Canada Square (Love in London #3) (15 page)

“I bought you a coffee and you shouted at me.”

“Ah, but that was a sign of affection.”

“You called my university shitty.”

“How many times are you going to throw that back in my face?”

The lift doors open and we step out into the ground floor lobby. It's already dark outside, and the interior lighting casts a moody glow, adding to the dystopian atmosphere. The security guard barely notices us when we walk past. Like always, I get a twinge when I step through the doors, wondering if tonight's the night that my dad shows up.

Like the office block, the plaza outside is empty. I stay close to Callum anyway, feeling his finger brush against mine as his arm swings. I try to pretend it doesn't affect me.

“Are you heading home?” he asks. “Or do you fancy a drink?”

I don't miss a beat. “A drink sounds good.”

Ten minutes later we’re nursing beers in the corner of a non-descript bar, surrounded by dozens of suits doing exactly the same thing. I lift the bottle to my lips, and swallow a mouthful of beer.

“How are you getting on?” he asks, staring at me.

“It’s great,” I tell him, still feeling breathless. “I think we’ve almost hit the first milestone. I just need to speak to a few more people.”

He looks pleased. Proud, even. “Everybody tells me how well you’re doing. I feel like my protégé’s all grown up.” Though his words are teasing his voice isn’t. It’s sexy.

“I’m definitely grown up.”

“I can see that, Amy.” His eyes sweep down, his scrutiny making my nipples harden. If he can do that only with a look, who knows what he can do with his hands?

“It’s not the same without you around though. Going through the day without being shouted at is boring.” I tease him in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I even buy coffee before nine nowadays.”

“You’re a heathen.”

“I believe you’ve told me that before.” I smile at him.

“The place isn’t the same without you either,” he says.

There’s something sparking between us that I can almost taste. “You know I can come down and make your life a misery every now and then if you’d like.”

His lips quirk up. “Ah, just the thought of it makes my skin crawl.”

“I thought it might.”

The noise of the crowd is drowned out by the sound of my pulse.

“Have you heard from your father?”

I quickly shake my head, welcoming the change of subject. “No, I’m still trying to decide whether to see him or not.”

“You’re considering it?” He frowns. “After all he did to you? Jesus Amy, you can’t see him.”

It’s as if I’m talking to Alex again. “I’m a big girl. If I want to see my dad, I’ll see my dad. And if I don’t want to, well, that’s my decision, too. And I’m the only one who gets to make it.”

His expression is warm. “I understand that. But if you do decide to see him… well, I’d like to know. Just so I can keep an eye out for you, okay?”

I take another swig of beer, trying to ignore the way my heart races every time I look at him. His offer is sweet, caring, and it’s puzzling the hell out of me. I’ve no idea where we stand, especially now he’s not my boss. All I know is something between us springs to life every time we’re in the same room. It pulses and it sizzles and it makes me want everything I shouldn’t.

It’s becoming almost impossible to ignore.

15

A few weeks later I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my pyjamas on a Sunday morning, furiously cursing at a spread sheet that doesn't seem to add up. Before I check it for the third time, I refill my coffee cup. Pulling out my chair, I slump back down and stare at the numbers.

The laptop pings. I'd forgotten I was logged into the network. Normally I download what I need and then log straight out in an effort not to look too much like a girly swot who spends her whole weekends working. I guess on this occasion I forgot.

Ferguson, C: Working on a Sunday? Tut, tut, Amy. All work and no play...

I try to stifle my smile at the way he's turned my own words back on me.

Cartwright, A: Pot, meet kettle. Have you nothing better to do on a Sunday?

Ferguson, C: Sadly not. I've a meeting in New York and my lovely PA isn't answering her phone. Any idea how to book a return ticket for tomorrow?

He’s going away? That sends a shot of disappointment through me.

Cartwright, A: I do, but I've just been told that working on a Sunday makes me dull. I'd love to help but...

Ferguson, C: I see I'm going to have to grovel. How about if I promise to bring you back a present?

That gets my attention.

Cartwright, A: What kind of present?

Ferguson, C: So easily tempted, Amy. Name your poison, chocolates, wine; I can even stretch to a sick bag.

Cartwright, A
:
Ooh, a sick bag? In that case, what time do you want to leave?

I spend the next ten minutes organising his flights and sending his itinerary, checking his visa status and other delightful details. Mum wanders into the kitchen, sending me a strange look when she notices the inane grin stretched across my face.

“Working again?” she asks. I can tell from her tone she disapproves. “Aren't you supposed to have the weekend off?”

“I'm doing it by choice, Mum,” I reply, messaging Callum at the same time, letting him know it's all booked up.  ”I want to get ahead, so...” I shrug.

She mumbles something about being taken advantage of, then walks into the living room with a mug of tea, pulling her pink bathrobe closed across her chest. A minute later I hear the TV come alive, and turn back to the laptop.

