Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
“Really, darling, you don’t need to continue to stay here on my account,” Desmond’s mum told him across the breakfast table on Saturday morning as she slathered a crumpet with artisanal marmalade. “It’s been days now.”
Desmond glanced mournfully up at her from the old-fashioned newspaper his father still received every day. He’d been trying to hide in the headlines to escape the twisting guilt of his own life choices.
Who was he kidding? He’d been searching the financial section for snippets about his refusal of the Lundy Prize and about his sudden and shocking departure from Pickering Jones.
Quitting his job had ended in more trauma than he’d been anticipating.
He’d done exactly what he’d intended to do on Monday morning.
He’d dressed in his most distinguished suit, driven himself to Canary Wharf instead of having Hassan take him, and he’d gone up to Harry Pickering’s office first thing to tender his resignation.
Harry had nearly choked on his coffee when Desmond informed him he would be packing up his office and leaving immediately.
“You cannot be serious,” Harry had told him, color rising from his neck to his face.
Desmond had hoped the reaction wasn’t anger. He’d gone on to explain in as plain terms as he could manage. “I cannot, in good conscience, continue on as a partner here. I should have said something sooner, but I didn’t deserve that award on Friday. I…I am guilty of illegal and immoral activity.”
“What in blazes is that supposed to mean?” Harry had demanded, setting down his coffee mug and standing.
He walked around the desk to stand face to face with Desmond, who had taken up a position in front of him as if he were a naughty schoolboy who had been sent to the headmaster.
“You’re one of our best men,” Harry had gone on.
“You just secured the Hongyuan Nanjing deal and positioned this company as one of the finest in the world, not just London.”
“Marcus had a great deal to do with that as well,” Desmond had said, lowering his head and taking a small step back. He hadn’t been able to figure out whether Harry was furious with him or something else. “And my transgressions are too great to dismiss.”
“Transgressions?” Harry stared at him, flabbergasted.
Desmond had taken a deep breath, swallowed the bile in his throat, and said, “I am guilty of sharing insider information with Angus McTavish. Information that he then used to make profitable investments. Illegally.”
Harry had continued to gape at him. “Angus McTavish who was sniffing around you like he smelled fresh meat all of last year?”
The question was startling and embarrassing. Desmond lifted his head and looked at Harry, trying to figure out what he was thinking. His entire body had overheated to the point where he’d felt faint. In the end, all he could say was, “Yes.”
Harry had made a scoffing sound. “If you ask me, McTavish is the one at fault here. He’s the one who made the actual trades.
I can’t say I approve of your choice of company, and if we’re going there, let’s throw Matthew Evers into the mix.
We both know that man is a snake and a liar.
But McTavish was the one who acted. All you’re guilty of is idle gossip. ”
It had been so tempting for Desmond to think of it that way, but he couldn’t. He had more integrity than that, which was ironic.
“Either way,” he’d said, his shoulders dropping in a way that made it feel like his entire body was being dragged down as he spoke, “I cannot continue to hold any sort of position of respect at this company. It’s best if I resign.”
“Nonsense!” Harry had barked loud enough for Desmond to flinch. “I will not accept your resignation.”
That came as a complete surprise. It also shifted a few things in Desmond’s mind.
With sudden clarity, he said, “If I’m being honest, Harry, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
Harry had stared at him like he’d brought a pig into the office. “You don’t want to do this anymore,” he’d repeated.
Desmond drew in a breath and stood straighter. “I’ve enjoyed my time here,” which was mostly true, “but the world of finance is not where I want to be anymore. I’m not entirely certain it’s where I wanted to be or what I wanted to do in the first place.”
“And what do you want to do?” Harry had asked.
That was the question, wasn’t it. In all honesty, Desmond didn’t know. He wanted to help people. He wanted to make people’s lives better, not just materially either. Money was one thing, but there was so much more to life.
Javier had taught him that. Javier had burst into his life with sparkle, glitter, and a terrible, embarrassing, endearing song, showing him that he could do more and be more than he ever would have imagined.
