Chapter 17 Now #2
I try not to think of my wheels, of my wagon.
Instead, I think about Will, piercing blues staring into your soul as he talked you into doing something that really should have been his job and made you feel glad to do it.
At one point, he was a force to be reckoned with.
If any of that Will has survived, he’s a dangerous person to be holding my secrets.
It’s as I’m thinking of this that a loud laugh pulls my gaze over Molly’s shoulder.
At first, I thought it was James. It would be psychotic of me to think I’ve suddenly acquired some kind of psychic ability, but it’s as if I’ve manifested Will by sheer power of thought, as he’s suddenly there, staring directly at me with those icy eyes.
He’s dressed up for the occasion in yet another navy suit, an espresso martini glass in his hand.
The martini in the midst of James’s beer event feels like a very distinct “fuck you,” and I’m sure he knows it.
My pulse spikes with terror and rage as I take in his appearance, but I do my best to quickly smother the fear and fury.
This might be the first time I’m seeing Will since the blackmail, but I need to keep it together.
Otherwise, he wins. How or what is not clear, but reacting unmistakably feels like a loss. Another one.
Will and I are still staring at each other.
The elegant blond chignon of his wife, Vanessa, drifts behind him as she chats with someone in what looks like stilted conversation.
I’m all for spousal independence at parties, but rather than voyaging out on her own, Vanessa always has a sense of drifting unmoored at these things. Her husband is not a good life raft.
Will’s eyes narrow and I wonder if he has been reading my thoughts, given the hostile look on his face.
Although I suppose if he suspects I’m a murderer, to look at me fondly would indicate a level of insanity.
His mouth is opening as if he’s standing right in front of me and is about to speak, when a hand takes hold of my waist. I know immediately that it’s James’s hand, just a breath before the hot words are whispered into my ear.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
I don’t have an answer. At least, not one I like.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” I ask, voice low.
James looks to Will and back to me. “I don’t like the idea of leaving him unsupervised with everyone. Who knows what he might say or do? Even if he does seem weirdly together.”
But when I look at Will, I catch the scent of something else, something nudging his spine straighter and holding his shoulders broader. What does he want, and what will he do with what he knows? That ever-present fear sitting beneath my skin begins to crawl out of my pores.
“Do you think he’s going to say something?” I ask. “Is this about me, or is this about you?”
“I don’t know.”
I weigh our options up. “Let’s just talk to him.”
James’s eyes flash panic. “Here?”
I shake my head. “Downstairs, where it’s quieter.”
James nods, takes my hand, leads the way.
The crowd parts for him like the Red Sea, only the path to Will is no road to salvation.
Smiles follow us as we pace the terrace, but people back away when James and Will finally draw near.
There’s an implicit understanding that this is not a conversation for other ears.
“Lovely to see you could make it,” James says.
Will’s expression is almost defiant in the sarcastic arching of his eyebrows—they both know he’s not welcome here—although his eyes flash an unreadable question as they flick to me.
Before Will can say anything, James pushes on.
“Actually, I’m glad you stopped by. I’d really love your opinion on some of the flavors we’re experimenting with for the IPA.
We’ve got some samples downstairs. Come with me. ”
It’s too firm and reasonable a request for Will to justifiably protest. “Sure,” he says, clearly anything but.
“Nice to see you, Will,” I say as we turn for the staircase, suppressing a smile at the frown that draws his brows together and sends a glance my way.
It’s the little things, sometimes. It’s work understanding people and how to get them to feel comfortable around you, but it’s fun to make them uncomfortable, too, now and then.
We’re silent as we make our way down the stairs and into a booth, tucked away at the back of the pub. It’s less quiet down here than it was before, but this area is empty. Will sits on one side of the table, James and me on the other.
“Well, this is cozy,” I say, trying my best to suffocate the fear and draw on the simmering anger as I sit across from the man who’s stolen my IVF money.
It was only a couple of months ago I got it transferred from my estranged grandmother’s estate.
Only a couple of months to live the dream of having a family before it was snatched away.
I’m putting on a good show, but I feel sick to my stomach.
Now we’re no longer in full view of everyone, Will’s energy is nervous, jittery.
He’s leaning as far back as the bench will allow him, as if I might reach over the table at any moment, a knife unsheathed, going for the carotid.
But that’s not me. I can’t let that be me.
In fact, I’m relieved to find the thought not particularly tempting. Perhaps James is right; I’m healing.
It’s too silent for a conversation, Will’s lips stitched together in a new but apparent wariness, and James’s lips forming a thin line of something alien on his face: anger.
