Chapter 10
My lungs burning, I slow my pace down to a jog and grab the towel off the handles of the treadmill, wiping my forehead and checking the time. Six a.m. The bank of TV screens before me change in perfect sync from Sky News to Good Morning Britain , and I smile, exhaling. I’m feeling more like myself after spending the rest of the weekend at my parents’ helping with all things wedding and then immersing myself in work. He hasn’t tried calling again since Saturday night. It’s now Wednesday. He’s finally given up, and it’s a relief. I don’t trust myself around him, as proven on numerous occasions. My body just ... answers him. Sensibility be damned.
A staff member appears in front of me, arms crossed over his inflated chest.
“There’s no one else here yet, Chris,” I say, retrieving my phone from the band on my arm, now walking briskly. “We agreed six thirty.”
“The boss is in early, and no one but you wants to hear about the financial world while they’re working out.”
I glance around at the empty gym. “But they want to hear the doom and gloom of the real world, do they?”
“The stock market isn’t doom and gloom?”
“It wasn’t at close of play yesterday.” I smile. “And high risk is paying off. Galactia hit gold.” I open my screen and smile at the beautiful green numbers that greet me.
“Galactia?”
“There’s been whispers for months that they’re onto something.”
“Gold?”
“Oil, Chris.” And now my risky investments have paid off. I’m looking forward to the flurry of calls from my clients singing their joy.
“You said they’d hit gold.”
“Never mind.” I sigh, slowing to a stop and swiping my screen to check my emails. One’s already landed from Mr. Gibbs, who surfs the chat rooms and watches the stocks as keenly as I do. Typically, clients hand over their cash and let me crack on. Not Mr. Gibbs. He’s a constant stream of updates, not that I need them. I often ask myself why he lets me play with his money when he’s clearly got the time to do it himself. I’m not complaining. He’s a chunky percentage of my clients’ wealth and a step closer to smashing my numbers. And making partner. I quickly reply to him and hop off the treadmill to go shower. It’s a long day ahead.
The finance conference.
A great networking opportunity and a chance to pick Gary’s brain discreetly about where the senior partners are at in their search for the new partner. Plus, Tilda Spector will be there. My stomach flutters with anticipation for today and the opportunities ahead. I need to be on my A game, hence my stupidly early visit to the gym.
I go to the changing rooms and lower to the bench, dipping and removing my trainers as I scan the day’s schedule. Registration and coffees at nine, keynote speaker at ten—who happens to be the CEO of the event sponsor, Global Finance LLP—a few presentations from financial institutions at eleven, a light lunch at one, a few one-to-one meetings between two and four, and then the closing speech from the FST before the gala dinner. Carriages at nine.
My cheeks balloon. Long indeed. Retrieving my towel and washbag from the locker, I head for the shower, wondering how I’ll approach Tilda Spector. I’ll let her seek me out. I’m sure she will, and I refuse to be one of what I expect will be many advisers hovering close by like flies around shit. I’ve always been a medium- to high-risk kind of adviser. I take educated risks and invest my clients’ money as if it were my own to be lost. I know Tilda has approached her career with the same mindset, because she told me.
I’ve got this.
I dry off, then brush my hair and dry it, scooping it up automatically. I pause for thought. Then release it, combing through with my fingers before slipping into my prised Victoria Beckham pencil dress. A total extravagance, but the colour brought me to my knees—a kind of creamy oyster—and I can wear it all day without getting one teeny-tiny crease.
As I’m leaving the gym, Clark calls. “Hey,” I say, crossing the road to the station.
“Want a ride?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on,” he drones. “We’re going to the same place. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. I can expense it. It’s an hour on the train, which gives me time to email some clients and write some reports. If I ride with you, I’ll arrive with an earache after you’ve unsuccessfully tried to convince me I should be working for the family business.”
“I promise I won’t talk to you.”
I smile, hovering outside the Tube station rather than descending into the bowels of London and losing my network. “I don’t believe you.”
“How was Sunday?” he asks.