He’d made Desmond feel whole in a way he never had before, not because he completed him, like he was Desmond’s other half, but because he valued him for everything he was already, for all the things he truly cared about.
He didn’t know what he wanted to do, but if he could make people feel the way Javier had made him feel, it would be a good start.
He hadn’t had an answer for Harry about what came next on Monday, and he still didn’t have an answer as he sat at the kitchen table in his childhood home on Saturday morning, watching his mother enjoy her crumpet and his father frowning at world news as he turned a page of The Times.
The only thing he was certain that he did want was Javier.
Not spending the weekend with him had been miserable.
He’d wandered around his house like a ghost, pruning and tending his plants far more than he needed to, and preparing meals that he only picked at.
He’d been daft and lovesick to the point where he’d actually reached across the cold sheets on Sunday morning to feel the spot where Javier belonged.
But had he bothered to call his lover, to pour out his heart to the man and seek his comfort?
No, of course not. Because he’d behaved horribly to Javier by ditching him at the hotel in his moment of post-life-destroying panic.
And he hadn’t handled Javier’s upset with him when he’d showed up at his house on Friday particularly well either.
Somewhere out there in the realm where gods sat observing mortal life from on high, deities were laughing at him.
They were absolutely clutching their sides as they looked down and pointed at him, a grown-arse man in his thirties, for having a complete meltdown and being unable to handle his own mistakes.
But in his defense, if he was honest with himself, the breakdown had been in the mail for a long time.
Matthew had wreaked havoc in his life and nervous system for years, and he’d just stood there and taken it in the name of being mature and capable.
Even his parents, with their overindulgence and subtle class pressure, had stopped him from processing things that he should have been in therapy for years ago.
“I need to make a quick trip back into London this morning,” he said at last, after eating half his eggs and washing them down with a cup of tea.
“Very well,” his mum said. “Just make certain you’re back in time for Cousin Geoffrey’s son’s birthday party this afternoon.”
His father lowered the edge of his paper. “Or you could stay in London and enjoy your adult life instead of attending some ridiculous farce of a child’s party,” he said, fixing his wife with a flat stare.
“It’s not a ridiculous farce,” Desmond’s mum insisted. “Geoffrey is a free-thinker and very avant-garde. Little Milo’s parties are just as much for the adults as they are for the children.”
“The theme is clowns,” Des’s father said with absolute derision.
“Yes, in the same way Cirque du Soleil is all about clowns,” his mum insisted. She turned back to Desmond and said, “It’s going to be brilliant. You have to be there.”
“Of course, Mum,” Desmond said, somehow managing to smile.
He didn’t really want to attend any birthday parties. He didn’t want to be around people at all. But he was forcing himself as a way to stop himself from getting into a rut.
Or so he told himself as he climbed into his car after breakfast for the drive back into London.
The boxes with everything from his office still sat on the back seats.
He hadn’t had the mental strength to even take them inside his house and unpack them on Monday.
He’d gone straight from his former office to his home, packed a bag, and was back in his car within half an hour, heading to Surrey.
Once he was home, with a sigh, he carried the boxes into the house. They couldn’t live in the car forever. But none of them made it farther than the front entrance.
There was another box already waiting in the front entrance for him. It was over a foot tall but didn’t weigh much when he lifted it from the table where the cleaner must have put it when she’d come in a few days before. The box had green printing on it and the name of his favorite garden center.
Puzzled, Desmond left his things in the hall and took the box into the kitchen.
He found a pair of scissors to help open it and discovered a small but lovely anthurium inside.
Its flowers were barely buds, but the leaves were healthy.
The soil needed a bit of water, which Desmond gave it right away, but otherwise it was in perfect condition.
And there was a card.
It was typed, not handwritten, but the words on the tiny scrap of paper shot straight to Desmond’s heart all the same.
“Carinito, I know you need some time to sort things, so as much as I want to knock down your door and help you deal with things, I won’t. Instead, here’s a new friend for the gang in the sunroom. You can tell him your problems until you’re ready to tell me.”
The note nearly broke Desmond. He slumped against the counter, staring at it until his eyes were too blurry with tears to make out the words anymore.