Author's note: apologies for the delay- been on holidays- also for any inaccuracies to those of you who are business experts. I'm certainly not! Luckily this is a romance and not a how-to of hostile takeovers.
*
Monica pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. Her back was starting to ache and she was exhausted. It was almost eleven o'clock and the office smelt of the stale coffee that had been sitting in the percolator for the last three hours.
"No luck?" Fran's voice was weary.
Monica sipped her tepid coffee and wrinkled her nose. "Whatever we're going to find, the internet's not the way," she said. "Everything about Halpern Industries seems legit. Not a sniff of scandal, financial or otherwise. Any luck on Cross?"
Fran shrugged. "He seems pretty good at keeping in the background. It's always Charles out there in the limelight, and him lurking around in the background. Although here's a fascinating fact... Cross's wife owns some sort of designer cake business, quite near here, actually." She sighed. "I'd murder my gran for something sweet right now."
"You and your sweet tooth." Monica pulled her glasses off her head and out of her hair and thought about Rupert Cross. Pale blonde hair, even paler blue eyes and quivering nostrils that always seemed to be sniffing slightly-sour milk. He had a face that just missed being handsome or interesting; blandness ruled his features and nondescript business suits which he tried- and failed- to brighten up with Paul Smith ties.
A fragment of memory came to her just then, of Charles's birthday all those years ago. His parents had thrown a lavish bash at their country mansion in his honour, and invited journalists from the Tatler for good measure. There was a marquee in the garden, a string quartet of musicians playing in the Victorian bandstand, and the flower beds were in full bloom. Tuxedo-clad staff wandered through the clumps of guests with silver trays of triangular sandwiches- cucumber, cress and Italian ham- and flutes of champagne.
An elderly woman, who'd apparently been Charles's nanny, had taken him by the elbow just a few feet away and was pinching Charles's cheek and commenting on how tall he was. Monica sipped at her champagne and wished she'd worn different shoes. Her stilettos were sinking into the lawn and her ankles were aching with the effort of remaining upright. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun for a moment, and listened to Charles's easy laugh. He was so good at these occasions; she was so awkward.
As she leaned forward to put her empty glass onto the table, her heel caught on the grass and she stumbled. Flushing, she looked around the garden to see if anyone had noticed, but the only eyes that were staring in her direction were the steely ones of Charles's father. He and Rupert Cross had laughed together then, behind their hands, clearly at her. Just one of the many small humiliations from her previous life that she tried so hard to forget. And yet Rupert had seemed to be there for most- if not all- of them.
"Do you remember a couple of women at the retreat?" she asked Fran suddenly. "I didn't actually see them..." She flushed as she remembered that she had been hiding in the toilet at the time, then searched her memory. "Older women, one of them was called...Linda? Lydia?"
Fran frowned. "Could be Lydia Goldman. She's general manager of DIS. I don't remember anyone else of that name. Didn't talk to her though."
"Might be worth getting in touch with her," Monica said. A quick search brought up the contact details for Lydia Goldman, and she dashed off a quick email, a brief outline of the situation and a request for a meeting. Another yawn forced its way out, so huge she thought her jaw would break. "I'm calling it a night."
Fran looked around the office. "Just you and me here," she said. "So much for the "stronger" sex." Her fingers punctuated her sentence with imaginary quotation marks.
Monica smiled. "There was a football match on," she said. " To be honest, we'd have been better off watching it than sitting here all night. Come on, let's get out of here."
"Halpern Industries is having its annual Entrepreneurship Awards at the Hilton next week," Fran said, clicking her browser shut and switching off her computer. The chimes of Microsoft saying goodbye was a welcome sound.
"Great," Monica's voice was flat. She was far too tired to get interested in anything, even an event that Charles would be attending. She stifled a yawn. "See you in the morning."
When she got home, she slid her shoes off and wiggled her toes before easing into her pink fluffy slippers. The light was blinking on her answering machine and she hit
play
as she went into the kitchen. There wasn't much food. A fridge full of condiments and one lonely cabbage that looked a bit worse for wear. The remains of her homemade chicken soup moldered behind the cabbage, but she closed the door and pretended not to see it. She started to fill the kettle and froze when she heard a familiar voice filling the hallway after the beep of the machine.
"Hello Monica." She could almost hear him smiling. "Finally, I wormed your home number off one of your underlings. You're a hard woman to track down. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner tomorrow. We've got a lot to talk about." He cleared his throat. "I quite fancied catching up properly, in fact." The message ended with the digits of his personal mobile.
