42. Lavender
Love is wonderful.
Love is painful.
Love is… such a head fuck.
I remember thinking back in my flat after Sunday lunch the day we’d arrived back from Gibraltar that I wasn’t sure what love was. It was the first time I’d seen Tod after… well, after he sold me out. Or did me a favor. I’m not sure what to call it now. Anyway, I remember thinking I loved him before the weekend and wondered where those feelings had gone. But I was wrong. There really is no mistaking love. If you have to ask yourself if you felt it, you haven’t.
It’s a bit like an orgasm in that respect.
Seeing Celine yesterday, watching her hands cling to Raif, provoked a very different reaction in me. It was so hard to process the wave of feelings that rushed at me. I think I tried to deny them at first—like I was watching it happen to someone else. I’d been out with Tod countless times and watched him flirt, and it never bothered me. It’s weird how that only now strikes me as odd.
Watching Celine touch Raif made me see red. It made me feel sick to my stomach and want to lash out even though I was acting all cool about it. When she left, I tried so hard to maintain a too-cool-for-school exterior, but it had all come crashing down.
A love story. A happy ending. All in.
His words. It was all it took.
As he’d reached across the table and taken my hand, I’d caved, showering him and the pink table in garbled words.
“You’re mine. Not hers. And I love you.”
His hand tightened. His eyes glossed. But he was beaten to the punchline by Daisy.
“Of course you do. That’s why you two are married.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “That’s exactly why we’re married. Love.”
He tugged on my hand. I stood, and he twisted away from the table, pulling me onto his knee.
“People will stare,” I whispered.
“Let them. Let them stare for a lifetime. I love you, Lavender. I love you so hard it hurts.”
“I know.” It was my admission as much as his. We’d found our person—our human.
One squeeze, so tight, our arms entwined and our hearts beating together, before he widened his hold, pulling Daisy into our embrace.
I had never felt so whole.
“Daisy’s here.” Primrose’s head appears around my office door just as I end a call with a courier booked to pick up Wednesday’s deliveries.
“Thanks. I’ll be out in two ticks.”
“Just to let you know, the lovely Leo says she came out of class very unhappy.”
My nose scrunches. “The lovely Leo?”
“Yeah.” She smiles softly. “I think he’s really sweet.”
“No, Prim. Don’t even think about it,” I say, flipping the diary closed.
“I wasn’t asking for permission.” She sighs. “But then, neither is he.”
“What?”
“He hasn’t asked me out or anything.”
“Good.” Because that would be awkward. I’d probably turn into Raif. Minus the jealous, of course.
“Daiz really doesn’t look herself. She didn’t even want to get ice cream.”
“Oof. Serious grumps, then.” Pulling open my desk drawer, I drop the diary inside. “I’m coming.”
“Hey, Daisy-do.” I flop onto the reception sofa next to her. On the other side of the sofa is her red blazer and straw boater hat. Her black shoes shine as though they’d just been taken out of the box, her white ankle socks still pristine. Polly used to say that when I came back from a day at school, I looked like a crow that had been stuck in a chimney. “Bad day at school, lovely?”
“It was okay,” she says in a tiny voice.
“You don’t look very happy for someone who had an okay day. Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, refusing to look at me.
“Sometimes things seem much worse when they’re all bottled up inside. It can help to share a problem, to let all the icky stuff out.”
Another headshake, this one a little more adamant. “I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to go back to school.”
“Oh, I hear you on that,” I say, sliding wisps of her blond hair away. “School was not my favorite place. But you like school, don’t you? You have nice friends and a nice teacher.”
“I just don’t want to go back.” Her whisper sounds harsh, her feet frantically bouncing over the edge of the sofa.
“Well, I suppose if you don’t want to go anymore, you’re going to need to give a reason.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, looking up.
“You can’t just say you don’t feel like it.” I shrug.
“You mean, I can just not go to school?”
“You could get a job, I suppose.”
“You’ve got to go to school. It’s the law. Uncle Raif said so.”
“Did he? He’s probably right.”
“He usually is.”
“Would you like to talk to him?”
Her gaze darts away. “He can’t help.”
