Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Eleven Years Earlier
EMILY
The first thing I notice is the view. The second is the guy’s watch.
We’re outside, standing twenty floors up in the sky bar of a plush hotel.
The glass-edged terrace makes my toes curl if I look straight down.
London is spread out beneath us, a glittering circuit board of street and brake lights with the shine of the river tracing through.
Inside, bar staff glide between the mostly small, intimate tables in black shirts while a pianist is turning a Coldplay song into something neutral and boring.
A year ago, we couldn’t have come to a place like this. We didn’t have the resources: the clothes, the swagger—or the money to drink here. Not on my bar wages and his accounts office salary.
Back then, this view belonged to other people—the ones with watches worth way more than our joint monthly rent.
Things are different now.
After we discussed Oliver’s idea to better our lives as a team we burned through our excuses and stepped into something risky but far more lucrative. We left our jobs and put everything we had into building a new future in which we weren’t anyone’s punchbag, or anyone’s scapegoat.
Now, a few months later, we’re not rich—not even close—but we have more money between us than either of us has ever had before and, for the first time, our lives feel purposeful. Like we’ve stopped waiting for life to happen and started to shape it ourselves.
And the best thing of all is that we have a regular champagne night.
At one of the big corner tables, our man laughs too loudly and taps his wrist against the stem of his martini glass so everyone can see what’s on it.
A Patek Philippe in rose gold. The kind of watch you buy to remind yourself you’ll never have to look at a price tag again.
Oliver follows my gaze before glancing back at me. His quick, charged look says: target agreed.
We perch close by at the bar, halfway through our first drinks.
The stem of my glass is damp where my fingers keep shifting position, but it’s not because of nerves; I’m buzzing.
It’s the good kind of adrenaline that’s rushing through my veins, like the feeling of standing on the precipice with the knowledge that, this time, we won’t be the ones to fall.
‘He’s on his second,’ I murmur, tipping my chin towards the corner table.
‘You’re counting?’ Oliver’s mouth twitches with amusement. ‘You think of everything, Em. Remind me never to underestimate you.’
He looks good tonight. Better than good.
At my suggestion, he has upgraded the cheap striped office shirts to slim-cut dark ones, collars open and sleeves casually rolled.
He’d baulked at the price at first—said it was ridiculous to spend that much on clothes when we were hard up—but I’d told him it was an investment.
You have to look like the kind of man people trust, I’d said. The kind they want to believe in.
His hair is a bit longer now than when I first met him, and he’s grown a confidence he didn’t have back then. Or maybe it’s confidence I’ve helped him learn to wear. Either way, the result is charismatic and impressive. Exactly as I’d planned it to be.
‘Everything counts in this job,’ I remark.
He grins at that. The shy awkwardness is still in there somewhere, but it’s buried now under a layer of smooth assurance that wasn’t there even six months ago.
Like I told him, being good at something can do that to a person.
When we got past casual dating and grew closer we started talking about this life. Just a tempting vision at that point in time, at first it was more of a joke than a real plan.
Night after night, we’d sit up far too late in our shoebox flat, Oliver worrying he had to be up early for work. Takeaway cartons often littered the floor, while we mostly drank cheap red wine, my feet in his lap.
My favourite rant would be about the City boys who came into the hotel bar, speaking to us like dirt, ordering champagne and adding a very modest tip like they were doing us a favour.
He’d moan constantly about the partners in his accountancy firm who claimed monthly lunch expenses that amounted to twice our rent payment.
Both our lives seemed to be full of loud, wealthy people, while we were silenced, knackered and broke. Worse than that, we both felt invisible apart from to each other.
‘Most of them are so entitled they don’t seem to have even a basic awareness,’ I’d said once, stabbing a fork into lukewarm noodles.
‘If someone skimmed an extra hundred quid off their card, they’d never notice.
Some of them, you could do two hundred. Two thousand even, for the worst ones.
For us, that’s everything. For them, it could be explained away as just a rounding error. ’
Oliver had stopped drinking and looked at me. ‘You’re not seriously considering my idea?’
