Vengeful Love (19 page)

My stomach sinks, in part from the thought of another convoluted deal but mostly from the thought that Gregory would rather delegate to Lawrence than speak to me himself.

“They’ve specifically asked that you’re the point of contact for all deals from Eclectic Technologies and any of the GJR group’s companies.”

“Wow. Great. That’s, that’s really great,” I say, faking excitement.

“Now for the good news.”

“There’s more?”

“Well, you don’t think it would be appropriate for us to have just a senior associate in that position, do you?”

“Hmm, well I hadn’t thought about it but I guess you’re right. I’ll speak to them and tell them that I can’t be the lead contact. Who would you like me to—”

“Scarlett.” He laughs, resting his palms on his desk. “I’m offering you a promotion, to legal director.”

I stand from my seat, causing it to rock backwards. “You’re, what? Ha, why? But why?”

He laughs casually, genuinely. “So you’ll take it?”

“Take it? What? Of course. Thank you. Thank you, thank you,” I say in as giddy a tone as I dare use.

My hands wiggle uncomfortably by my side, unsure whether to shake his hand or go in for a hug. I decide to sit down, doing neither. Those seconds give me time to register the situation. I lost my father for a promotion. I can feel tears knocking on the back door to my eyes and I know I need to leave.

“Excellent! Do you want to discuss the finer details now or would you rather get the paperwork first and take it all in?”

I wonder whether he’s noticed the chemical change in my body, the way dogs can sense whether their owner’s happy or sad. Nodding, the lump in my throat subsides just enough to let me explain that I’d rather read the paperwork first but that I’m grateful for the opportunity.

“It’s all rather overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“You’ve no idea,” I say, shaking his hand.

I can’t get out of there fast enough.

“Sooo, what did he want?” Amanda sings, her words reaching my office before her bouncing body.

“Erm, he wanted to offer me directorship,” I offer sheepishly.

“What? Amazing! Crazy! That’s fantastic news, Scarlett, you really deserve it.” She throws her arms around my neck.

“Do I?” I whisper.

She pushes me away from her body, her hands resting on my shoulders. “Of course you do. You work harder than anyone else in here.”

“I just, I just don’t know if one deal means I really deserve it.”

Amanda shakes my shoulders, giggling. “This isn’t about
one
deal. This is about you working solid for years. You’re always the last person in here on a night and, rather distastefully,” she adds with a forced regal accent, stiff upper-lip and all, “you’re the first to refuse a cocktail in the name of work.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. Now, let’s celebrate. Lunch somewhere nice? Your treat because you’re about to earn a lot more money than I do,” she says with a wink.

“I’d love to but I actually need to tie off some pieces for a deal.” I glare at the pile of Eclectic Technologies documents that I’ve been trying to avoid.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.” She giggles. “Okay, well, what are your plans for the rest of the week?”

“Erm, gosh, haven’t got that far yet.”

“Would you like my opinion? I’ll give it to you anyway. You should go home and put your feet up. Pamper yourself, do something with Sandy.”

“You know what...” I sigh, “... I think you’re right.”

“I am,” she states with her hands on her hips in jest. Then, softening, she says, “I’ll see you on Friday, okay? If you need or want me before then just call and I’ll be there in a flash.”

“Okay.” I smile and hug my best friend.

* * *

The smell of fresh polish fills the air when the elevator doors open on to the high-gloss floor. The usual tall legged and tight pencil skirt-wearing blondes are in position beneath the gleaming Eclectic Technologies plaque. Artificial lighting reflects in the windows, illuminating the space. One man in a navy pinstriped suit and red tie seated in reception peruses the
Financial Times
and intermittently glances at the flat-screen television playing
BBC News
.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Eclectic Technologies,” says one of the blondes. Juliette, according to her gold name badge.

“Good afternoon, I’m Scarlett Heath. I’m here to see Mr. Ryans and, if they’re available, Mr. Williams and Mr. Lawrence too.”