“I bet he can. He’s very resourceful.”
“He can’t. And neither can you.”
Oof. Harsh.
“Then tell me who can help, and we’ll take it from there.”
“My dad,” she whispers, her brows pulling down to make a little shelf above her eyes. “He can help, but I know he won’t.”
“How do you know unless you ask?”
“B-b-because he doesn’t even like me!” she cries as she bursts into a flood of tears.
“Darling Daisy,” I say, pulling her into my lap. “Of course he does.”
“He doesn’t. I know it.”
“Ah, my lovely. Come on. We can sort this out.”
After the little love spills her heart, I leave Daisy in Primrose’s tender care and sneak out the back door. It would be easier to ask Leo exactly where he takes Daisy when she visits her father, but I don’t want to alert Raif to my intentions.
It won’t be a hard fix (I hope). I’m just going to appeal to Daisy’s father’s better nature. If he has one. I’ll just explain that his daughter needs his help. And that he needs to give it. Or else I’ll tamper with the brakes of his car.
Or something similar.
I think of a suitable threat in the Uber on the way over, I decide, pulling out my phone.
ME: Daisy’s had a tough day at school. Movie date after work Prim is down for it. That okay with you?
I’m not lying exactly. Primrose is taking her. I’ve just been a bit vague regarding my own non-attendance.
RAIF: Thanks for looking out for her, princess. I’ll ask Sam to postpone dinner.
ME: We might grab a cheeky Nando’s. Will let you know.
The latter I add as a just in case scenario. It’s not that I won’t tell him what I’ve been up to. I will. After the fact.
Daisy’s class has a theme for the term with lots of their lessons centering around the topic of what people do for work. Because of this, some parents have been popping into class at allotted time slots to hold a little talk on what they do for a living, why they chose that job, what they do on a day-to-day basis. Stuff like that.
Personally, I think seven is a little young for career advice, but who am I to say so? I’m not a parent, though I am very protective of the children who belong to my family, Daisy included. I can’t help but feel protective of my husband, too. And that’s why I’m keeping this a secret for now. I’m trying to protect his feelings.
Long story short, some weeks ago, Daisy signed her father up for a career visit. The way she explained it, she was worried about being the odd one out of her little friend group by not signing her daddy up. The fees are probably astronomical for Daisy”s posh prep school, and who knows? Maybe the demographics skew a little more to a family unit made of a mummy, a daddy, and 2.2 kids, but I doubt it. I have a feeling the issue is a little more about Daisy’s perception of how she thinks things should be versus how things actually are in her friend’s lives. My guess is she feels different and doesn’t want to.
On the sofa, we’d talked about how families come in all shapes and sizes. How some children have one parent, and others live in blended families with multiples. How it’s perfectly fine and ordinary for a child to have two mummies or two daddies, or any combination of those. We discussed how sad it is that some children have no one to look after them, and we talked about how your family isn’t just the people you were born to but the people you choose and those who choose you. We talked about that at length—how special that makes things.
It’s unlikely all Daisy’s classmates come from generic backgrounds, but when I’d suggested how Uncle Raif would probably love to step in, the poor love sobbed and sobbed. The stigma of being parentless, I suppose. And that’s why I chose to sneak out the back door. I know what it is to feel different. To perceive you’re different. I know loss, and I know heartache, and yes, it’s all a part of life, but I just want to see that little girl smile. And spare Raif the sorrow of not being Daisy’s first choice today.
As I pull out my phone to call an Uber, I notice a black cab trundling toward me. If that’s not a sign that I’m doing the right thing, then I don’t know what is.
I flag it down.
“Riverside, please. More London Place.” I glance down at the address on the letterhead peeking out from my purse as I climb into the back seat. The seat belt clicks, and the cab merges with the traffic.
I’m going to Raif’s lawyer. He’ll know where Daisy’s dad lives.
I’d gotten the address from my prenup, which I’d kept in the safe of my office. In the early days, I was obviously too suspicious to leave it at Raif’s house. I also didn’t want anyone else reading it, so the safe seemed the best option.
