Chapter 13
The rest of the week drags, and I limp my way into Friday. I’ve struggled to concentrate and have been checking my phone repeatedly. He’s not been in touch. I hate that I’m constantly wondering why. Clark called me the morning after, throwing questions at me. I stuck to my bullshit story. And he didn’t question it, although I sensed mild suspicion.
Tilda Spector was right, Mr. Neilson emailed me this morning with instructions to get the ball rolling on cashing in his investments, ending my week on a low. It’s left a hole in my portfolio and made my target even bigger. I should be winning business, growing my portfolios, not losing investments and leaving a higher hill to climb for partner. On top of that, I had to listen to Leighton Steers spout off about his new connection with the Cartwright sisters, two wildly successful—but utterly dull—entrepreneurs from Liverpool, who he’s buttering up. They’re an overnight success story, their creator tech tools exploding. Fuck, that would be a good catch for him and undoubtedly earn him mega praise from the partners.
I tap my pen on the edge of my desk, in a daydream, half my mind devoted to whether Leighton is going to screw up my chances of making partner, the other half wondering why the hell Jude Harrison blew my mind with his mouth, finally got me where he wanted me, and then walked away, leaving me standing breathless and dizzy in the ladies’. My hand clenches around my pen, my knuckles turning white.
“Shit,” I whisper, dropping it and pushing it across my desk, my eyes following it. “Why did you walk away?” I startle when my phone rings, and I scramble to pick it up, but drop it again when I see who’s calling me. “Fuck.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. My feet wedge into the floor and push my chair away from my desk. Distance.
But I want an answer.
So I swipe it up and take his call. “Yes?”
“So cold,” he says softly.
I inhale slowly and quietly, trying to relax. “What can I do for you?”
“Come to dinner with me.”
I dare you to say no. I fucking dare you, Amelia.
I purse my lips, flicking my loose hair over my shoulder. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I hang up and yell at the ceiling. What the fuck am I doing? Getting up, I start pacing my office, cursing constantly. I’m being childish. Playing that game I insisted I wasn’t playing. Proving my point? What the fuck is my point? I want to have dinner with him. I want to let him invade my mind and body.
I. Want. Him.
And now, after tasting him, I crave him so badly. “So what the fuck is your point, Amelia?” I shout, throwing my arms up.
“Alright?”
I whirl around and see Gary on the threshold of my office, looking at me with slight concern. I slap on a smile. “Just considering some minor plan shifts.” I scoot over to my desk and lower calmly, collecting my pen and tapping it, my smile breaking my face. “Everything okay?”
“What happened with your brother and Jude Harrison?” he asks, settling in a chair opposite. I freeze, my smile faltering. Gary’s been working from home since the conference, so I’ve not caught up with him. Not that he’ll want to hear what I’ve got to share, and neither do I want to tell him.
“Nothing happened.”
“Someone mentioned an altercation.”
I shake my head, at a loss. “A misunderstanding.”
“About?”
“A parking space, I think. Trivial.” I wave a hand flippantly and pull a file over. “Bad news,” I say, knowing my ploy will work. No financial adviser wants to hear that at work. It means losses. “Mr. Neilson will be cashing in all his ISAs.”
Gary’s eyes bug. “That’s twenty years’ worth of investments.”
“I know.” I deflate once more. “But I’ll make it up. I have a ton of leads, and I had a really interesting conversation with Tilda Spector.”
“Oh?” His interest is piqued. Gary won’t care who Tilda passes her clients on to. So long as it’s to someone in this company—like Leighton or me. Problem is, Tilda gave no indication as to who, or even which company, she’s swaying toward.
“I’ll keep you in the loop,” I say, forcing another smile.
He nods and stands. “Have a great weekend, Amelia.”
“You too,” I call, chirpy but not feeling it. I’ll spend my weekend carving out a plan, a backup plan, and a backup backup plan, because Mr. Neilson and his cash-in are proof that you can lose business as quickly as you can win it.
I read a message from Abbie in our WhatsApp group asking if I’ve heard anything. No comment. Charley wasn’t all too impressed when Abbie fed her the latest. Abbie, however, seems to think some fun would do me good. Problem is, this doesn’t feel like fun, waiting around to be called. And he just called. And I tried to claw back some control. Am I fighting a losing battle? Who even am I right now? I sigh loudly and drop my head back against the chair, exasperated by myself. The gym is calling. For the second time today.
But as I’m about to get up, my phone dings, and I hate that my heart leaps as a consequence. I drop my eyes but not my head, seeing a text message from his number. My heart rate accelerates. But can I reach out to get my phone and read the message?
I stare at it, just stare at it, while trying to make sure I don’t go into cardiac arrest.
Get a fucking grip, Amelia.
I blow out my cheeks and gingerly drag my mobile towards me. It takes another whole minute for me to find the courage to open the message.
Check your emails. Jude.
I chew the inside of my cheek, my stomach fluttering as I turn to my computer and refresh the screen, inhaling when I see an email from Reservations at Arlington Hall. I click it open and read, and my ability to breathe becomes more difficult with each word.