“Do you have an appointment?” she chimes as she taps on her keyboard.

No, and part of me hopes you’re going to tell me he isn’t in the office then I can leave these documents with you and be on my way.

“No, I don’t but it’ll only take five minutes.”

“Ooo, let me see, it looks like they’re all in a meeting together until—”

“I can wait.”

“Oh,” she says in a way that makes me think her blue silk necktie is choking her. “Well—”

The sound of his voice constricts my torso. I stare with wide eyes along the corridor as he draws closer, unable to move.
I can’t do this!
Sweat forms on my palms beneath the pile of documents I’m gripping tightly.

“This has been a productive afternoon, Mr. Cheung,” he’s saying.

I contemplate running, hiding, dropping to the ground but it is too late. He sees me. He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes locked on mine, his conversation suspended. All rational thought has escaped me. All I can think is how outstandingly beautiful he looks, his long, toned legs parted, straight and still, his navy suit trousers falling in the right places to show off his physique. His crisp white shirt dips slightly under his pecs, his hair is perfectly combed back.

I feel utterly inadequate.

Williams coughs, breaking the near silence of the room. “Mr. Cheung, allow me to introduce you to Miss Scarlett Heath.”

“Hello, Mr. Cheung,” I say, my professional alter ego reigning supreme. “I’m a legal advisor to Eclectic Technologies.”

Mr. Cheung takes my hand in a limp shake. “Miss Heath, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

I muster all the charm I can. “The pleasure is all mine.”

“They have a lawyer involved already. Should I worry?”

I laugh, a fake hearty laugh. The kind I reserve for networking. “Only if you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, Mr. Cheung.”

“Quick! Hide the documents!” he shouts theatrically to three others in his group.

The four men laugh and though Williams and Lawrence join, Gregory remains taciturn.

“Let me show you out, Mr. Cheung,” Williams eventually says.

“Yes, yes, we shall be going. We see you tomorrow.”

Williams leads the four men to the elevators, leaving Gregory, Lawrence and me in silence. Gregory and Lawrence both watch me, waiting.
Compose yourself, Scarlett.

“I need you to sign some documents, all three of you,” I say, glancing over my shoulder to acknowledge Williams. “Do you have five minutes? It won’t take more than that.”

Gregory grips his chin between his index finger and thumb and then pulls his right hand back through his hair, all the while staring at me like I have ten heads.

“Yes, we have time,” Lawrence says.

He starts to walk and I follow him back down the corridor they emerged from just minutes ago. As we turn the corner, out of the view of reception and the blondes, Lawrence clears his throat. “I’m very sorry about your father.”

Neither he nor I expect a response and I don’t offer one. Instead, I keep my focus on the documents in my hands.

“Just in here,” Lawrence says, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him into the boardroom.

The light flickers to life as we’re joined by Gregory and Williams. Lawrence and Williams walk to the far end of the rectangular room and Gregory stands next to me at the head of the oval table. I allow myself a split second glance at him and instantly chastise myself for meeting his eye.

“I have three documents,” I say to the room. “I need you all to sign a copy of this one.”

I push the document to the end of the table for Lawrence and Williams to sign.

“These two are just for you,” I say to Gregory, refusing to move my attention from a particular grain in the wooden table.

Gregory makes no movement to sign anything. I can feel his gaze burning into me and strings being pulled taut in the depth of my abdomen.
Please, just sign.

“Do you need a pen?” I ask, eventually turning to face him, holding a pen out for him to take.

When I look at him my heart rate doubles. I can feel moisture forming on my palms and sickness rising in my throat. Those lips, those full, pouting, kissable lips. That sultry frown.
Stick with it, Scarlett, you can do this.

I shake the pen twice, encouraging him to take it. Eventually he grabs it, his fingertips grazing mine.

He bends toward the table, leaning on his left hand. I watch the movement of his shoulder beneath his blazer as the nib of the pen almost reaches the paper before he stops. He sighs and turns to look me in the eye.