I glance out at the later afternoon traffic and send a hope heavenward that this pans out well. It’s not like Daisy’s school is likely to have parents who are firemen or vets or marine biologists; anything that might sound exciting to a seven-year-old. It’ll be investment bankers, portfolio analysts, and CEOs. In other words, a yawn-fest. Who knows, maybe Daisy’s dad will liven things up. I’m pretty sure Raif said her dad was a DJ. I don’t suppose he needs to be a cool one. Whether he sells out gigs at H? Ibiza, hotel weddings, or bar mitzvahs, I’m sure it’s better than being bored to tears by mutual funds, data blah, and macro yawns.
I put the astronomical fare on my credit card and climb out of the cab in swanky Riverside—glass and steel as far as the eye can see. Fancy office blocks, residential towers, and fancy eateries, the taller of these buildings blocking out the late afternoon sun intermittently.
I check the address, scoot through the revolving door, and head to the lift and the fourth floor, which offers me a view of Tower Bridge as the receptionist tracks Raif’s lawyer down. I figure turning up out of the blue might make the lawyer curious and more amenable to seeing me.
“Lavender. What a pleasant surprise.”
Raif’s lawyer appears in front of me, his hands outstretched as though expecting me to drop a gift into them. Red-brown hair and a sharp suit, his strikes me as a very familiar form of address for a man I’ve said two words total to. But I suppose he was at my wedding. Maybe that makes him feel like he knows me. Or maybe he and Raif are friendly. They’re around the same age.
“Mr. Tierney, hi. I’m sorry for turning up without an appointment, but I wondered if you might have a few minutes to spare.” My fingers tighten on my purse, my gaze sliding to the receptionist. “It’s quite a delicate matter.”
“Of course,” he says, already turning. “Come right this way. Hold my calls, Victoria,” he instructs, almost as an afterthought.
I follow his tall form through a stylish open-plan office that seems to take up almost the entire floor. It’s still a hive of activity at almost five o’clock, women in stylishly cut dresses and pantsuits and men in ties and shirtsleeves still looking sharp for the time of day.
“We’re through here,” he says, swinging open an oversized door that leads to a swanky corner office, the windows offering a view over the River Thames. “Can I get you a drink,” he asks, heading for his desk and swiping up a remote.
“No, thank you.” I take a seat on an uncomfortable-looking leather sofa. Story checks out, I think as my bum practically bounces from the taut fawn-colored skin covering the seat.
“You’re sure? It’s five o’clock,” he adds in what I think is meant to be a tempting tone.
“No, but thanks. Things to do, people to see. You know how it is.”
“That I do.” He turns away as a wooden wall panel glides open, revealing a bar, complete with glistening crystalware and top-shelf liquors. “That’s more or less what I do for a living,” he says as ice chinks and liquid is poured. “Do people.” As he turns, he puts me in the mind of a cartoon animal, though I’m not sure which.
The Lion King hyenas, maybe.
“Cool,” I reply, wondering why he would say that.
“I must say, I’m surprised to see you here so soon.”
“Soon? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
His lips curl, though his eyes remain on the glass in his hand. He pushes off from the bar, crossing the room to sit on the leather chair kitty-corner to the sofa.
He sips at his drink, almost absorbed in it, before he sets the glass down on the low coffee table. “The money, I suppose. So soon after the money.”
“I’m not here about money,” I begin. Then I stop. Rewind. “What money are we talking about?”
“Your prenup. It was released to your account this afternoon.”
I shake my head as though my ears are waterlogged. “But…”
“Didn’t Raif tell you?”
“Well, no. Obviously.” I begin to search in my purse for my phone.
“That’s a shame, but I have to say it isn’t a surprise. You’re not the first woman he’s dropped on a whim.”
“No, that’s not what this is,” I say with a soft chuckle. But then, because I’m me, I begin to wonder, phone in hand, if I’m mistaken and now him.
No. I’m not. I just got a text from him.
I swipe to my banking app, thumbing in my login details, my thoughts resolute—all in, he loves me. “So who else has Raif dropped on a whim?” Because what woman doesn’t want to know those details.
“His fiancée. His previous fiancée, that is.”