Dear Miss Lazenby,
We look forward to welcoming you to Arlington Hall. Your Luxury Spa Day is confirmed, and one of our dedicated chauffeurs will arrive promptly at 11:00 tomorrow morning at 10 Green Street SE1 to collect you. Your package includes three luxury treatments, which you can choose from the treatment menu when you arrive, as well as a champagne dinner in our renowned Michelin-starred restaurant, the Orangery. I have attached our standard terms and conditions, along with a brochure with information you may find useful. We hope you leave Arlington Hall feeling recharged, refreshed, and bursting with clarity. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to reply to this email. Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow.
Best,
The Reservations Team
I sit back, staring at the screen, my skin prickling, wondering how he knows Abbie’s address. But of course—he’s checked the forms we completed on our spa day. Bursting with clarity. “Oh Jesus,” I whisper, grabbing my phone and FaceTiming the girls. Abbie answers first, followed quickly by Charley, and it doesn’t take me long to realise Abbie is in Charley’s kitchen. “What are you doing there?” I ask Abbie as Charley bounces Ena on her hip.
“I stopped in on the way home from work. Because, you know, it’s Elijah’s birthday.”
I try so hard to stop my eyes widening in horror. “Of course,” I squeak. “I’m just leaving the office, will be there soon!” I hang up, deciding my dilemma must wait, and shoot up from my desk, grabbing my bag and rushing out. “Fuck!” I hiss as I hit the call button for the elevator.
I’m the worst friend.
After an emergency stop off at Hamleys, I arrive at Charley’s bearing gifts and a smile. “Where’s the birthday boy?” I sing, pushing my way past Charley, the giant Hamleys bear in my arms hampering me as I hurry down the hall to the kitchen, practically getting wedged in the doorway. I can hear Abbie laughing. Can’t see her.
“Aunty Ammy!” Elijah sings, delighted.
“Hey, baby,” I coo, dropping the bear. He climbs straight on top of the gigantic thing, which cost me a small fortune and earned me many raised brows on the Tube. “Why didn’t you remind me?” I hiss at Abbie.
She slows her chewing of an olive. “I did.” Then pops another one into her mouth. “Last week and on Wednesday by text.”
I scowl and check my phone. And there it is. Abbie’s message. “Shit.”
“What?” Charley asks.
I spin, grinning, and accept Ena when she off-loads her on me. “Nothing. How’s your day been?”
Charley goes to the sink, giving me a tired look as she rinses a wineglass. “Don’t try to fool me, Amelia Lazenby. You forgot his birthday.”
“I temporarily misplaced the mental note I keep in my brain,” I say, feeling terrible. I let my shoulders drop. “I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it.” Charley flicks me with water, her way of telling me we’re fine. “What I’m more interested in is why you forgot.”
“Yes, why, Amelia?” Abbie chimes, her voice an irritating tone of sarcastic. “Little Miss Organised, what made you forget our precious Elijah’s birthday?”
I sigh and perch on a stool, dropping a kiss into Ena’s hair and smelling her. I might not want a baby, but I do so love how they smell. “Why are you both insisting on wasting our time? We all know.”
“Have you heard from him?” Charley asks, pouring me a wine.
I look between them as they wait with interest. I don’t tell them but instead get my phone out and open the email, handing it to Charley across the island. Abbie shoots up and joins her, reading over her shoulder. And I wait, taking a sip of wine, watching their faces, as Ena plays with a coaster, bashing it on the marble.
“Oh my,” Abbie breathes. “That’s quite the invitation.”
I flash her a look to suggest I was hoping for more than the obvious.
“I find it quite refreshing that you’re thinking of something other than work,” she adds.
“Ha. Ha,” I drone.
“Do it.”
“Wait,” Charley pipes up. “Let’s be sensible.”
“Sensible about what?” Lloyd asks as he wanders into the kitchen, yanking his tie loose. He drops his briefcase to the kitchen floor, casting his eyes around the three of us.
“About Amelia accepting a spa day from the hunk who wants to get in her knickers,” Abbie chirps.
“The hunk who owns the hotel where the spa is,” Charley adds, making Lloyd’s eyebrows shoot up. “The hunk who got all aggressive possessive when he saw Amelia chatting to another man.”
“He was my brother,” I say, exasperated. She makes it sound like I’ve got a harem of men on the go.
“The dickhead from work isn’t.” Charley passes my phone across the island.
Poor Lloyd looks overcome as he glances between us. Then he settles on his daughter on my lap and collects her up. “Ena and I are going to watch Clarkson’s Farm,” he says, dropping a kiss into my hair. “Be careful.”
I smile. “I will.”
“And love the new hair,” he adds, grabbing Elijah up off the floor and running from the kitchen with a kid under each arm. “Come on, birthday boy.”
“It’s not new hair!” I call after him, slumping back on the stool.
“Go,” Abbie says, resolute.
Charley swallows, as if she’s struggling. I know she is. “I can’t tell you what to do.”
“Damn straight you can’t,” Abbie pipes up, earning herself an elbow in the ribs.
“Just . . . be sensible, okay?”
I nod.
Be sensible.
Simple.
Except Jude Harrison has proved he’s anything but simple, and I’m not very good at being sensible around him.