Chapter 21
SCARLETT
Fi’s words leave me cold. They ring in my head for the rest of her session as I guide her through a set of weights and core exercises. I wouldn’t trust his type one bit. It’s exactly what’s been eating away at my own subconscious since I saw him perform on that stage in Brighton.
‘Coffee?’ she asks after she’s completed a five-minute cool down.
She always offers. I always decline. She asks again.
It’s become a ritual. But I like to keep my client relationships professional.
Well, as much as possible. You need that personal touch to get the best from them when you’re pushing them to give that extra ten per cent.
‘No, honestly. Thanks for the offer but I have a full day.’
I leave her house, jump in my car and head straight into the heart of Primrose Hill.
The journey should take less than five minutes, but the traffic grinds to a crawl.
The air-conditioning is on max, blowing cold air that’s a relief from the relentless heat.
I keep running through it all, Justin Lakeland, and what I could be walking into.
Head-on is how I usually work. Read the face, study the reaction, dive straight in and get what you need.
But something about this one sits wrong in my head as well as my heart.
He’s a smooth operator, this one. And he could have been the last person my sister spoke to before she died. That changes everything.
Luckily, I find a metered parking space along the road off the main street where The Therapy Rooms occupies the ground floor of a three-storey Victorian townhouse.
Turquoise blinds are pulled three-quarters of the way down the huge street-level window.
Next door is an exclusive women’s clothing boutique.
I stop at the brightly dressed window display but not for long.
It’s the kind of shop where bags, shoes and jewellery are displayed to match an outfit, and price tags are hidden inside the garments.
I walk next door. Inside, a turquoise sofa and two armchairs surround a small white table stacked with magazines and literature.
The stack of A Meeting of Minds leaflets is the only thing that registers.
A woman, roughly my age – slim, dressed in flared jeans and a short-sleeved satin shirt, her dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail – stands up from behind a reception desk and crosses the room.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her head dipped to the side. There’s a disgruntled look about her.
‘I’d like to speak to Marcus Aurelius, please.’
She raises a brow, as if I’m presumptuous to mention his name at all. ‘I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment. Can I help?’
‘I really need to speak to him personally. When will he be available? Can I book an appointment to see him?’
She stumbles over her words. ‘I’m not sure when he’ll next be here. Can I ask you what it’s about?’
‘It’s personal.’
‘Well, he won’t be in the office this week. He’s in Edinburgh at a conference, then taking a few days’ leave. Can I take a message? Get him to call you, perhaps?’
‘It’s fine. I’ll email him.’ I turn to leave. ‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Wait.’ She huffs and steps backwards, reaches behind the panelling of the reception desk and produces a business card. ‘Take this. If you email the address on there, I’ll forward the message on to him. Who shall I say has called?’
I nod my thanks and walk out. It’s unlike me to take an immediate dislike to someone.
I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and always give people the benefit of the doubt on an initial encounter.
After all, who knows what is going on in someone else’s life?
But she was frosty. And gatekeepers irritate me.
I’d psyched myself up to speak to this guy. Now I have to wait.
I’m not due at my next client for another half an hour, and they only live five minutes away.
I’ve got time to pick up a few items from the supermarket.
Absently, I step into the road. A loud horn blasts.
I jump backwards. A car screeches to a halt.
The driver shouts out of his open window.
‘You wanna get yourself killed?’ He points ahead.
‘There’s a bleeding crossing less than twenty metres away. ’
I hold up a hand and mutter an apology.
He rolls his eyes, puts his foot down and is gone.
I use the crossing and enter the express supermarket opposite, picking up a loaf of seeded bread and a jar of peanut butter.
As I’m coming out, the receptionist from The Therapy Rooms enters a café with outside seating a few doors down.
I’ve got time for a coffee. I wonder if she’ll speak to me outside the workspace.
I enter the café as a large group of ten or so mums with toddlers leave. It’s now empty in here, apart from the waitress and the receptionist who are chatting at the counter. They’re smiling, gesturing like old friends.
‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a sec,’ the waitress calls out to me. The choice of table is mine. I choose a spot by the window, close to the counter. The perfect place to watch the world go by and listen to their conversation.
I strain to listen, but the background music and the coffee machine hissing and roaring are too loud to hear what they are saying. The receptionist leaves with two coffees in a cardboard container.
The waitress walks to my table. She’s young – younger than me – with a faraway, vulnerable look. And she’s incredibly thin with waist-length blonde hair and a gap between her two front teeth.
‘Nearly get run over out there?’ She rolls her eyes.
‘You saw!’
She gets a pen and pad out of her apron pocket. ‘Mad drivers.’
‘My fault.’ I puff out a breath. ‘I should’ve used the crossing.’ I order an Americano.
‘Be right with you.’
‘Nice offices they have over there.’ I point to The Therapy Rooms across the road.
‘I saw you come out,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Have you ever been in there?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I used to work there.’
‘Oh!’ I wasn’t expecting that. ‘What did you do?’
‘I worked for A Meeting of Minds.’
I shift in my chair. ‘I went to one of their conventions at the weekend.’ I tap my fingers on the table. ‘Down in Brighton.’
‘Really? I used to help out at those conventions.’
‘What did you do for them?’
‘Admin, mainly. In reality – you could say I was a general dogsbody.’
‘Why did you leave?’
She twists her lips. ‘I was told my services were no longer required. That was it. Crazy. Totally crazy. I really enjoyed working there.’
‘That’s not very helpful.’
‘I have my suspicions. I got too close to the owner, and my manager didn’t like it. Well, it’s not that she didn’t like it. The owner’s wife didn’t like it. She works there, too.’
‘Justin?’ I say.
‘Steady on.’ She holds up both hands in mock horror. ‘It’s Marcus, always Marcus in the workplace. We have to use his alter ego during work hours.’
I laugh. ‘Really?’
‘You’d better believe it. So, you know him?’
‘He was speaking at the weekend.’
‘He used to come in here all the time, but I heard his wife is ill now. Cancer, I believe. And the coffee-shop grapevine tells me that his mother went to live with them, so he doesn’t come into the office so much these days.’
‘What’s wrong with his mother?’ I ask.
‘Dementia.’
I think of Granny. ‘That’s tough. Where does he live?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Outside of London somewhere.’ She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag: Immy.