2. KATE
2
KATE
I check my watch. Mum is twenty minutes late, and she hasn’t contacted me to explain why. I wouldn’t stand for this from anyone else, but because Mum might carve my heart out and eat it if I abandon her, I’m still waiting outside Oxford Street Tube station during rush hour, freezing my tits off.
Maybe something’s wrong, and here I am thinking bad things about the woman who brought me into the world. Anxiety swirls in my stomach, and when my phone buzzes, I feel a flush of relief. Maybe that’s her now, contacting me to explain her tardiness.
I open my phone to find three messages from my brother, Jack.
Jack: Where are you?
Jack: I told you to get here early.
Jack: I’ve got news! Big news. Huge-fucking-news. We’re celebrating! I want to have a toast before anyone else gets here.
Ooh . What’s he so excited about?
If Mum gets here soon, I won’t have to wait long to find out. I’m only minutes from the venue. I can see it from here: a rooftop cocktail bar on Regent Street, Union Jack flag rippling proudly from the balcony of the six-storey Portland stone building.
I fire back a message.
Me: Patience, birthday boy. I’m waiting for Mum . Are we celebrating something other than your descent into old age? You’re not getting engaged, are you?
He responds instantly .
Jack : Fuck no. Just get up here.
My brother is the eternal bachelor. There’s always a woman in his life, but he treats them like disposable contact lenses. In, out, and onto the next. I don’t think he's ever had a serious relationship, and he’s turning thirty-five. Then again, I haven’t either, but not for the same reasons. My work is my priority, not men.
I put my phone away just as my mother appears through the crowd of London commuters. She’s wearing a fuchsia evening gown with a matching coat, and she stands out like a flamingo in a field of penguins.
“Kate, darling.” My vertebrae contract at the way she shrieks the word ‘ darling ’. Only Mum could make a term of endearment sound like a reprimand.
When she reaches me, she air kisses me on both cheeks. Commuters part around us like the Red Sea, casting irritated glances our way. It’s poor form to stop in the middle of the pavement, but Mum doesn’t care and I can’t escape her now.
I step back and cast an exaggeratedly admiring glance over my mother. “Wow. You look sensational.” It’s not a lie—for a woman of sixty-two, she looks fabulous—but it’s also expected, like throwing money into the offering bowl at church. If you don’t compliment Mum as soon as you see her, you’re going straight to hell.
She strokes a bejewelled hand down her dress before primping her coiffed ash blonde hair. “I do, don’t I?” She smiles, but it drops as she looks me up and down. “Your dress is very plain. Did you come from the office?”
Sadly, the compliment giving is a one-way street. I glance down at my dress. It’s sleek, black, with a touch of lace at the neck and sleeves. Subtle, but I thought it worked. Now I’m doubting myself and wishing I’d worn something else. “I did, but I got changed for the party.”
“Poor choice, Kate. You look like a crow. It’s a birthday party, not a funeral.” Mum pauses in her admonishments to inspect me again, making my stomach tighten. “Did you even fix your make-up? What kept you so long in the office, anyway?”
At this last question, a frisson of excitement bursts through me and I forget to be annoyed by her insults. I’ve made huge strides on my project today, and although I’d rather Jack was the first person I shared my news with, Mum is standing right here, asking why I’ve been working late, and my enthusiasm has it all spilling out.
“The Knightsbridge Spa project.” My voice is feverish with delight. “I’ve finally convinced David Webster at Argentum to partner with Lansen.”
Mum looks at me blankly, and I feel like a boat with a leak slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. She doesn’t care about my work; she cares that my focus on it prevented me looking my best tonight, as though my lack of freshly applied make-up might reflect badly on her.
It was stupid to think she’d care enough to remember that the Knightsbridge Spa project was Dad’s last project before he died. He was obsessed with it, and although he left the family business—Lansen Luxury Hotels, the best boutique hotel chain in the UK—to my brother, the spa project is all mine. My shrine to a beloved father, who I miss every single day. I’ve toiled on it for years , so the news I got today is a huge win.
“It was Dad’s last project,” I remind Mum, but she’s still staring at me as though I’m speaking a language she doesn’t understand. Any hope I had of gaining some recognition for all my hard work is quickly seeping away. “His dream. He was always jotting down notes about it on napkins around the house. Don’t you remember?”
Mum flaps a hand. “That ridiculous scheme to build a luxury spa in the style of ancient Roman baths?”
Her words wound me. The project is not ridiculous. “Yes, and Scandinavian hot pools, right in the centre of London.”
Mum lets out a dismissive laugh. “Your father was always a dreamer. He ought to have stuck to hotels.” A flash of understanding crosses her face, and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s why you look like this?”
I bristle. She doesn’t care about my attempt to fulfil Dad’s dream. And she doesn’t care that I love my job, either.
Mum, failing to notice that she has offended me, hooks her arm into the crook of my elbow, and together we make our way towards the party venue like we’re the best of friends, all while I repress the urge to shove her into the middle of the road and leave her there.
She gives my arm a squeeze and leans conspiratorially close. I can sense anticipation wafting off her, and I know she’s about to gossip. “Speaking of the hotel business, did you hear that Nico Hawkston’s back in town?”
