Canada Square (Love in London #3) (11 page)

The fact I'm more upset about my friend’s betrayal than that of my ex-boyfriend doesn't escape me. It feels reassuring, somehow. The wound is scabbing over, new skin growing beneath.

Alex and Lara get home a few minutes after midnight. From the noise they make on the stairs and the way Alex's voice echoes through the house, I can tell he's been drinking before they even walk in the door. I bite down a smile; Alex drunk is always a sight to be seen. He's silly, funny and completely larger than life.

The door opens, the handle banging against the plastered wall, and Alex walks in; his face flushed, his words slurred. “Amy! How's my favourite sister? Come here, gimme a kiss.” He throws his arms around me, his bristled cheeks scratching against mine. The sensation makes me giggle.

“Don't let Andie hear you say that.”

Alex steps back, holding me at arm's length. “She's my favourite older sister. You're my favourite baby sister. There's a difference.”

Lara walks in. “Has he got to the 'I love yous'?” she asks.

“Not yet. But it’s inevitable.” I grin back at her.

Alex stumbles and I steady him. “I'd say it's bedtime.”

Alex pouts. “But I want to talk to you. Are you okay? Has that guy bothered you again?”

“What guy?”

“The one... the one outside your house. Digger.”

“Alex.” Lara's voice is low. “It's time for bed.”

“I'm just talking to my sister.” He looks at me with concern. “You okay, sweetheart?”

I hug him tight. “I'm fine, which is more than you'll be when you wake up in the morning. Now go to bed.”

“Et tu, Brutus?”

I bite down a laugh. “It's Brute. You've been watching too much Popeye.” Alex always did spend too much time in front of the T.V. “I love you big brother.”

He pulls me in tightly, burying his face in my hair. “Goodnight.”

He stumbles down the hallway to their bedroom, leaving Lara and me alone in the living room. She takes off her shoes and wriggles her toes, then walks to the kitchen and flips on the kettle. “Have you got time for a cuppa, or do you want me to call a cab?”

“Tea sounds good.” I smile. “I'm not in a rush.”

Lara potters in the kitchen, pulling out mugs and tea bags, spoons and milk. When she looks up she catches my eye and grins. “Thank you for looking after Max,” she says. “I still hate leaving him.”

“He was a good boy. We had to go to Canary Wharf to give something to my boss and he was perfectly behaved.”

“You had to work? What a slave driver, I hope you got paid overtime.” She hands me a mug and I cup my fingers around the china.

Lara has this aura about her that makes people want to open up and spill their secrets. When I first met her I thought it was just me she had this effect on. But as time has passed and I've watched her interact with others—with family, with friends—I've come to realise she brings the best out in everybody. It's why she's so perfectly suited to her job as a counsellor. She listens without judging, which few people are able to do.

“I wanted to help him,” I confess. “He's a nice guy.”

Lara says nothing. Just looks at me with melted chocolate eyes as she takes a sip of warm tea.

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“You think I like him?”

“Do you?”

I put my tea down and run my hands through my hair. “Yes.” Only three letters, yet I feel every one of them as the admission escapes me. They say the truth hurts, and they're right, because admitting I like my boss is like having my teeth pulled out.

“Yes I like him, but I shouldn't. For one thing he's my boss, and for another I think he might be married.” I drop my head, my brow meeting my palms. “God, I'm such a loser,”

“You're not a loser,” Lara counters. “Office romances happen all the time. It's not unusual.”

“It is when you can lose your job for having a work relationship.”

Lara looks at me. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” She raises her eyebrows. “I suppose it's an American company. They get funny about things like that.”

“Yes they do.” I sigh. “So it's just a stupid crush that I'm going to have to ignore.” The words make it sound easy, but the little fire he ignited on Friday is threatening to burn out of control. I've spent most of the night thinking about him, wondering what he's doing, whether his dinner with Daniel Grant is going well. If truth be told I didn't mind going out to meet him this afternoon; quite the opposite.

“You're not planning on getting back with Luke, then?” she asks, sitting down on the sofa. “It's definitely over?”