"Yes, we have a lot to discuss," she said to the kettle. "Like why you're trying to ruin my life,
again
. God!" She ran her hands through her hair. The tiredness she'd felt was gone. She didn't want to
do dinner
with Charles, no matter how much he
quite fancied
it. But still, she found herself replaying the message and saving the phone number into her mobile. It might be useful, she told herself. For business reasons. Or just to know who was calling, so she'd have the option not to answer. Even though- the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became- he'd been using her at the retreat, probably hoping for some inside information to help with his takeover plans. And like a silly schoolgirl, she'd fallen for his charms all over again. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
She poured herself a cup of tea and padded up to her bedroom, her pride and joy. It took up the whole top storey of the apartment block, with sliding doors that led out onto the balcony which she'd adorned with potted plants and creepers and wicker chairs. Her king-sized bed was wonderful to lounge in. The cream walls were bright and yet soothing; the different browns of her duvet covers made her think of chocolate layer cake. Yet she had not shared it at all since she'd had the place renovated. Too many late nights at the office, not enough free time. She adored her home, but suddenly something seemed missing. Maybe she should get a cat. But she had no garden. Keeping an animal trapped inside would be cruel.
She peeled her suit off and slipped out of her underwear, naked against the coolness of the silk sheets. Setting her tea on the bedside table, she took out her book, but her eyes drifted over the words and fixed upon the empty wall ahead, where they played like a projector all the memories that Charles' voice had triggered. Their last day as a couple, before he had walked out of her life. She'd long since stopped wondering why, but now... she couldn't help doing it again.
=====
After she'd handed him the ultimatum that had been simmering in her mind for so long, she'd stormed home, hands shaking with anger and frustration. She ran a bath and sat looking into the water. There was no point getting in. She was too angry to sit still for long. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she dragged her jogging shorts out of the laundry basket and got dressed again. When she stepped outside, the air was cold against her burning cheeks and she took deep breaths, watching the moon break free from the trees and light up the street ahead.
Feet pounding against the pavement, the Walkman in her ears just a distraction. As she sweated the anger out of her system, she felt despair start to cloud her head. How could she possibly win against Charles's parents? And even if he did stand up to them and marry her, as he'd told her countless times he was building up to do, did she really want that life? She imagined the weekends down at their country home, soaking up the insults and forcing her mouth into a polite smile. The dinner parties with the Halperns' aristocratic friends, the silent sneers.
You can take the girl out of the council house, but...
She remembered the peeling wallpaper of her childhood bedroom, her father slumped in front of the TV. The clank of hidden whiskey bottles behind the sofa when she sat down. Of course she wanted to be wealthy, to have a life far from the one she grew up with. But not like that, nothing more than a rich man's wife, the decoration on the cake.
When she'd got home that night, she found a message from Charles on her answering machine. "I have to catch the train tomorrow, to Edinburgh. It's business, but...." His voice, strange and hoarse. "Please, let's talk about this. Meet me at the station at ten. Let me at least buy you a breakfast and explain."
The next morning she got up with the sunrise and took a long bath, jasmine-scented candles flickering on the corners of the enamel tub. She tried not to feel too excited. But she was so sure everything was going to work itself out, she took time over her makeup and hair, putting on the floaty summer dress Charles liked, the one with the tiny tear at the back that no one noticed because of the pattern. She slipped her feet into sparkly sandals and tried not to sprint to the train station. It was a beautiful day.
The station was crowded and she stood near a stand selling fresh coffee, breathing in the aroma, holding herself back from buying one because Charles would be there soon and they would share it, just as they would share it for the rest of their lives. Her hope was so powerful that it turned every man into Charles that morning. It just took the hint of a smile, or a pin-stripe business suit on a hard body, the passing scent of expensive aftershave... and she'd spin around, only to be disappointed.
In the end she bought a coffee and sipped at it, tucking her hair behind her ears, staring at the Victorian clock on the wall of the station, losing count of how many trains had gone by, not noticing when the coffee had gone cold. Just watching the clock and waiting for Charles, while the commuters buzzed past, everyone going somewhere, except Monica. Waiting and watching while announcements were made about the latest delays, leaves on the line, the wrong weather, errant sheep. Watching and waiting until her gaze dropped to the ground, her eyes starting to prick with tears. She did not look at the clock again.
