Hate to Love You (12 page)

Just before the doormen opened the elegant front doors he swung me around and shook me until I turned my blurry eyes up to his. He said something but it didn’t register because I was caught by the permanent, unequivocal message in his eyes.

<<
Never come back.
>>

I nodded and stumbled through the doors without knowing where I was going. I was shaking, choking on tears as I lurched into the night, leaving the devastation I had caused behind. It was pitch black and I was miles from anywhere but I kept walking. I didn’t dare look back because if I did, I thought I might be turned into a pillar of salt.

PART TWO

Chapter Nine

Hindsight’s a Bitch

London
,
the present

My underground train shot into Liverpool Street Station smack in the middle of the morning rush. I focused on the
Metro
newspaper in a commuter’s hand and the sound of the blaring iPod next to me. Anything that would keep my mind on the interview ahead and out of the past. I couldn’t afford to think about James or Caroline or—

Ryan.

I shut my eyes at the thought of my son.

Minding the gap, I got off the train and inched my way through the crowd and onto the escalator, wanting to feel just as confident as the other tubesters. Sure of myself, polished like the statuesque blonde coming towards me. If I managed to impress the interview panel there’d be no end-of-the-month panic to give Marcia her rent money and I could put my new plan into action.

New, because the old one had resulted in a two-hour visit at the police station.

I’d been back in the UK for three months trying to find a secretarial job, but it was proving harder than I’d imagined. My pile of rejection letters had turned into a fleet of airplanes to entertain Marcia’s daughter, Fleur Anise. Except for the ones that made reference to my YouTube notoriety. Those I tore to shreds.

Seven years had passed since my unfortunate wedding speech but “Trash at the Bash” was still a hit in cyberspace. I used to watch it over and over, torturing myself with what I had done. Masochistic I know, but self-punishment drew me to revisit the scene of my shame. There were different lengths of footage on YouTube, from the whole shebang at six minutes and thirty-two seconds to just the eleven seconds it took me to blurt that James was the father of my child.

Some films captured the guests’ reactions while others focused on Caroline’s crumbling destruction and my gloating, triumphant laughter. I watched them all, including the “Trash at the Bash” copycat videos and spin-offs. The twisted fans I had acquired had only one requisite for adding to the “Trash at the Bash” hall of fame: the videos needed to feature shocking revelations at family gatherings in public places.

The last video I’d forced myself to watch was “Smash at the Bash,” where the protagonist, a Jewish New Yorker, declares he’s gay and takes a baseball bat to his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. He mentions me by name and thanks me for giving him the courage to come out to his orthodox community—and his wife.

I guess it’s like Marcia says: I can’t whine that I don’t belong or fit in. I am the inspiration for a very select, very screwed-up bunch of people.

Niche
.

I walked out of the tube station and blinked in the June sunshine. The City of London was buzzing. Everywhere I looked I saw Starbucks and Costa coffees held in hands laden with expensive rings and watches. Whenever I was in this part of town, a mixture of period classics and sleek modern architecture, I felt out of place. Insignificant. Like I didn’t belong here sharing space with people who looked effortlessly sophisticated yet somehow drab in their different shades of black and grey.

Ten minutes to go.

I stifled the urge to ditch the interview. A few phone calls to the top legal firms in London was all it had taken to discover that James now worked at Flintfire & Associates. When I’d seen their advertisement for a legal secretary in
Ms London
magazine it had seemed like fate. Even so, I’d agonised over whether to apply. Then my latest letter to James came back Return to Sender. It was bad enough I suspected he tossed them after reading, but not bothering to open it? Enraged, I shoved my CV into an envelope and headed out to post it.

I know, I know, making decisions when you’re angry is just as idiotic as when you’re drunk, but regardless, I needed a job. Working as a silver service waitress was tiring and the pay was crap.

I bought my stamps from Kahlu, the large African lady at the corner shop, and when she asked why I looked so glum I said I was nervous about my application. Her advice can be as unusual as the fabrics she wraps around her head and this time was no different: write the name of the personnel manager at Flintfire on a blank sheet of paper and stick it in a bowl of caster sugar to sweeten her towards me.

Don’t knock it—Kahlu’s tip got me an interview and she was going to get a bouquet of flowers on my way home.