I’d grinned and put down my fork. ‘Why not? Don’t they deserve it?’
‘But can we get away with it?’ Oliver had said, half amused, half horrified. ‘What we’re talking about is fraud at best, plain stealing at worst. We could go to prison.’
‘We’re smart,’ I said, sitting up to attention.
‘You’re definitely wasted in that office, adding up other people’s money.
And I know I’m wasted pulling pints for men who think they can openly stare at my tits.
We could . . . I don’t know, tip the scales a bit.
We’d have rules—only target the ones who can afford it.
And select the most arrogant ones who happily show us that they can afford it because they think we don’t count. ’
Oliver had gone quiet then, thinking in that way he often does. But every thought shows on his face if you know how to read it. And I do. I’ve always been good at reading people, thanks to years of bar work.
‘You make it sound so easy,’ he’d said eventually. ‘You give me the confidence to do it, Em.’
‘Definitely not easy,’ I corrected. ‘Just absolutely possible for two people who have the courage to go for it.’
He’d laughed, a little shakily. ‘So you reckon I’ve got what it takes to be a criminal mastermind?’
‘You’re brilliant with numbers.’ I shrugged. ‘You remember everything. You see patterns other people don’t. You’re really good at talking to people and, best of all, you have this face that says trust me. You just haven’t realized what those things are worth yet.’
And that was the first time I saw it. Belief in himself, flickering behind his eyes.
Now here we are, in an eye-wateringly expensive rooftop bar.
Nearly a year on from that fateful conversation, and we’ve pulled off two small deals between us.
Nothing huge. Nothing that would ruin anyone.
Just a few thousand siphoned away from people who thought the world belonged to them and didn’t notice when a tiny piece suddenly didn’t.
We stick to our rules: only the rich. Only the arrogant ones who can afford it. No vulnerable people, no sob stories. The rules are what make it feel like we’re still good people.
The man with the Patek over there fits the brief perfectly.
We watched him arrive, breezing past the host with a nod like the place belonged to him.
We clocked the way he clicked his fingers to attract the waiter, talked to him with that lazy assumption that service people are disposable and interchangeable.
We both heard him on his phone, booming about bonuses and ‘clearing seven figures this year, easy’.
The opportunity arrives as we finish our next drink. Our man gets up to go to the bar himself. He’s used to people coming to him, but he also likes to be seen. Likes to prove he’s not above queueing with the mortals, who, in turn, are largely impressed by his boasting.
We ease into place beside him, close enough to catch his aftershave—something expensive and woody. I let my hip bump lightly against him as the bartender glances our way.
‘Two glasses of champagne,’ I say. ‘Please.’
The man with the Patek glances over, clocking us.
He sees a well-dressed young power couple who are comfortable ordering champagne on a Tuesday night.
As he shifts closer to signal the bartender, he doesn’t sense something slip from his jacket pocket—a slim leather wallet, landing on the marble floor with a quiet thud.
I scoop it up immediately before it gets nudged under someone’s heel. ‘I think this is yours,’ I say, holding it out. ‘You dropped it.’
For a split second, he looks startled. He’s a man who isn’t used to anyone catching him off-guard. Then he smiles, all charm and white veneers.
‘Sharp eyes,’ he says, taking it back. ‘Would’ve been a nightmare, losing that. Let me get those drinks for you to say thanks.’
‘Oh, honestly—you don’t have to . . .’ I begin, all polite reluctance.
‘Make it three champagnes,’ he tells the bartender, tapping the bar with a platinum Amex. ‘I’ll get theirs.’
‘Please,’ he says, glancing at my legs before giving me a smooth smile. ‘It’s a crime to drink alone up here. I’m Martin.’
We introduce ourselves.
‘Makes a change from buying it for the sales team,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘At least you two look like you’ll appreciate it.’
The champagne arrives. and it’s the good stuff. Crisp and cold, with tight, fine bubbles. Not the blown-out supermarket stuff you get on offer at Christmas.
