CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE #2
“I’m sure it’s just a blip,” Chris reassures. “We’ve got plenty of bookings for quotes in the next week, so it’s not all bad.”
“Okay, well, that’s something.” Still, we can’t afford to write off this kind of business.
“How’s everything else?” I ask while flicking through the orders on my screen.
“It’s okay, but I have to warn you, we’ve had a lot of phone calls, mainly trying to find out more about you. We’ve also had a constant stream of journalists outside the showroom until I warned them off by threatening them with the police.”
“Shit. I’m so sorry. Dealing with my crap is the last thing you need.”
“Don’t worry about it, Angie. It’s all a load of balls as far as I’m concerned.” He smirks while perching himself on the side of my desk. “Why don’t you just carry on working from home for now, or at least until the interest has died down?”
I look up from my screen. “Has someone had a word with you?” Dear God, I hope Tommy hasn’t been on the phone to him already.”
“No, why?” He’s not smirking now. He just seems confused.
“Oh, nothing. Don’t worry. But if you’re sure you’re okay with it.”
“It wouldn’t be forever, and I don’t mind. Please, Angie. Scott would want me to help you out and do what’s best.” He smiles, but it’s a pity smile. Still, he means well, and I owe him an explanation. He was a good friend to Scott.
“Look, Chris, about Tommy Graham and me—”
“It’s none of my business.” He lifts his hand loosely, palm up.
“But I should explain. It’s not that I don’t love Scott anymore—”
“Angie, please.” Chris clasps his hand over mine.
“You’ve kept this business going for a long time and I’ve probably been a little too harsh on you in the past. I don’t doubt how you feel about your husband’s memory.
You deserve some happiness.” He squeezes the hand under his own.
“Please think about what I’ve said. I’m here to help you.
” He smiles. “Now, fancy a cuppa?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and scoots off the desk and out of the office.
I take some time to go over my emails and pick up messages, one of which turns my stomach. It’s a voicemail, but I don’t recognise the woman’s voice on the other end.
“Angie Knox, just wondering if you get a kick out of stealing another woman’s husband?”
Then she hangs up. Short and to the point. Is she accusing me of stealing Tommy away from Chelsea?
“Shit,” I bellow, causing my six office staff to look up from their desks in the showroom. “Sorry, guys,” I say, but it doesn’t stop a few sympathy grins and sarcastic eye rolls.
There’s a weird atmosphere in here today, as if I'm being judged. Do they think I’m a home-wrecker?
Or do they think I’ve shacked up with a rockstar who throws his weight about and threatens people in restaurants?
They might think they know him, but they don’t.
They don’t know our relationship at all.
This whole thing is unsettling but makes my decision to work remotely an easy one, at least for now, just until this ridiculous debacle has blown over.
I call Chris over. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. I’ll just come in when I need to.”
“Good. I’m pleased. You’re doing the right thing.”
I hope he’s right.
When we leave the trading estate, some random photographer tries to get a shot of me in the car. Thankfully, Andrew is driving, although I insisted on sitting in the front because I’m determined those intrusive bastards won’t get their way completely.
“Duck!” Andrew shouts, and I do so with my bag over my head.
Once it’s safe to sit up, I ask Andrew to take me to my home. I need to pick up a few things.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Andrew says.
My brow furrows and I turn to him. “Why not?”
“Mr Graham asked me to check the place over. There’s more press outside your house than the Chambers' place.”
I prop my elbow against the car door and rest my head against my hand. “Great. Why didn’t Tom tell me this?”
“He didn’t want to worry you.”
I’m quiet for the rest of the drive. It seems whichever way I turn, someone is trying to stir up trouble.
As predicted, my normal life has disappeared, and I’m being scrutinised from every angle.
I wonder what the hell the locals must think of me.
What if that phone call was from someone in Braebeach?
Do they think I’m living off my dead husband’s business while shacking up with a rockstar?
Oh, God. I hate this, but I knew the score from the start.
If I want him, I have to grow a thicker skin.
At least I know who my real friends are.
The sun rises through the trees, and I sit and watch the day dawn while I recover from too many glasses of wine last night. When I got home, Tommy made me dinner and it was good to relax. My head is hazy because of it, but that’s my own fault.
Toast is always a good option, so I pop some bread in the toaster and flick on the TV while I wait for everyone else to get up.
It’s the same old news from the same old politicians, money experts, and celebrities. Until it’s not. At first, I don’t register exactly what the morning presenter says, only that there are accusations. It’s not until I hear her name that I really take notice.
“…in an interview with Grime Magazine, Chelsea Graham states her husband’s love affair with his former university girlfriend, Angela Knox, is nothing new. He’s been seeing her, on and off, for the last ten years, Mrs Graham claims.”
The knife in my hand clatters against the island counter as I drop it and walk slowly towards the TV screen.
“Mrs Knox, a widow from Braebeach, is also romantically connected to Fraser Williams, who recently accused Tommy Graham of assaulting him in a Braebeach restaurant.”
No. This can’t be happening. My body fills with horror, shame, and guilt as I listen.
No one will give us a chance. These obstacles will always be in our way, unless I fight back.
I can’t let these bastards win. This is our lives they’re playing with, and the lives of our children.
The sooner I deal with this, the better for everyone.