“I’m not allowed to talk to you about Sunday.” It was lovely. Wine, dresses, table plans. Plus, I was able to wangle Abbie and Charley an invite to the hen party.
“I’m not talking about the wedding. You and Dad.”
“We’re fine,” I assure him. “He did what our dad does, and I accepted his non-apology.” Which was a guilty smile, a hug, a pat on the back, and a kiss in my hair. Because we’ll do it all over again next week, or perhaps the week after, when he forgets himself and tries to fix my life that doesn’t need fixing.
“But you’re still living at Abbie’s?”
“Yes, until something comes up.”
“And Mum’s okay with that?”
“When I lived with them, I left before they got up, and I saw them for an hour before bed, if I wasn’t working late or out with the girls. She won’t miss me.” We both know that’s not true. I suppose I’m justifying it to myself. But I shouldn’t punish Mum because of Dad’s loose lips. She likes knowing I’m around, even if I’m not around. But, honestly, it’s like running the gauntlet of judgments every time I step foot in their house. And I’m thirty. That’s one thing Dad was right about. It’s unhealthy living with my parents. Not much healthier living with my best friend. God, I hope something comes up soon. “Listen, I’m hanging around outside the station just so you can make me feel guilty.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty. I want you to come work for ... with me.”
“You’re deluded. How many times was Dad in the office last week?”
“Twice. Maybe three times. Or was it four?”
“Clark,” I breathe tiredly.
“Okay, it was five.”
I laugh. “So technically, even if Dad’s retired and has handed the reins to you, you still work for him.”
“Not for long, but it needs a delicate approach.”
I can’t argue with that. All Dad’s known is the family business. He’s struggling to find his place in life beyond that. Mum’s always been the homemaker, Dad the breadwinner. “It’s his birthday soon. How about we sign him up for golf lessons?” I suggest.
“Fuck yes. Brilliant idea. You look into that. Let me know how much I owe you.”
“I will.”
“Let me at least pick you up from the station at the other end so you don’t have to piss around with a cab to the hotel.”
“Fine,” I relent. “My train gets in at eight fifteen.”
“I’ll be there.”
Halfway down the steps, my phone rings again, and I stop when I see an out-of-town number. “Hello?”
“Morning.”
My body instantly tenses, a man catching my shoulder as he dashes past me down the steps. Hang up. Hang up. And my current state, hot and bothered, heart racing, is exactly why I need to avoid this guy. I’ve suddenly forgotten where I’m going, who I am. With just one word. The last time he talked to me, he nearly brought me to orgasm.
“This isn’t your mobile number.”
“No, it’s not. You’re not answering calls from my mobile, so I thought I’d try calling you from a different line.”
He’s crafty. “Now’s really not a good time.” I turn and walk back up the steps, getting out of the way of the commuters.
“But this coming Saturday works, so you’ll come to dinner with me.”
My God, I’ve never come across such an indomitable man. So much for my conclusion that he’s backed off. “Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying to you?”
“I’m hearing, Amelia. You want me.”
At those very words, a powerful throb hits me between my thighs. I look around me, at the chaos on the London street. Silence. Just his words bouncing around in my mind.
“Saturday,” he repeats.
“No.”
“Fucking hell, Amelia,” he breathes, completely exasperated. “It’s just dinner.”
“Is it?” I ask on a laugh. “Because your approach to this point would suggest otherwise.”
Silence. He has no comeback for that.
“Look, I’ve got to go.”
“No, Amelia, wait.”
A woman catches my shoulder as she rounds the corner into the Tube station, knocking me into the wall. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry,” she splutters, taking my arm to steady me. “I didn’t see you.”
I blink, looking at my mobile in my hand.
“Amelia?” he says. “Amelia, talk to me.”
I hang up and catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks, prompting me to force a smile and reassure her I’m fine. And grateful. I was a heartbeat away from caving. “So sorry,” she says again, before getting on her way.
I take a moment to realign and remind myself of where I’m going. Not just today, but in my career. My life. I hurry down the stairs to the Tube, my throat tight, unexpected and unwanted anger getting the better of me.
Not today.
Today, I need to be focused.