“This is really how you want things to be?”

How I want things to be? Yes, Gregory, I wanted to meet you and get sucked into some dark, twisted game, then fall madly in love with you so there was no hope in hell of me ever walking away. Then I wanted to find out that me being in love with you would lead to my father’s murder and that I’d be forced to hate you when all I want to do is jump into your arms and feel the touch of your lips on mine.

Holy shit.

I’m in love with Gregory Ryans.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” I snap, glaring back at him, adrenalin rushing to my head.

He holds his position for an excruciatingly long second or two, neither of us willing to blink. Then with the speed and determination of a raging bull, he signs his name on all three documents. Finished, he throws the pen and turns to leave the room. With one hand on the door handle, gripping so tight that the whites of his knuckles show, he pauses. I hold my breath, expectant. But then he leaves, slamming the door behind him. As I stare after him, the image of his cigarette-burned wrist consumes my mind.

I don’t want to hurt him. He’s breaking my heart and I still can’t stand the thought that I might be just another person in his life causing him pain.

Williams walks to my end of the large table, sliding signed documents toward me.

“I’m sorry about your father, Scarlett. We all are. What happened was unfair and should never have happened.”

I open my mouth, then close it without making a sound.

Williams shakes his head. “It wasn’t his fault and no matter how much you hate him or
think
you hate him, you can’t make him hate himself any more than he already does.”

“Wasn’t his fault? He’s the reason everything has happened. He got me involved in this whole fucked up mess.
Everything
is his fault!”

Williams heads for the door but before he leaves he turns to me. “You know, Scarlett, you were only supposed to be his lawyer. You played a part in changing that.”

“You’re all so quick to jump to his defence, aren’t you?” I snarl.

Williams sighs. “Everything he does lately is about you. He would never,
could
never, have imagined this would happen.”

“Ah, I get it, the promotion was his doing? Well, I guess in your sick games, it makes a lot of sense to have someone on your side. To take the hit for you when it all goes wrong, doesn’t it?”

He shakes his head again and I can’t help but think how I would like to slap his face repeatedly until it’s red raw and stinging like my raging eyes. Once again, he places his hand on the handle of the door and once again he turns to me before he leaves. “How many people do you know just hand themselves in to the police for a life sentence?”

I knew it. “Jack.”

He leaves with Lawrence following quickly behind, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder as he passes me.

I stand alone in the empty room until the sensory light turns out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Hi Sandy,” I mutter as I walk into the house. “How’s your day been?”

“I’m in here,” she calls from the kitchen.

The smell of sweet biscuits is delicious and the scent leads me to Sandy.

“Oh my word, what have you been up to?” I ask, scanning the results of hours of baking spread across the granite worktops.

“I just thought I’d bake something nice for dinner but I had spare pastry so I made some tarts for pudding too. Hmm, then I decided to make some ginger biscuits and a cheesecake.” She giggles, washing a large plastic bowl in the sink.

“And these?” I ask, pointing to a stack of whoopee pies.

“I have no excuse for those.”

She balances the bowl on top of a mound of draining dishes then rubs her hands down the sides of her flour-dusted apron.

“Right, what would you like first?”

I wrap my arm around her waist and rest my temple onto hers. “You can always cheer me up, Sandy.”

“Rough afternoon?”

“You could say that. Okay, I’d like to start with a nice big fat wedge of this delicious-looking cheesecake please.”

“Tea?” she sings.

“Absolutely, I’ll put the kettle on.”

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the lethal combination of sugar, caffeine and the day’s events kills my ability to sleep. Rain pounds my bedroom window and wind gently rocks my curtains forwards and backwards. Images flash through my mind like storyboards, mapping my life with my father, how I met Gregory, the bloodstains on the staircase, how my father died, Lara’s visit to my house, the story she told me about Gregory’s past. Thoughts of the future and unanswered questions—what will I do with the house, will I continue to live with Sandy, will I accept my promotion—intermittently break my trips through the past.

