move. ‘It’s Pol Rodger 2002,’ he says, placing the drink in front of me with a small napkin that’s been folded into a triangle.
My stomach tightens as I unfold the tissue, and I’m holding my breath as I read the one word written there.
Aurora
My heart is pounding so hard, it could break my ribs – it feels like it might have – as I look back to the bar.
And I find him. He’s here. Leaning on one forearm, sipping from a glass that I know is filled with Scotch, as if the world isn’t spinning on its axis faster than Louis Hamilton laps Silverstone.
His white shirt is rolled up to his elbows, three buttons open at the top.
His muscles flexed beneath the silk. With one leg bent and resting on the low rail around the bottom of the bar, his cream chinos are pulled tight across his firm arse.
And those intense brown eyes lock onto mine, making the spinning stop. Making the world still and the room fade to nothing around us.
God, I love him.
‘I take it you’re good with Pol Rodger?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The Pol Rodger?’
I drag my attention from Gregory to Paddy and process his words. ‘Yes. Sure. Fine.’
‘And I take it that’s your heartbreaker.’
I don’t know whether I shake my head or nod or do neither. Paddy moves away as the most mesmerising man I’ve ever met walks towards me.
I’m looking up through my lashes as he reaches my table.
‘Scarlett.’ I’d forgotten how my names rolls off his tongue, smooth as velvet.
I subtly drag air into my lungs, holding his stare. I won’t blink first. ‘Gregory.’
‘You look tired,’ he says, finally breaking eye contact, giving me permission to close my lids.
‘You flew five thousand miles to insult me?’
He sweeps up my champagne flute and sips. I watch his throat as he swallows the bubbles and my own lips part.
‘Actually, it’s more like three and a half thousand,’ he says, placing the flute down on the table and sliding it my way. ‘And no. I flew here because I don’t care to be called a son of a bitch.’
I scoff. Seems like he’s one millionth as pissed at me as I am with him. ‘That’s right. You don’t like the truth, Gregory, do you?’
The faintest sign of a smug-as-hell smirk rises on his tantalising mouth that I suddenly remember can do the filthiest of things to me. ‘It’s funny you should mention that because the truth is one thing I came here to address.’
‘That would be a first.’ My words are much more confident than I feel. He’s rugby-tackled me sideways, but I sit back into my seat and cross one leg over, sipping my Pol Rodger.
His brows furrow and he pouts. God, I want to bite his lips. ‘The other thing I came to address is that goddamn attitude of yours.’
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor, cutting through the ambience of the bar with something distinctly less favourable.
‘Thanks for the champagne, Gregory, but you’re wasting your time if you think I’d believe a word you say.’