The modern office building I entered was sleek and intimidating, the security officer coolly polite. The lift pinged my arrival on the sixteenth floor and I stepped straight into Flintfire & Associates. Nervously, I scanned the front desk, the plush seating area and the corridors, right and left. I hadn’t seen James since the night of his wedding and I didn’t want to bump into him on the day of my interview. He’d make sure I didn’t get hired and then I’d be back to square one.

Apprehension made me clutch my satchel like I was walking through Brixton at two in the morning.

The young receptionist looked up from her screen and put her tea mug down. She had a chic black pageboy and immaculate makeup, reminding me of Uma Thurman in
Pulp Fiction
. I looked at the shiny gold name tag on her black lapel. What a letdown.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. Her accent was Aussie. “Take a seat, Elizabeth, and I’ll let them know you’re here.”

“Thank you, Velma.”

I showed her all my teeth and amped up the chirpiness. At my last interview the panel had watched each candidate arrive, talk to the receptionist and sit down. The verdict on Elizabeth Benítez? I’m sullen and shifty-eyed. My ability to read people has intensified in the last few years so glances from me really are the shifty-eyed sort, but I protest the sullenness.

I pasted a smile on my face and pretended to read a magazine. A few minutes later I was ushered into a meeting room. There were three people sitting at a glossy mahogany table with a pitcher of water in the middle. I shook hands with each one, steeling myself to look them in the eye and show how pleased I was to be there.

The younger man, Gregory Brentford, was one of the lawyers I’d be working with and the older man, Mr Lemane, was one of the senior partners. I sat down and kept my attention on the woman—Kate Saunders, personnel manager. She returned my look.

Whoa!

I don’t swing that way, but if I did I might have taken her up on it. She was hot for a woman in her fifties—and adventurous. I coughed to hide my embarrassment. That would teach me not to look into anybody’s eyes long enough to read them if I got this job.

“I’m very glad to be here,” I began, and Ms Saunders snapped back to business mode. She, Lemane and Brentford took it in turns to tell me about the firm and question me.

“What we’re looking for is linguistic ability more than anything else,” Brentford said. “You can learn the ropes gradually.”

I was relieved. “Fluency in Spanish and legal secretarial experience I have in spades, as you can see from my CV.”

Ms Saunders looked up from the copy she’d been perusing. “Five years working at Grupo Ardinal in Valencia. Conveyance department then Probate. Out of curiosity, what made a—” she paused to look at my date of birth and do the maths, “—a young woman of nineteen move to Spain?”

Pain and regret
, my mind supplied promptly
.

“When I finished my secretarial studies I wanted to prove that I could be independent. Commit to a course of action that would challenge me every day.”

Like staying clean and sober.

She gave me piercing look. “And did you succeed?”

“Yes,” I said brightly. “It was hard to live abroad on my own at first but it got easier once I found coping strategies.”

Mr Lemane leaned forward. “You have excellent references. Why did you leave Grupo Ardinal?”

Because it’s time to rectify my mistakes and—

I told my mind to shut up and concentrate on the interview. “My firm was fantastic but my home is in England, close to my loved ones.”

He gave me a searching look. “Yes, especially if you have children.”

Shit, that was my cue to confirm or deny a productive womb. I schooled my face to neutral. “I have a six-year-old son who lives with his father.”

They digested that with barely a change of expression but I saw the nosy disapproval in their eyes. Brentford leaned his elbows on the table and it was all I could do not to heave a big, frustrated sigh. I’d seen similar expressions on other interviewers’ faces before and it didn’t bode well for getting the job. Brentford would now make an oblique reference to my YouTube performance and thank me for coming in.

It was more than infuriating but what did I expect? Drunk and vulgar addicts who sleep with their sister’s fiancé and happily announce it to the world do not fit the image of a prestigious law firm. Brentford leaned forward as if he was about to pounce and I waited for the inevitable, blinking a few times to stem the tell-tale burn in my eyes.

“The position requires travel to Spain with Mr Scott-Thomas and myself. Will that be a problem?”

