4 #2
Two floors below her, Neville Rickman was drinking a cup of coffee and contemplating his life in general – and one person in particular.
Lyssa Moore had always been one of his quieter neighbours, never playing loud music or pestering him for cups of sugar or intruding on him in any way, and for that he was grateful. The nature of his work meant that he valued his privacy, and maintaining a certain anonymity was par for the course.
So far, he’d had no reason to regret moving into the small, select block of flats in this quiet part of the city, and he only hoped it would stay that way, now that things had just got a little more complicated.
When he’d first moved into the building, it had taken him some time to get to know his neighbours and their regular visitors, and Freida’s habit of flirting with him he found both flattering and amusing.
He could do without Jason Howerd-Pitt’s constant nosiness, however, but at least his immediate neighbours on the ground floor kept themselves to themselves.
Jason’s partner, the rich American student, was all right but tended to be a little suspicious of him, which was understandable, and he only hoped it wouldn’t become a problem now.
He didn’t normally allow his business to intrude on his home life, but in this instance it was both unavoidable and made good sound sense.
And of all the people in the building, the one who most intrigued and interested him, and always had, was Lyssa Moore. Which had now become rather ironic, really.
It was funny how life could twist and turn in ways that you never expected.
But he told himself that now was not the time to wax philosophical – he much preferred being pragmatic.
With that in mind, he used his online banking app to check on the current status of his bank balance and saw that the agreed initial payment for his services had been paid into his account, as promised.
So, no cause for worry there, then. Not that Neville was a man given to worrying unduly; his business was thriving, he was living the good life in a lovely city and had no responsibilities weighing him down.
And if he was beginning to feel as if there should be more to his life than this, well, that was just life, wasn’t it?
He was getting to the age when a lot of people begin to question their choices and wonder if mistakes had been made.
Neville didn’t think he’d made any – well, not any real howlers, anyway.
But running into Lyssa Moore in the hallway earlier had left him feeling a little restless and antsy. A vague feeling that he might be missing out on something important was niggling away at him, and he didn’t like that.
He shrugged the vague feeling away and decided to order in his favourite Italian meal. But no wine. He would need to keep a clear head and be on top form from now on.
Someone else contemplating food – but without much enthusiasm – was Jonas Bannister.
He was in his office in Gloucester, working late as usual, and was considering phoning his wife and asking her to meet him in town at a restaurant of her choice.
It might go some way to appeasing her for yet again failing to return home in time for dinner.
He sighed and turned his swivel chair so that he could look out over the city.
It was technically in the Cotswolds, and a lot of the buildings were made of the famous pale cream Cotswold stone, but it was still a city and therefore wasn’t exactly the quintessential vista one thought of whenever the area was mentioned.
Whereas the village where he lived truly did enjoy the Cotswold vibe to the max, being surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with sheep, winding lanes and vernacular architecture, and it even had a stream running down the length of the main thoroughfare.
Every front garden of every picturesquely quaint cottage frothed with colourful plants, and the village pub had a reputation for good food and local ales.
And he prided himself that his home – a large Georgian mansion, complete with a century-old wisteria growing around it – was considered by many to be one of the pearls for miles around.
The only drawback to his choice of living quarters was the summer visitors who descended every year, snapping away on their mobile phones and invading the ‘niche’ shops that catered to their various whims. The locals guarded the parking spaces outside their homes like the settlers from the American Wild West, fending off outlaws.
Not that he had that particular problem, naturally, for his home was set in its own extensive grounds, which were kept immaculate by an army of gardeners.
He noticed his wife never complained about any of that!
He gave a small grunt and turned his chair back to face his desk, a slight scowl settling over his brows. He was a slim man, with grey hair and eyes, and well-kept hands. He liked to swim as a means of relaxation, liked to dress well, and knew that his children called him ‘fussy’ behind his back.
He was by nature a complacent man, but right now he was feeling a little out of sorts, and had been ever since his secretary had told him about the nature of Lyssa Moore’s phone call.
For the first half hour or so afterwards, he’d barely given it a thought and had simply carried on working, but as the afternoon wore on, he found his mind being pulled back to it, like an oyster that had found that a tiny but irritating piece of grit had somehow found its way into his shell.
Why would anyone want to write a book about Amelia Montrose of all people?
he asked himself crossly. Just why did people feel the need to drag up the past anyway?
What was the point? His uncle’s band had long since faded into decent obscurity.
The Lucky Cuckoos – hah, what a joke that name had been for all of them.
Bad luck had followed them around like a bad smell.
But it had not, he had to admit grimly, been the same for himself. In fact, he and the rest of his family had done very well out of Glen’s share of their fame and fortune.
He glanced around the office now, as if seeking reassurance.
The building wasn’t new, but wasn’t old, and had style, and it lent status to the businesses that had their offices here.
He made sure that the furnishings in their corporate offices were renewed every three years, and the décor the same.
He was constantly expanding and growing the company, and over the last decade it had really hit its stride, and now their offices took up one entire floor.
This was not surprising, since everyone was becoming terrified of global warming, and the public was getting wise as to which companies were trying to do something about their carbon footprint and those that were merely faking it.
Never had the services of his Bannister BioSolutions been more in demand.
But even after successfully taking over his father’s legacy upon the old man’s death and turning it into a growing power and multi-million-pound concern, he could never quite forget what had made it all possible to begin with.
And that it all harked back to the 60s and the death of his father’s brother.
He tried to console himself that nobody nowadays would remember that or even care about it if they did. All that mattered – what had always ever mattered in the world of commerce – was success. And he was a success. No doubt about it. In every way, he could be counted as a man who mattered.
His children had gone to the best schools, his wife wore diamonds, they holidayed anywhere in the world they wanted. He sat on committees, he dined in clubs in London with the likes of private bankers, politicians and the movers and shakers in the City.
And yet, he could never quite shake off the little voice in the back of his head that sometimes mocked him whenever he felt particularly proud of some coup or other, a voice that laughed at him and reminded him that it was all based on some silly pop songs.
It was annoying because he knew it to be true.
If his father’s more handsome and talented brother hadn’t formed the band, written the songs and sung them to adoring silly teenage girls who ensured they sold millions of copies, then his own father wouldn’t have had the capital to start up the fledgling business in the first place, and Jonas’ life would have turned out so very, very differently.