A thunderous rap of the front door knocker startles me, echoing through the house. I dart upright in my bed. I wait for a few seconds then the rapping comes again, longer and louder, once, twice, three times. There’s a sound like Sandy’s flicking the switch of her bedroom light, followed by soft footsteps and the creek of her door. Slipping into my silk kimono, I poke my head out of my door.

Sandy holds a finger to her lip on the landing above the staircase. “Shhhh.”

“I’ll come with you,” I whisper.

We tiptoe down the staircase together, jumping each time the floorboards creak. We reach the front door in darkness and the doorknocker thuds again, making us cling to each other.

Sandy picks up two golf umbrellas and hands one to me.

“What on earth am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s all I could think of.”

“We each take one side peer through the door curtain.

“Gregory,” I say, jumping back from the window.

Sandy looks at me in anticipation then undoes the dead lock.

“Wait!” I whisper. “I don’t want to see him.”

“But, Scarlett, he’s getting soaked through out there.”

“No, I don’t want to. Please send him away. Tell him I’m not here or something, anything. I don’t want to see him.” I scurry behind the wall into the lounge, close enough that I’ll be able to hear his voice.

His soft South African twang asks where I am and Sandy tells him I’m not home.

“Is she okay?”

There’s silence and I wonder what’s happening, then Gregory shouts, “Scarlett, please.”

There’s a genuine pleading in his voice that makes me want to go to him, to soothe him and tell him that everything will be fine.

“Scarlett!”

“She doesn’t want to see you, I’m sorry.”

There’s silence again and I listen to drops of rain hitting the ground. Leaning back against the lounge wall, I close my eyes, thinking of the last time he wore that outfit.
Chapel Down.
I bite my cheeks but it doesn’t prevent tears forming in my eyes, welling, waiting to fall.

“He’s gone,” Sandy says.

I nod but can’t speak.

“Come on, it’s after three and the vicar is coming today, let’s go to bed.”

I nod and take the hand Sandy offers me.

* * *

“Scarlett,” Sandy whispers through my opening bedroom door. “Sorry to wake you but the vicar will be here in an hour.

“What time is it?” I mumble with my face squashed into my pillow.

“Eleven-thirty.”

“Oh my God! I’m up, I’m up!” I say, not moving at all.

“Okay, I’ll pop a pot of tea on. Would you like some food? Pancakes maybe?” she says too temptingly, forcing me to sit and smile in response.

“Oh, and Scarlett,” she says, stepping back into my room from the landing, “mind your use of the Lord’s name for the next few hours, won’t you?”

Reverend Griffiths arrives in smart black trousers, a black shirt, a white dog collar and a tweed blazer. A remarkably ordinary outfit. His grey hair is thinning but still covers his head and his bright blue eyes look pure and honest beneath his large, round-rimmed glasses. It almost seems silly how long it took for me to eventually settle on a blue LK Bennett day dress and navy cardigan. Sandy has made an extra special effort to look angelic too. Her hair is tightly curled and pinned back. Tiny kitten heels have replaced her slippers and she wears a pretty pastel-green wrap dress with a white Victorian collar.

We exchange pleasantries and sit to take tea in the lounge. Reverend Griffiths sits in my father’s striped high-back chair, which irritates me more than it ought to. Sandy takes the lead with conversation, being more familiar than I am with how to address a man of his stature. Watching them smile and converse politely, they look like nice, good people. Increasingly the feeling of being an outsider overwhelms me. Clinging to my cup and saucer for support, I walk to the bay window and stare out to the low, end-of-October sun.

“It would be helpful if you could tell me about how Doctor Heath passed on,” Reverend Griffiths says.

Sandy reacts with wide, startled eyes.

“It’s nice to be able to put the congregation at ease if possible. To say Doctor Heath passed peacefully in his sleep, for example.”