I don’t like having to be the one to show my hand first—it’s the worst possible way to start a negotiation, if that is what this is—but someone needs to get the ball rolling.
“So, who wants to sta—”
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Will says coldly, running a hand over his chin.
The gesture makes it look like he’s trying to hold in more words from blurting out.
“Vanessa’s just upstairs. If anything happens…
” He leaves the sentence unfinished. Takes a sip from his drink.
A little droplet of brown splashes onto the pale blue of his shirt collar.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Will,” I say.
He simply looks away from me, pointedly staring at James as if I’m not there. James takes my hand, squeezes it. He eyes the almost-empty glass in front of his brother and looks up at Will. “You seem out of sorts. Need another?”
“No, thank you,” Will says, grinding his teeth. “Have you forgotten I have a problem with drink?”
“No, but I was wondering if you have,” James says, cool as anything.
The friction between them is beginning to grow so rapidly that I can almost smell smoke rising from it. If unchecked, it will soon fan into flame. While a not insignificant part of me would love to watch Will burn, now is neither the time nor the place. Too many other things would catch fire.
“Look, Will, we’re a little surprised to see you here,” I say. “We’re just curious, that’s all.”
“Yes,” James cuts in, consonants clipped. “Why did you come?”
Will’s back straightens a little. “I don’t know why you’re surprised when the idea for the new range of beers was mine. And now you’re taking all the credit and the profit from it, too. And swanning around with your crackpot wife as if nothing has happened!”
James bristles, his first words a violent hiss.
“Watch your fucking volume. Or did we not pay you for your bloody discretion? And you were piss-ass drunk and high for the last couple of months you were ‘at work.’ ” He makes a point of making air quotes with his fingers around those last words.
“What could you possibly remember? I was working on this idea long before we even had a conversation on it, and I bought you out of the business fair and square.”
“No, you pushed me out. And the idea for the flavored IPAs only exists because I was talking to you in the pub about how much of a brilliant invention I thought flavored cider was.”
“Is this what this is?” That tight anger is pulling the muscles in James’s jaw taut. “Are you here to shake me down?”
Will thumps a fist on the table. “I’m not shaking you down; I just want what’s mine. I’ve cut back the drinking. I’ve stopped the gambling. I want back in. You know what I know.” He glances over at me, daring me to speak.
I’m uneasy. I’m uneasy and James is apoplectic. Will can’t quite see it, that he’s pushing James to his limit, but I can. Only I don’t know what that means. I’ve never seen him there before.
“You promised,” James says again.
Will softens, both physically and in tone.
He slouches against the backrest of the booth bench and his hands fall to his lap.
He takes a moment to gaze at his thumbs, then looks back at his brother.
“Please, James. I need this. I’m trying at home with Vanessa, with the kids, but… My life is…This is all I have left.”
James looks to me, and his eyes seem to be begging me to help somehow. But I need to watch Will more, understand him more, first. James seems to see that I have no Hail Mary and slumps back against his own bench, shoulders drooping, defeated.
“I need you to stay clean for a year. No more drinking. A year, and then we’ll talk.”
“Four months,” Will fires back, eyes eager. “I can’t sit around like I am for a whole year, James. I need purpose. I need this.”
James looks at me, a clear question in his eyes. I give him an I trust you shrug and he turns back to Will.
“Six months. Six months, but you can’t put a toe out of line. And absolutely no showing up at work or company events before then.”
Will’s jaw jostles in thought before he eventually says, “Six months. And everything you said.”
“Six months.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.”
The grin on Will’s face is so earnest that for a moment, he almost looks sweet.
Almost. There’s a greedy glimmer in his eye, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s the kind of person to always want and never be satisfied.
Takes one to know one. And I know that want is an addiction; the more it’s fed, the hungrier it gets.
I don’t have room in my life for another junkie.
“So?” James asks.
“So what?” Will replies.
“So, no showing up at work, no company events…”
Will looks taken aback for a moment, but then nods, smiles. “Yes, of course. Right. Right you are.” He slides out of the booth and smooths his suit. “I really appreciate you hearing me out. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“Sure,” James says. “Just don’t let me down again.”
Will nods, says an awkward goodbye, and leaves. I watch quietly as he retreats, and when he’s safely out of earshot, I turn to James.
“Are you sure letting a man like that back into your business is a good idea?”
“No, but I’m sure I’ve just bought us six months of time while we figure out what to do about it.”
I can only hope that the house of cards we’re stacking stands that long.