Huh? He wasn’t going to mention the video and thank me for coming in? Relief made me feel giddy and I blamed paranoia for my negative interpretation of his body language. But wait... Hold on a bloody second. My stomach clenched and relief was replaced by horror. Did he just say he worked with
James?
James Xavier Scott-Thomas?

The advert for a bilingual secretary said nothing about working in Tax Law. It mentioned the Spanish requirement and experience within a law firm and nothing else. I’d been angry as hell when I answered it, but I wasn’t insane. Flintfire was a large firm, spread out over five floors. I figured any coincidental bumping into James would be in the lift or over the water cooler.

My plan was to locate his office, pop up to make my demands to see Ryan, and stick like a cold sore that refuses to go away. But taking a job that meant working
with
him? As in James would be my boss? Going on trips to Spain with the man who hated me? Shit! I hadn’t come prepared for that little surprise and I didn’t know what to do about it.

When in doubt repeat dumbly. “Mr Scott-Thomas?”

“James and I visit our clients in Valencia and Madrid several times a month. Sometimes we’ll need you to hold the fort in London, other times you’ll have to come with us,” Brentford said.

I cleared my throat. “Could I have some water please?” I drank it down like I’d been on a bender and needed to rehydrate. “So you two would be sharing me?”

Brentford ran a hand through his thinning hair and dropped his gaze down my body. “James has overall responsibility for Spain but I’ll familiarise you with procedures and contracts. The other members on our team are spread out on this floor. You’d share an office with James and myself.”

“Procedures...contracts...” I repeated, my mind racing.

I wanted to slam the water down and leave. Don’t call me because I won’t call you. Instead, I pulled myself together. This was even better than I imagined, wasn’t it? A nine-to-five, everyday chance to get in James’s face. All I had to do was stop hyperventilating and I’d be fine. Brentford said that James was in Madrid at the moment, which helped me to relax.

Ms Saunders regarded me as if I were slow. “Do you foresee travelling to be a problem?”

I straightened my back. “Short notice or long, I’ll be ready.”

“You would be working closely with two busy lawyers under a lot of pressure. How do you foresee that relationship?”

Fucking impossible
, my mind screamed.

Luckily, my mouth had other ideas. “As a working partnership that will be productive for Flintfire.”

Ms Saunders smiled, satisfied with the pat answer. “If you’re offered the position there’s a probation period of six months.” A light pause while I digested that, and then, “You’ll be on a temporary contract during that time.”

Fine. Whatever. I wanted to know if James would have the power to fire me and relaxed when Lemane said that resided with the senior partners.

“However,” Ms Saunders interjected, “Mr Scott-Thomas would be assessing you during your probation and Mr Lemane would take any recommendation of his into consideration.”

My smile didn’t falter. I never learned how to ride a bike but I heard you never forget how, just like lying.

“There would be no reason for Mr Scott-Thomas to complain.”

Brentford got up. “Would you like to see our office?”

There wasn’t a water cooler in sight. This firm had staff that passed by with trolleys of goodies and a kitchen that looked like something out of an architectural brochure. Brentford asked me to call him Greg and told me they saved the best treats for “our” floor. By his friendly tone I could tell he wanted me to get the job and I left the building feeling positive he was on my side.

I
can do this
, I told myself.
I
can work with James on a day-to-day basis
. It would be my chance to show him how mature and responsible I now was, to make him see me in a different light and soften his attitude towards me.

I bought bright orange gerberas and headed to the corner shop to ask Kahlu whether she had any other magical advice to guarantee that I was hired.

* * *

I was watching my favourite episode of
True Blood
when Marcia got home from work. She dropped her handbag on the console table and walked into to the sitting room, blocking my view. Her shift at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead had been followed by an appointment with her lawyer and she looked fit to strangle someone. Trevor, probably. He divorced her a year ago and since then they’ve had several battles, including over the amount of child support owed for Fleur Anise.

Marcia has recently dyed her long brown hair a dull, inky black. Every morning she straightens the life out of it, making her look like Morticia from the
Addams Family
but without the charm. She says it suits her “fuck men” attitude but to me it just says...
Fuck!
I’ve told her that like a good friend should. I’m not the type to let my friends go through an evening with spinach in their teeth or smudged eyeliner. Or looking like more of a vampire than the ones who populate
True Blood.