Oliver lifts his glass. ‘To strangers with impeccable taste,’ he says.
Martin laughs, delighted with himself.
We go through the usual: What do you two do, then? You live around here? How old are you? Any kids yet?
Oliver plays his part and soon brings the conversation around to business. Drops in that he works with ‘high net-worth individuals’ in an off-hand way. He mentions ‘private clients’ and ‘discretion’, just enough times to lodge the words in Martin’s drink-softened head.
Before long, Martin is telling us how he ‘pulled himself up’, ‘took a punt’ and ‘made it, despite the odds’.
The phrases change, but the story is the same every time.
They like to talk about the risk, the hustle, the genius and the luck, with a much heavier emphasis on the first three.
Luck never gets its fair share of the credit.
‘People are too scared of risk these days,’ he says, swirling his champagne. ‘Everyone wants a sure thing. And there’s no such thing as a sure thing. Am I right, Oliver?’
Oliver calmly meets his eye. ‘Well, there are some things that are safer than others,’ he says. ‘If you know where to look.’
I watch Martin’s antennae twitch.
‘You don’t say.’
And there it is. The opening. The tiny gap in the door. I feel Oliver tense beside me, just slightly, and I know he’s thinking of our little rule: we don’t push. We don’t chase. We let them come to us or we walk away.
So I nudge the door, just enough.
‘He’s being modest,’ I say, touching Oliver’s arm. ‘He’s not allowed to talk about work too much, but . . . he has clients who do very well. Don’t you, sweetie?’
‘It’s true to say that some of the people I work with have a higher appetite for risk,’ he says carefully. ‘Which means they’re in a position to take advantage of . . . certain opportunities.’
Oliver talks about ‘early-stage placements’ and ‘short windows’ and ‘confidentiality’. He never pitches. He lets people draw their own conclusions.
I watch Martin’s face as he does the maths. He’s not stupid; men like him rarely are. But he is arrogant, and that is a different kind of weakness.
‘It’s funny you say that,’ Martin says eventually. ‘I’ve been thinking I need to diversify a bit. My investment guy’s done well for me, but he’s too cautious. Old school. I’ve always believed, if you want different results, you need different people. A fresh outlook. Shall I give you a shot?’
‘We don’t take on many new clients,’ Oliver says, with just enough regret. ‘Our capacity is pretty limited.’
‘I wasn’t talking about anything formal,’ Martin says quickly. ‘Just maybe meeting up and having a chat. See if there’s something that fits. I’d be happy to pay for your time, obviously.’
And there it is. The next opportunity, offering itself up on a silver platter.
Only the rich. Only the arrogant ones who can afford it.
By the time we leave the city air feels different outside. Lighter, somehow. The pavement outside the hotel shines with recent rain, neon and headlights reflected in the wet patches. Oliver takes my hand as we walk, our steps in sync.
‘You saw him before I did,’ he says. ‘You always see right through them.’
‘That’s why we work well,’ I say. ‘You with the spreadsheets in your brain, me with the people-watching.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘You know I’d never do anything that put us in danger.’
‘I know,’ I say, and I almost believe it. Under the buzz and the glow and the dizzy thrill of it all, there’s the tiniest nagging thread. A whisper of what if.
What if someone like Martin decides he’s being played?
What if this stops being a game and turns dangerous?
I push the thought away. Tonight, we’re ahead, and that’s what matters.
Oliver turns to me on the pavement, the drizzly rain misting around us, and kisses me like we’re the only people in the world.
‘We’re going to make it, Em,’ he murmurs against my mouth. ‘You and me. No more scraping by. No more watching other people live the life we deserve.’
My heartbeat blips. I can see it all in my head: a big house in a good area. Starting a family. A life where the only bills that arrive are ones we don’t worry about opening. Settling down and everything good that brings.
I look at Oliver, and I can almost see his new-found confidence radiating from him like an aura.
He’s unrecognizable from the shy, quiet guy who sat at my bar a year ago.