This Tangled Thing Called Love: A Contemporary Romance Novel (22 page)

Claire grabbed the magazine and stared at it in horrified incomprehension. On the front cover, there was a close-up photograph of David kissing a blond woman dressed in
a
lavender negligee. The photograph was so openly candid that it did not leave any doubts: this was no accidental peck on the cheek misconstrued as an amorous gesture. David’s lips were interlocked with that of the woman’s, and his hands held her body passionately. The two were completely lost in the moment, unsuspecting of the prying camera that had captured them. With the magazine still clutched in her hand, Claire stumbled away from the newsstand.

“Claire, wait,” Amber started.

“Hey, Miss, that’s five dollars for the magazine!” The clerk shouted.

“
Here.
” Lindsay slapped ten dollars on the counter. “Did you know anything about this?” Lindsay glared at Amber.

Amber looked away. “It was supposed to get taken care of. Now everything is ruined! We’ve got to convince Claire not to take the whole thing so seriously. It’s nothing really.”

“Are you out of your mind? Her fiancé is on the cover of a sleazy tabloid playing tongue hockey with some ancient bimbo, and you say it’s nothing? I don’t have time for this.”

Lindsay ran after Claire, who was now walking across the street in a somnambulistic state.

“Wait up, I can explain.” Amber teetered after Lindsay in her high-heeled shoes.

“Claire,” Lindsay placed her arm around her friend. “Here, let me take you home. I’ll take the rest of the day off and stay with you.”

“Claire, wait.” Amber had finally caught up with them. “Please give David a chance to explain. He said it was nothing but a stupid mistake. He loves you so…”

Claire shot Amber a look so loaded that if looks could kill, Amber would have crumbled into ashes right on the spot. “You mean you knew about this?”

“I only wanted to protect you. The whole thing was supposed to get taken care of… Please, listen to me.”

“You knew, and you let me carry on about how wonderful David was and how I over-reacted? I was a freaking idiot for not seeing the truth all this time, but you - you, Amber, are no friend of mine anymore.” Claire stormed off.

“Claire, wait up!” Lindsay rushed after her. “Please wait. Trust me, I know exactly how you feel, and I don’t want you to be alone now.”

“Thanks, Lindsay. I know you mean well, but I need to be by myself now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Fine,” Lindsay sighed. “But you know that I’m there if you need me. Just call and I’ll be right over.”

“Thanks.” Claire nodded, knowing that no one could be “there” for her right now. She had never felt so alone in her
life.

David raced the floor of his office feverishly. If he could, he would literally kick himself for his stupidity. What was he thinking? Why did he let his dick ruin his life?

Yesterday, his life had been perfectly on track. His father had been pleased with him handling the business. David had been a respectable member of the community, and engaged to the perfect bride.

But now, David had become a laughingstock. Already, his answering machine was overflowing with messages from his friends: some were confused, some sympathetic, some congratulatory, and some downright insulting.

The phone rang again, but David refused to pick it up, and the answering machine turned on.

“You horny dog, you!” David recognized the voice as that of his old college roommate, Tyler. The two of them had not spoken in years, but apparently a magazine cover of David kissing Claudia had provided the needed stimulus to rekindle the neglected association. “I can’t believe you
boinked
Claudia Block. She may be an old broad, but she’s got class. Give me a call, man. Let’s stir up some mayhem.”

David groaned. Since this morning, he had been trapped in nightmarish delirium. He could not handle any more “mayhem” in his life.

David glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past noon. Roughly six hours had passed since he had spoken to his PR agent, and he had since received several reassuring emails from Amber, informing him that her minions were feverishly purchasing copies of
Flashlight
. Luckily,
Flashlight
was not nationally syndicated, but only released in a handful of states. While this knowledge was reassuring, it hardly alleviated David’s alarm. Even one issue of
Flashlight
with the picture of him and Claudia on the cover would be enough to ruin him. He knew it was pointless to hope that all copies of
Flashlight
could be bought out, but he hoped that at least his father would not see one. And then there was Claire…

David had been trying to reach his fiancée since the morning. He had started by dispatching an enormous flower arrangement to her office. Of course, it was foolish to
hope that a bunch of flowers would buy him absolution, but David thought it was worth a try. In his rush, he had forgotten to include a card, which he then thought was probably for the best. Hopefully, Amber’s forces would get to the newsstands before Claire did. But minutes ticked away, hour by hour, and there was still no sign of Claire. David had been calling her every half hour, but her answering machine picked up every time. Well, he would have to resort to something much more persuasive than flowers. David had already made an appointment at Harry Winston. He was contemplating a diamond or an emerald set – something that would dazzle Claire enough to forgive him.

David glanced at his watch: it was almost one o’clock. He wondered how Amber’s efforts were progressing. So far, she had failed to reach the abominable Maury
Wysotsky
, but at least Amber’s last email did say that she had managed to buy out most of the
Flashlight
copies. Of course, David could have gone to his lawyer to deal with
Flashlight
owner, but that would have been equivalent to confessing to his father. Although Jake Wilson had been designated as David’s lawyer, David harbored no doubts about the fact that Jake Wilson’s allegiance had always remained with Allan Lawson, and he suspected that his father had purposefully appointed Jake to keep an eye on him.