I pull out my phone and show Lara the Instagram photo of Luke and the girl. Like before, I'm more struck by Sophie's betrayal than Luke's new love—the fact she’s made a miraculous recovery since last night hasn't escaped me, either.

“We've been over for a long time,” I admit. “I know you kept telling me he was wrong for me, but it took me a while to realise.” I look down, picking a piece of lint off my jeans. “I wouldn't go back even if he came crawling to beg.” I tell her about the night at Sophie's and the cruel things he said in the car. She reaches out, squeezing my hand, sympathy shaping her features.

“It sounds trite, but these things happen for a reason. I know the two of you share a lot of history, but he treated you like shit. The number of times I've had to pull Alex away to stop him hitting Luke...” Lara trails off, glancing over at the bedroom door.

I swallow, thinking of the ways I let Luke walk all over me. After all this time together, maybe I should be sad it's over. But the truth is I'm more consumed with relief than anything else.

Get a degree, get a job and get the hell out of here,
I remind myself. That's my goal, and I can't afford to let anybody get in the way. Not Luke and his wandering eye, not Sophie and her fake illness, and certainly not Callum Ferguson with his strong, hard chest and gorgeous smile.

If only my heart believed that.

11

When I get into the office on Monday morning Callum's nowhere to be seen. I slide into my chair to check my emails, and the first one I see is from the HR department. An emergency meeting has been called for all the new interns, and attendance is mandatory.

Something has riled Diana Joseph, and I'm pretty sure it's our drunken Friday night. Groaning, I put my computer to sleep and head down to the conference room, stopping on the way to grab myself a coffee from the canteen.

Charlie Simpson is already in the conference room when I arrive, his pale blonde hair hanging over his eyes, his skin tinged with grey. I slide into the seat next to him, offering one of the biscuits I grabbed from the tin, and he smiles wanly, taking the proffered cookie.

“You look as excited as I feel,” I comment. “You okay?”

He shakes his head. “I've never had a forty-eight hour hangover before and I never want one again. I can't even remember what happened on Friday night.” He turns and grabs my hand suddenly. “Did I do anything stupid?”

I frown when I remember the twerking, not to mention the round of body shots he insisted on taking off Ellie's bare abdomen. When I talked to her last night she was equally as sheepish, but I think she might have a little crush on him.

“Um,” I roll my lips together, waggling my eyebrows. “Define stupid.”

He drops his head into his hands, muttering incoherently. I reach out and rub his shoulder in an attempt to be consoling, but he shrugs me off.

“You shouldn't sit next to me, you'll be guilty by association.”

“You didn't do anything wrong. Okay, so you dirty danced and told every woman in the room you loved them, but you did it with style.”

He shakes his head. “Not helping.”

The room fills up as the rest of the interns arrive, coffees in hand. Caro Hawes sweeps in holding a cup from Cafe Nero, then wrinkles her nose when she sees Charlie and me.

I wrinkle right back.

“Charlie Simpson? Miranda Vesey?” One of the HR administration assistants pops her head around the door. “Can you come with me, please?” The tone of her voice makes it clear it isn't a question. Charlie stands up reluctantly, grabs his half-empty coffee cup and walks over to the door.

“Wish me luck,” he says, under his breath.

“Good luck.”

He walks out, closely followed by Miranda, who looks as if she's going to faint. I can't say I blame her; she spent most of Friday night pebble dashing the bar floor with vomit, and half the partners saw her doing it.

After they've left, the room is silent for a moment, as we all stare at the door wondering what is happening. I feel sick myself when I think they might be asking Charlie to leave; I'm not sure I can face working in this place without him.

“You should be there, too, you know.” Caro sits down next to me. She looks angry. “You drank as much champagne as they did.”

I don't bother telling her I can obviously hold it better than they can, because I feel guilty as hell. The three of us egged each other on, matched each other drink for drink. It's only my metabolism—and the fact I started drinking at the tender age of fifteen—that's prevented me from being taken out with Charlie and Miranda.

“I didn't do anything.”
So fuck off
. The final words remain unspoken, but I'm pretty sure Caro gets the message. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and glares at me anyway.