I want to tell him, to confess everything to the Reverend and pray for his forgiveness, for my father’s forgiveness. The words play out in my mind. He was ill, yes. He was dying, yes. But it wasn’t his time. He was murdered. I brought it upon him and he was alone. He was alone because I left him alone whilst I played Gregory’s fucked-up games and drank wine.

“Doctor Heath had been sick for a long time, Reverend. Alzheimer’s disease, he had. Oh but he still had his moments, he could still make us smile,” Sandy sings. “He was peaceful enough when he died. He was the most peaceful I’d seen him for months.”

“No!” I yell, banging my cup down onto my saucer. “No, Reverend, he was not peaceful, he was alone! He was in hospital because I wasn’t here to look after him and he died alone because I didn’t stay with him. I should’ve been there. I could’ve stopped it.”

“That is not true!” Sandy snaps. She walks half way across the space between us and gestures for me to sit. I can’t meet her eye but do as instructed and take a seat on the sofa next to her.

Reverend Griffiths shuffles in his chair to place one hand on my knee and says, “I can see you’re angry, Scarlett, but remember this, if your father knew you loved him he would have died a happy man.”

I wish I could hear truth in his words because if I could, my father would’ve died the most loved and happy man I’ve ever known.

“Tell me, what was your father like?”

“The best,” I say honestly. “He brought me up. He did the best job he could and it was more than good enough.”

Smiling as memories of our life in this very space flash through my mind, I stand and walk to the center of the room beneath the sparkling crystal chandelier.

“Do you remember how he taught us to dance, Sandy?”

“Oh, yes, he twirled me around so fast I could hardly breathe.”

“He lifted me onto his feet and turned me and turned me until my head was in a spin. I had to hug into his stomach to stop me from falling but I kept telling him ‘faster!’ We spun, faster, faster...’”

“And you spun until he fell back onto the sofa still holding you in his arms,” Sandy adds.

I stop turning on the spot. “He was the best.”

“Oh dear me,” Sandy says through a laugh. She tries to speak but ends up hugging her ribs, almost folded in half as she chuckles from the pit of her stomach. “Do...you...rem...remem...remember when he...when he taught us how to do a sack race.”

I laugh too.

“It was for my sports day at school,” I tell the Reverend. “I was nervous about being picked to represent Red team in the sack race. I had no idea how to do it. In the past I’d always been picked to do the relay or the egg-and-spoon race.”

“Oooooo,” Sandy calls, wafting one hand to cool her face in an attempt to cease her laughter. “Go on! Go on!”

“Sandy told my dad how nervous I was and when he came home from work he’d brought with him two large, yellow clinical waste sacks. They were obviously plastic,” I add for the Reverend’s benefit. “After dinner we all went outside to the garden and Dad marked out a track for us to jump. ‘
Right, get in your sack
,’ he said. Sandy helped me shuffle to the start line. ‘
Ready, steady, go!
’ she said. Dad took two flawless jumps forward in his clinical waste sack. ‘
See how easy it is!
’ he said. It did look easy, so I took two jumps forward. Dad hopped twice again and I followed. ‘
Keep going! Keep goooooiiiiiiing!
’”

“And splat!” Sandy adds. “His bag slipped on some cat poop and he went flying.”

“He tried to save himself by kicking his legs but he was kicking against the plastic and the cat poo had spread by then.”

“Next thing we heard was ‘whoaaaa!’” Sandy says.

“He realised it wasn’t quite as easy as he thought after that but the next day, when I stood at the start line and looked over at my dad watching me, all I could do was giggle. It turned into one of the most fun things I ever did at school.”

“Jolly good story!” Reverend Griffiths says with a clap. “Excellent! Would you be happy for me to use your stories tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. It strikes like a lightning bolt.

“That would be nice,” Sandy says.

We stand at the door and wave to Reverend Griffiths as he drives his silver Peugeot away from the house.

“Do you know what occurred to me today, Sandy?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re the only family I’ve got.”