“You mean Celine.” I lift my gaze just in time to see his eyes move over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. I look back at my phone and holy shit! He’s right—the money Raif promised—the money I was supposed to get at the end of twelve months is all there. Minus my overdraft.
“Lovely woman, Celine. Lovely looking, too. Legs for days,” he adds as his gaze drops to my legs. “She was very pissed off to find out he’d left her nothing.”
“It’s not like he died,” I say with a snort as I tug at the hem of my skirt over my knees. He might be good looking, and his suit might be Armani, but the vibes he’s giving off are nothing short of repulsive. “It’s not like a breakup comes with a penalty, Mr. Tierney.”
He swipes up his glass, examining it. “You mean like a prenup?”
Fuck him. Fuck his sleazy eyes and his seedy tone. “You’re the lawyer. Prenuptial. Isn’t the key in the word?”
“Clever,” he says, pointing a finger gun my way around his glass. “Remind me, where did you and Raif meet?”
“At my gallery, not that it’s any of your business. And it’s not what I came to speak to you about.”
“Ah, yeah. I remember now. That’s why you married him, right? To keep it going.”
I gasp—the audacity!
“No need to be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.” I’m repulsed as he leans onto one butt cheek, and for a minute, I think… But he’s just pulling out his wallet.
“I was the one who looked into your financials,” he adds, pulling out a credit card. And a baggy a third full with white powder. What the fuck? “It was how Raif came up with the sum, the million sweetener.” He carefully opens the bag, tapping a little of the powder onto the table. Using his credit card, he fashions it into two lines before pulling a fifty from his wallet. “Personally, I thought it was a bit much.” His tone is conversational as he rolls it across the width, making a thin tube. “Especially given the state of your PL accounts. You would’ve settled for much less, and I said so.”
He offers the rolled bill my way. I shake my head, disgusted. Not that it registers as he shrugs. Your loss.
“It’s gone five,” he says, as though feeling the weight of my judgment. This is a man in power—a man still in his office. Couldn’t he leave this shit until he got home? “Almost the weekend.”
“Wouldn’t a straw be more hygienic?” I ask as he bends forward, pressing it to his nostril. All those hands that thing has been in. Dropped to dirty floors. Maybe stuffed into thongs in strip joints. By all means, shove it up your nose.
“Ah, but that would be possession with intent,” he says, pausing. “As far as the law is concerned. Whereas a fifty with traces of coke on it can’t really be linked to me.”
“Except for your eyes,” I say, only just noticing his pinprick pupils. And a blood test, maybe?
“You know, he could’ve had women lining round the block for that deal—one look at him, and most would’ve thrown in sex for free.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
But he’s no longer paying attention as he inhales.
“Fuck, yeah.” He sniffs, then wipes his knuckle under his nostrils. “It does make me wonder what kind of magical pussy five million gets you.”
“What the actual fuck?”
“No offense—quite the opposite. That’s what I’m saying. He could’ve dumped you the Monday following the wedding without owing you a penny, legally speaking.”
“What are you talking about? Why would—”
“Maybe he was still thinking about your brother at that point.” His shoulders rise and fall. “He must feel like he’s done with that now.”
“My brother? You mean Whit?”
He waves his hand, which I take as a no. This is like a conversation going in circles.
“The other one. The one who banged Celine. Raif thinks I didn’t know,” he says, tapping his nose, “but she told me. Told me then she shagged me to spite him. Our secret. If you want to avail yourself of the same…”
“Dream on.” My lips curl as I eye God’s less-than-stellar gift to women.
“Please yourself.”
“I will, thanks. But my brother and Celine? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He nods heavily and uses his hands to mime bending a figure over before giving a repulsive flex of his hips. The pig. “He walked in on them in the act.”
“Raif?” Because it just won’t compute. The pieces of this puzzle seem to be floating in the air, and they won’t stay still. Won’t let me make sense of them.
“Still, it’s not a bad couple of months work for you. I would’ve gone gay for that level of pay and married him myself.”
My legs feel like jelly as I push myself upright.
I’m sorry, Daisy, but I can’t do this now.