“You won't get away with it. I know your type. If Miranda is sacked I'll make sure you pay for it. I should never have trusted you to look after her.”

My voice is thick. “She's old enough to look after herself.”

“She's younger than you.” She sounds accusatory. “And don't think I didn't see you, draped all over your boss. You're not exactly smelling of bloody roses.”

I blush enough to make her smirk. She's got me and she knows it. I can swear to the bible that Callum is only a boss, but my physiology's betraying me. “Nothing happened. You're being a bitch.”

She leans close, enough for me to feel her hot breath. “You've no fucking idea what a bitch I can be. I don't like you, Amy Cartwright, and I'd be happy to see your arse walking out the door.” Her expression is anything but pleasant. “So watch yourself, because I'll make sure I am.”

By the time Miranda and Charlie walk back in, their eyes downcast, I'm feeling awkward and worried. Then the HR manager sweeps in, her face stormy, her voice harsh, and she reminds us all why we should re-read the code of conduct, with the black veil of dismissal hanging over us all.

* * *

“Hey.” Callum looks up when I walk back into the office. His expression is light and open. There's a part of me that feels pulled to it, that aches to be as at ease as him. He looks amazing as usual. Comfortable in his skin and in his expertly tailored suit, his hair hanging over his brow, his eyes bright.

I feel like a blurred photograph hanging next to a Warhol.

“Hi.” My voice is as flat as I feel. I walked back to the office with Charlie, who revealed he's had a final warning about his conduct. One more wrong step and he's out. The thought frightens me. He's the only person I look forward to talking with when I walk in the building—well him and Callum—but he's the only one I
should
be talking to.

“You okay?” Callum asks.

“We just got a telling off from HR. Apparently we aren't allowed to have fun.”

He tries not to smile and I hate the way he looks appealing and sexy.
Frustrating bastard.

“What happened?”

I sigh loudly and sink into my chair. Callum stands up and walks around his desk, out of his office and into my space. His proximity warms me, in spite of myself. I hate and love the way he makes me feel.

“According to them we embarrassed the whole company on Friday. We’ve been reminded that we shouldn't be drinking alcohol, enjoying ourselves or even speaking. We should be seen but not heard.” I may be exaggerating but the sting of their reprimand still lingers. Callum stares at me, perplexed.

“What?”

“We're all banned from China's.” It's true. I don't think I've been banned from anywhere before. It's humiliating. “Until further notice.”

Callum's stuck somewhere between amusement and annoyance. I watch as the two emotions battle for supremacy, his expression morphing until he finally settles on bemusement. “Seriously?”

“Yes. They seem to think we're all toddlers. I can't believe they've banned us.” My cheeks flame as brightly as a tomato.

Callum sits on the corner of my desk, picking up a sheaf of papers and idly leafing through them. “Ignore it, they'll forget about it before you do. I remember when I was at Oxford...”

I snap. “You tore up somebody's teddy bear?”

He tips his head to the side. “You really think I'm an elitist arsehole, don't you?”

I nervously rake my hands through my hair. “No. Well, maybe… no.” I prevaricate long enough to make us both confused. “I'm sorry, it's just that you wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.” His voice is a whisper.

The frustration crescendos inside me. “You’ve had it easy all of your life, I had to fight my way here, and the fact it could be stolen from me...” I squeeze my eyes shut. “It frightens me.”

“You think I've had it easy?” he questions, his tone strained. “What makes you think you know anything about me?”

My eyes snap open. I stare at him, taking in the way he exudes wealth. “What? Did the silver spoon bend a little in your mouth? Did you get a paper cut on the wad of money your parents gave you?” I sound bitter because I am. I've grown up knowing there are people who are much better off than me, but to have him talking it down in front of me is wrong.

His Scottish burr becomes prominent when he's angry. “You know nothing. You think you're the only one that's suffered? You think money prevents people from feeling pain? Maybe you should walk a few miles in my shoes.”

“What?” I scoff. “Did your nanny spit in your porridge? Did the boys at boarding school shove your head down the toilet?”

He backs away as if I'm full of venom. “Don't say anything else.”