Butterflies erupt in my lower abdomen at the mention of his name. I mentally climb down there and snap their wings off. My feelings for my brother’s best friend are complicated, but I would rather die than share any of them with my mother. “I did.”
Of course, I knew Nico was back in London. I couldn’t have missed it. Not only is he all over the business pages, but Elly, my best friend and flatmate, has taken to leaving glossy magazines all over our flat with the society pages flicked open to pictures of Nico exiting a club or a limo, some gorgeous woman hanging off his arm. I don’t know if she’s trying to torture me or tempt me.
Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor Returns to the UK, and this time he’s here to stay.
Mum, in an unusual moment of awareness, seems to have noticed that my thoughts have drifted, because she shakes my arm. “There was a spread on him in The Sunday Times . Hawkston’s the biggest corporate hotel chain in the world, and Nico’s here to grow their presence in the UK.” Mum lets out a wistful sigh. “And he’s looking so handsome. I don’t know what the Americans have been doing to him, but… dear Lord, he’s quite something. Not that he wasn’t before, but he’s”—she puckers her lips and puts her fingertips to them, making a lip-smacking kissing sound—“like a movie star. The absolute epitome of a real man.”
I cannot stomach the way Mum worships him, especially after how he treated my father. Just before he died, Dad struck a deal with Nico to sell him our family company. Dad was so excited. Desperate for Lansen Luxury Hotels to become part of the Hawkston Hotels Group. Then, with no explanation, and for no discernible reason, Nico pulled the plug.
The stress and humiliation drove my father right to the edge. He was beyond devastated, and Nico being his godson made it worse. It makes my blood boil to even think about it, but I play it down. “He’s not that great, Mum.”
Mum cackles. “Not that great? We used to laugh about the crush you had on him. It was terribly funny how you’d blush right to the tips of your ears whenever Jack brought him to the house. It’s been forever since he came to stay. I don’t think he’s visited since your father died.”
Thank goodness, because if he had turned up, I’d have thrown him out. I always thought it was strange that Jack didn’t harbour the same resentment I did. He and Nico continued to see each other as if nothing had changed. Whenever I asked Jack about it, he gave some flimsy response about forgiveness. At any rate, in the intervening years Nico and I have never crossed paths, which is just as well because, as far as I was concerned, after Dad died, Nico was no longer welcome in our home.
Or my heart.
But Mum’s not wrong about that crush. As a teenager, I’d been completely obsessed with him. When he came to stay, I’d linger by the tennis court and watch him and Jack play, or I’d sit by the window in my bedroom so I could see him swimming in the pool. And then, when I was alone, I’d sketch his face. His body. I had Nico Hawkston memorised; every line of his being learnt by rote, carved into my mind like words on a tombstone.
Other girls might have cut posters of their favourite boy band members from magazines and stuck them on the walls, but I drew my brother’s best friend and kept the sketches hidden away so no one would find them.
I can’t think of it now without cringing, but eventually I drew him naked, daring to imagine what he looked like beneath his clothes. That shift marked the end of my innocence. Teenage hormones gone wild, with no outlet but pen and paper.
The first time I ever pleasured myself, it was Nico I thought of, just the way I’d drawn him. And I did it over and over again.
It was my shameful secret.
But in real life, Nico never touched me. And why would he? I was only ever Jack’s little sister, who blushed and stuttered in his presence. When I gathered the courage to make my feelings known, the results were disastrous. It was late one evening, after most people had gone home from one of Jack’s parties, when I found Nico alone in my parents’ hot tub. Determined to convince him I was old enough for him, I slid into the water and removed my bikini top. I was so nervous I was trembling. Nico was horrified, yelling at me to get dressed and go back to the house.
The shame still blisters beneath my skin when I think of it, but it got easier to bear once I really saw him for the ruthless bastard he is.
Mum halts, dragging me to a standstill beside her whilst she digs into her handbag and pulls out a copy of The Sunday Times Magazine with Nico’s face on the front. “Look at this.” She shakes it at me. “I defy you to say this man isn’t spectacular.” Her severe expression softens as she swoons over Nico’s picture. “We might get to see him in the flesh tonight. Jack would have invited him, I’m sure."
A rip-roaring panic tears through me. Knowing Nico is back in London is not the same as potentially spending an evening in the same room as him.
I snatch the magazine from Mum’s hand. “Why are you carrying this around?” I march towards the nearest litter bin, but Mum is quick to catch up to me, grabbing my wrist before I can toss the magazine.
“Don’t you dare throw that away,” she snaps. “I’m keeping it to show Curtis.”
I pause, still holding the magazine. “Who’s Curtis?”
Mum scowls, as if me not knowing who Curtis is proves my uselessness. “If you ever called me, you would know about him. Your brother speaks to me every Sunday.”
I blink extendedly, holding back the surge of emotion that assails me at yet another comparison to Jack. Mum’s golden child. She has always adored him, but when he started making serious money through all his side-businesses and investments, it got even worse. I never stood a chance.