At lunchtime, Mum and I take the underground into the West End. It's Lara's birthday, and Alex has arranged a meal for family and friends in a small Italian restaurant in Covent Garden. It’s one of their favourites, unpretentious and authentic, with Cannelloni to die for.

We walk in and see them sat around a huge table in the corner. Alex is spooning something disgustingly brown and gloopy into Max's smiling mouth while Lara stands and talks with guests, handing out glasses of sparkling Prosecco.

“Happy birthday.” I press my lips to her cheek, handing her the gift bag I've carried all the way from Plaistow. “We didn't know what to get you so I hope you like it.”

She pulls out the dove-grey and white-butterfly printed scarf, rubbing the silky fabric between her finger and thumb. “It's so beautiful,” she sighs, holding it up to her neck. “Thank you.”

“There's some money in that card,” Mum says, stealing her own kiss. “You and Alex go out somewhere nice with it. Amy will babysit.”

I turn and raise my eyebrows pointedly. It's the first I've heard of it.

“What?” she asks. “It's not as if you've got anything better to do.”

“Well, thanks for that,” I huff. It's one thing to have no social life, quite another for your mum to rub your nose in it. Even if she’s right.

Lara grins. “Come and say hello to Beth. You remember her don't you?”

“Of course I do.” I smile and reach out for Beth's hand. “How's Brighton?”

“It’s fantastic.” Beth used to work with Lara at the Drug Rehabilitation Clinic, but moved to the coast since she adopted her nine-year-old daughter, Allegra. Allegra's mum died of a heroin overdose, and getting her away from that lifestyle was Beth's number one priority.

“Hey baby.” Beth's number two priority, the luscious Niall Gallagher, walks forward and slings his arm around her. “Allegra wants the nuggets.”

Niall is tall, dark and has a ridiculously sexy Irish accent. Though I've met him a couple of times, I still find myself closing my eyes when he talks. It's like a reflex action.

“Tell her no chips.” Beth screws up her nose. “She had a bellyful last night.”

Niall grins. “So did you, greedy girl.”

Andie is the last to arrive, by which time we're all seated around the large table. Max is playing contentedly with a book, while Allegra is telling everybody about a film she saw last week. Lara sits there happily, staring at everybody, and it reminds me just how far she and Alex have come. Only a few months ago they were on the edge of separation, but now he's holding her hand and they are clearly still in love.

“Sorry I'm late.” Andie sits down in the only empty chair, between Beth and Lara's father. “Happy birthday, Lara.” She looks over at me and smiles, mouthing an “okay?” I nod rapidly. We've talked on the phone a couple of times since my dad showed up, but she hasn't been to Mum's house for Sunday lunch in a couple of weeks. Truth be told, I'm worried about her. She doesn't quite seem herself.

“How's the job going?” Lara asks me. “Alex said you've been given a project to manage.”

“A bloody millstone more like,” Mum grumbles. “I used to think her college work was bad, but this is ten times worse. At least back then she'd go out sometimes, and of course she had Luke...” she trails off, covering her hand with her mouth.

I laugh and shake my head. “You can say his name. I'm not going to curl up into a ball and cry or anything.”

“I can never tell with you. You're a closed book.”

I’m taken aback by that. I'm anything but shut off. “I think I was over him before we even split,” I say. “I just didn't know it.”

Lara catches my eye, and I know she's thinking about my kiss with Callum. I am, too. Remembering the way his lips brushed against mine, the soft sweep of his tongue, it's probably fair to say I'm obsessed by the memory.

Maybe him going to New York is a good thing. He's made it clear we can only be friends, and to do anything else would put my job in jeopardy.

That kiss, though...

“What are you thinking about?” Alex grins at me from across the table. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

Lara frowns “Do you mean canary?”

“Don't be silly, babe. Canaries don't eat cream.”

There follows a meaningless debate about cats versus canaries, and I sit back and take a mouthful of sparkly wine. Being surrounded by family and friends makes me feel warm from the inside out. Maybe all work and no play really does make Amy a dull girl. I should call Ellie and arrange for a girls’ night out.

After the waiter clears away our main courses, Alex pulls out his chair and bangs on his glass with the end of his spoon. The chatter dies down as we all turn to look at him. He seems nervous, twirling the spoon between his thumb and finger. That isn't like Alex; usually he thrives on being the centre of attention.

“I wanted to thank you all for coming to celebrate the birthday of my beautiful wife,” he says, and we all gush in response. “Seven years ago she married me and I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. Then she gave birth to our beautiful son and I knew I was.”

Lara grabs his hand and squeezes, tears glinting. My eyes feel a little damp, too.