But I'm on a roll. An anti-elitist, no-bullshit roll. “When you've had the bailiffs knocking at your door because you can't pay their exorbitant fucking interest, maybe you can lecture me,” I storm. “When you're afraid to go home because some bloody weirdo might be waiting for you, then you can tell me I'm wrong.”

He frowns. “What weirdo?”

I shake my head, but he steps forward, his face marred with concern. “What fucking weirdo? Tell me.”

When I speak, my voice feels raw, as if I've been flayed. “It's just a guy.”

“Tell me.”

He's so reassuring it frightens me, and I'm aware that's a contradiction. But I've never relied on anybody except Alex and Andy, and the fact he's trying to involve himself in my problems is alarming.

“It's nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “What fucking weirdo is waiting for you?”

I don't know whether I want Callum to back off or hold on. “There was some guy hanging around my house last week. He knew my name.”

“Did you call the police?” he asks with clipped words. It's obvious that in his easy, clean-cut world, involving the law would be the only thing to do.

“My mum...” I feel like I'm cracking. “She doesn't always stay on the right side of the law. Where I live we don't call the police.”

Callum leans towards me. “You should.”

I shake my head. “We don't involve the police. We have our own sense of justice. An eye for an eye...”

“Amy, if this guy bothers you again you need to call me.”

“That's what my brother said.”

“Thank God somebody's talking some sense. Promise you'll phone next time.”

I say nothing, looking at him through wide eyes.

“Promise me, Amy.”

I nod. “Okay.” It comes out as a sigh.

“Good. Now get some work done and then we'll go out for lunch.”

“What?”

“I still owe you that drink, remember?”

I sit back, staring at my boss. He's looking at me through pretty green irises, his mouth wearing a half-frown. I'm torn between touching him and drawing away, unsure of myself, unsure of him. When I answer him, it feels as if I'm reliving a nightmare. Painful. Awkward.

“I remember.”

* * *

Callum spends the next hour in a teleconference. His door is closed and I'm thankful for it, because he's confusing me, making me feel emotions I don't want to feel. I don't need to be protected; I don't need to feel safe. I don't need to feel this ache deep inside.

I spend every second of those sixty minutes trying to centre myself, remembering why I'm here. Degree, job and get out of here. Everything else is simply distraction.

I achieve nothing, apart from watching the words on my laptop screen float and dance in front of my eyes, the black letters blurring into a single mass. I hate feeling like this, all open and vulnerable, when I've worked so hard to grow a shell around me, but I feel powerless.

One step forward, two steps back.

Callum steps out of his office just after twelve. His hair is messy, his shirt half-pulled out of his waistband, his tie askew.

He looks glorious, despite my determination to stay strong.

“Give me five minutes and then we'll head out.” He smiles at me and my traitorous pulse speeds.

“There’s no need, honestly. I've brought lunch with me.” I pick up the foil-wrapped cheese and pickle sandwich I scraped together this morning. It folds limply in my hand and I put it down. “Yeah, it's appetising.”

He grins, revealing white, even teeth. “Come on, we deserve it. I promise not to take you to China's.”

“Good job, I'm banned,” I remind him.

He nods. “I just got the email from HR. I have to admit I'm tempted to take you anyway, see what they do when we walk through the door.”

“That's easy for you to say, it's not your job on the line,” I huff.

“Which is exactly why we're heading for The Don.”

I look up at him, surprised. “Seriously?” The Don is a swanky restaurant in the City of London, in a small courtyard on St. Swithin's Lane. It's a taxi ride away, far enough to take longer than my allotted 45 minutes for lunch, and part of me is afraid I'm going to get told off. Again.

“Seriously,” he repeats. “Grab your coat and we'll get a cab.”

Ten minutes later we're climbing into a black taxi, Callum taking the back seat while I pull down one of the chairs opposite. I suppose I could have sat next to him, but somehow that feels too presumptuous. I remain straight as a rod as we drive along the river, past the Rotherhithe tunnel and Tower of London, before the taxi comes to a stop just past the restaurant. Callum leans forward, his hand brushing my shoulder, and hands the driver a twenty-pound note. He climbs out, holding the door open and offering his hand as I step onto the pavement.