At least when we were kids I had Dad in my corner, always ready to give me a hug and plant a kiss on the top of my head, telling me he loved me, which made up for the millions of times Mum dismissed me. A hollow ache sets up in my chest at the thought of Dad and I push it away as fast as I can.
“How long have you known this new man?” I ask.
Mum gapes at me. “New man? You make me sound like a hussy. It’s been six months since Jeff and I ended things, and my bedroom has been quite empty, I can assure you.”
This is why I don’t call home. Every comment I make gets twisted into something vile. “Really, Mum, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“A month,” Mum snaps. “I’ve known him a month.”
I inhale through my nose and hold my breath for a moment as I debate what to say next. Despite our awkward relationship, I want her to find happiness now that Dad is gone. “Are you happy?”
“Oh, yes. When you know, you know.” Mum grins, but her smile vanishes when she looks at me. “Although I suppose you don’t know. How’s the love life? Still as arid as the Sahara?”
Nico’s handsome face flashes in my mind before a wave of irritation pushes it aside. Why does she always have to be so cruel? I’m about to put my foot down and tell her she’s being mean when she lets out an excited squeal and jumps an inch in the air. “He’s over there. How’s my lippy?”
She puckers her bright pink lips but doesn’t wait for my reply before she grabs my hand and tugs me across the road, dodging through bumper-to-bumper black cabs and red double-decker buses, to where a man is leaning against the wall of Jack’s party venue. At first, I don’t think this can be the man Mum means, because he’s barely older than me.
He’s tall and skinny, with lank dark hair that falls almost to his jaw. His black trousers are tight, tapering into gold trainers, and a white bow tie hangs limp and unfastened under the collar of a black shirt. He looks like he’s been partying all night and is ready to go home.
“That’s Curtis?” I ask. “He’s very… young.”
Mum coos like I’ve just delivered the world’s best compliment. “He is. Only thirty-three. I haven’t been with such a youthful man since I married your father. I’m a new woman. Better than a facelift.” She winks at me like I’m one of her friends and conversations about facelifts and sex with younger men are normal between us.
“Oh. That’s great. Good for you. Definitely better than plastic surgery,” I reply flatly.
“I’m so glad you agree, because”—she takes a deep breath and for a moment I think she’s going to tell me she’s getting married—“he’s moving in with me.”
What? She’s only known him a month. He’s younger than Jack. What does he want with her? I don’t have time to process this bombshell before Curtis notices Mum and bounds towards us as though his gold trainers have springs in the soles.
“You must be Kate,” he purrs against my cheek when he reaches me. He’s leaning in far too close, one hand snaking round the small of my back. Saliva makes a wet click in my ear as he whispers, “Aren’t you a beauty?”
I’m too stunned to speak, and immediately after Curtis slides his hand off my back, something touches my bum. Gentle… no more than a misplaced stroke. Did he fondle my arse ?
Maybe I imagined it. I must have imagined it.
He’s grinning when he steps back, but his gaze lingers on my tits. I cross my arms as a barrier.
I have no idea what to do or say. My mother has a toy-boy who felt me up and is currently staring at me as though I’m a piece of meat.
Tearing his gaze from me, Curtis tugs Mum against him. “Shall we have a drink before the party, just you and me? A quickie?” He waggles his eyebrows, and bile rises up my throat.
“Oh yes, let’s,” Mum chirps, before turning to me, “You don’t mind, do you? Tell Jack we’ll be there soon.” She gives my arm a squeeze and leans in, her head slightly tilted towards Curtis as she whispers in my ear, “Isn’t he a delight?”
A delight? No, Mum. He makes my skin crawl.
She turns away, focusing on Curtis before I can respond. “One quick tipple,” she announces. “After that, you must meet Jack. He’s absolutely my pride and joy. Apple of my eye. No mother could wish for a better child. He’s a real self-made man. Worth a fortune. And he’s so sweet to me. I don’t know what I would do without him.”
Mum and Curtis drift away, arm in arm. Neither of them looks back and I’m sure Mum has already forgotten I was standing beside her and that we were supposed to arrive at Jack’s party together.
I expect to feel deflated, but I don’t. Maybe the pain of having a mother who constantly finds me lacking is wearing off, or perhaps I’ve repressed it so long that I can’t feel it anymore.
I nod to the doorman and pass through the grand entryway to the bar. It’s calm in here compared to the bustle outside, and the tension falls from my shoulders. I head towards the lift, which opens as soon as I press the button. I step inside, but right before the doors close and seal me in, they jerk to a standstill and begin to open again.
A tall man, at least six foot two, maybe three, appears in the gap. He’s in a tailored suit, broad shoulders swathed in a cashmere overcoat that’s so perfectly cut it looks like he was born in it.
But it’s the sight of his ridiculously handsome face that hits me like a sucker punch. Seeing those cheekbones and smoldering dark eyes in print is one thing, but when the man himself is within touching distance, it’s quite another.
He drags his gaze up my body, causing tingles to erupt over my skin, and when his eyes lock onto mine, my lungs turn to concrete.
Nico fucking Hawkston.
Jack’s best friend. One of the richest men in the world.
And the man who caused my father’s death.