David’s cell phone rang, and he eagerly glanced at the caller id screen, hoping to see Amber’s number. Instead, he saw his father’s personal line. So, the old man had seen the scandalous headline and was calling to chastise him. What would the punishment be? Being sent off to some remote corner of the world to do charity work as penance for his sins? Or being forced to endure some humiliating public service: cleaning toilets at homeless shelters, for instance? Whatever it would be, David knew his father well enough to guess that the road back into the old man’s graces would be an arduous one. But perhaps all was not lost yet. It was entirely possible that the old man was simply calling to chat.
Improbable, but still possible.
Bracing himself, David picked up the phone.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Good afternoon, David. Although, come to think of it, there is nothing really good about this particular afternoon. Not after I read about my son gallivanting with some old Hollywood trash bag.” The old man spoke in a staccato-like voice that made the ticking of a metronome sound melodious.

“Claudia is not a trash bag.” David’s temper took him by surprise. Surely, now was not the most opportune time to engage in a verbal duel with his father, but something inside him had snapped. Despite everything she had done, David could not bring himself to hate Claudia, at least not entirely. When he first saw the cover of
Flashlight
, he had been assailed by a powerful impulse to wring her neck, but this violent desire was as fleeting as it was fierce. The truth was that he still loved Claudia.

“Well, if you’re finished defending your mistress’s honor, I would like to see you this afternoon. It’s rather urgent that we speak, David. You are a prominent figure in the company, and we’ve got to figure out a way to patch up this mess.” There was an irritable sigh in the receiver. “What were you thinking? Well, never mind that. I believe I know the answer to that question, but why didn’t you call me right away?”

David remained silent. He had no answer to his father’s question, at least no civil answer that he could think of.

“I expect you within an hour.” From the silence on the other end of the line, David understood that his father had hung up.

His fingers drumming on the car wheel, David played out the conversation that was about to take place between him and his father. It was at least an hour drive to Westchester, which gave him ample time to consider all possible scenarios.

These days Allan Lawson ruled from his home office, with only sporadic visits to the company headquarters in dire emergencies or for surprise inspections to keep his employees, including David, on their toes. Today would most certainly qualify as an emergency, and yet David’s father had chosen to summon David to his home office instead of coming down to the company office to chastise his errant son. David guessed that there was a deliberate significance behind the old man’s actions, but as he drove to his parents’ house, the house of his childhood, David felt strangely cavalier, almost to the point of being indifferent about what his father had in store for him. David’s lips stretched into an acidic smile as he remembered his father’s disciplinary tactics. Not that his father had had that many occasions to implement them; but still, there had been a few,
with one particularly memorable.

When David got caught smoking pot in his senior year at the boarding school, his father banished him to a Habitat for Humanity project at Botswana. The entire time that David was away, there were his father’s bodyguards lurking around, making sure that David did not come to any harm, and no doubt giving prompt updates to his father. Despite the humbling living quarters and grueling physical work, David had had a great time. He turned out to be quite good at
carpentry
, and he liked the people who worked by his side. There were volunteers of all ages, including kids his age - in particular, one very pretty girl… David wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember the name of his teenage crush. Sarah. That’s right, her name was Sarah. Her parents were missionaries, traveling from country to country, and by the age of seventeen Sarah had traveled to more places than David had ever dreamed of. He still remembered the elation he felt lying next to Sarah under the night sky. She never asked him about his father, and David never mentioned that he was the son of a real estate magnate. Back home, at the school he went to, there was a convoluted social structure. One had to navigate its intricate levels and subdivisions carefully or risk falling out of favor. But as David hammered nails into house walls under the hot Botswana sun, there was no need to brag or impress anyone. The only measure of achievement was the quality of his work.

Every night, after a long day of work, David would hurry to his bunk to write a long letter to his father, giving a detailed account of what he had built that day and the people he worked with. Internet connection was unreliable, and with only one computer in the main office, which was to be used for emergencies only, pen and paper was the most easily accessible means of communication. There was the phone, of course, but that too was restricted to minimum use, and David could not imagine cramming his overwhelming days into a ten-minute conversation. So he wrote diligently, deliberately, anxious to let his father know just how much he had learned.

When David returned home after his summer away, his father had called him into his home office.

“I trust that there won’t be any more incidents, David.” His father had slapped him on the shoulder.

“No, sir, there won’t be.” David had assured the old man.

“Good. Because I don’t want my only son building shacks in third world countries. I want you right here, where you can be of use to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Allan Lawson had walked back to his desk.

David had blinked back his disappointment and closed his father’s office door behind him. Later that night, David’s mother had the cook make cheese soufflé, which was David’s favorite dish.

“I can only imagine how miserable you were in that dump, you poor thing. I’ve read every single letter that you wrote. It nearly broke my heart.” David’s mother placed his plate before him.

“Didn’t Dad read any of them?” David blurted out.

“He wanted to, honey, but you know how busy he is all the time.”

David nodded and li
fted a forkful of soufflé to his
mouth, forcing himself to swallow it down. In Botswana the rations were plain, but it seemed to David that canned beans and soup were sweeter than any delicacy eaten under his father’s roof.

After his return from Botswana, David threw himself into reaping every possible accomplishment his father expected him to achieve – not to please the old man, but to show him what David was capable of. He got straight A
’
s every semester in college, became the captain of the Lacrosse team, and the president of his fraternity. His classmates lauded him, and women admired him. Yet to his father, somehow it was never enough, and somewhere along the line, David switched to autopilot mode. He simply stopped feeling things. It started with his work first, but then spread into every aspect of his life. All the women, coupled with all the lavishness he could afford, left him cold. When his father started hinting at marriage, David had met Claire. What he felt for her was a far cry from love at first sight, but at least their relationship made him feel grounded. And then he met Claudia…