“As you know, we had a bad summer, and nearly lost our gorgeous boy. So I'm delighted you can all be with us to see just how well he's recovered. And that's all down to Lara, who isn't just a fantastic wife, but an amazing mother, too.” Alex slides his hand into the pocket of his black trousers, pulling out a small, blue box. “And if I wasn't already married to her, I'd be down on my knee right now.”

“Do it!” Niall yells. Alex laughs, shaking his head.

“So I'm going to do the second best thing.” He opens the small box, revealing a diamond encrusted eternity ring that catches the light. “Lara Cartwright, love of my life, mother of my child, will you do me the honour of renewing our vows?”

Lara covers her mouth with her hand, hiccupping back a sob. Alex has to gently prise it away to slide the ring on to her elegant finger. She holds it outstretched, moving it this way and that, admiring the way it looks. “Of course I will,” she says, still choked. Then we all surround the two of them, hugging them both and wishing them well, until Max breaks up the party by throwing a chicken nugget at Alex's head.

* * *

The next morning I'm desperately clinging on to sleep when the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the early morning silence. I sit up, rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes, squinting to read the caller id.
McDuck, S
flashes impatiently, and I bite my lip in an attempt to stave off my grin.

My teeth do nothing to stop the excitement swirling in my belly, though.

“Hello?” My voice is lower when I wake up. I wonder if I sound like a man.

“I can't find my passport.”

Groaning, I lean across to my bedside table, flicking on my lamp. “Why are you more demanding now I'm not your PA than you ever used to be?”

“I always want what I can't have.”

And bang, I feel the impact of his words right down to my toes. Touché, Callum, that makes two of us.

“Have you looked in your top left drawer at work? Under the photo?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry. I want to drop my head into my hands and slap myself soundly.

“Under the photo?” he says softly. “I didn't look there.”

“Well, you should.” I try to sound nonchalant and chipper, but it doesn't work. The memory of that picture leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “You need to check in within an hour.”

“I'll pick it up now. Thank you, Amy.” His voice is deep, smooth and completely unreadable. Does he know I've seen the picture of his wife?

“Have a safe flight,” I say, falling back on the bed. “Bon voyage.”

“Take care.” He rings off and I close my eyes. Why is it that every interaction with Callum Ferguson leaves me feeling more confused?

* * *

When I get to the office a little after eight on Monday, a box of chocolates and a gift card for the local coffee shop are on my desk. He's scribbled a thank you on a yellow post-it note, his writing as illegible as ever. In spite of the early hour I rip the cellophane from the box and greedily stuff a chocolate Brazil nut into my mouth, letting the gooey goodness swirl around my tongue.

“What are you grinning at?” Charlie sits down on the edge of my desk. “It's Monday morning, nobody should be that happy.”

“Correction, it's Monday morning with a box full of chocolates,” I shove the carton at him. “Help yourself.”

“I've only just brushed my teeth.” He stares at me with disgust. “I don't know how you can face chocolate this early in the morning.”

I shrug and pop another in my mouth; this time a caramel creme. “Your loss.”

Charlie picks up the gift card and turns it over. Then he reads the post-it note. If it were anybody but him, I'd get annoyed, but you can't shout at Charlie. It would be like telling off an old, much-loved dog.

“How come you get chocolates when your boss calls you on a Sunday, and I get a flea in my ear for not picking up the phone quickly enough?” he complains. “That doesn't seem very fair.”

I take the card from his hands. “Because he's not my boss anymore and I did him a favour. Plus I respond really well to positive reinforcement.”

“So do I,” Charlie whines. “But nobody ever gives me any.”

“Is there a reason for this visit,” I ask. “Or did you just want to have a general moan? Because if you haven't noticed, I'm a very busy, important person.” I grab another chocolate. “Lots to do, you know?”

“Are you free on Friday?”

I bat my eyelashes. “Why, Mr Simpson, are you asking me on a date?”

He grins. “Yep, a date for ten. It's my birthday and we're heading over to The Salty Dog. Legend has it there's going to be a DJ, too. Music, grub and all the champagne we can drink.”

The Salty Dog is a bar on the edge of the wharf, its name harking back to the days when it was a real, working dock. Since all the interns were banned from China's, this is where we congregate. I've noticed some of the partners prefer its more earthy nature, too. In spite of the stupid name it's a lot less pretentious than China's.

“Is that a good idea?” I ask gently. “After what happened last time we drank champagne?”

“That was a long time ago,” he scoffs. “I was a child then. Twenty one is such a difficult age.”

“It was six weeks ago,” I point out, folding my arms. “And seriously Charlie, remember what Diana said? Two strikes and you're out.”

He mirrors me, crossing his own arms. “Seriously, Amy, I promise to behave myself. And if you see me getting drunk you have my full permission to cut the alcohol off. In fact I insist, it can be your birthday gift to me.”