My Best Friend's Girl (14 page)

“Oh, OK.”

“And she’s got a brother called Declan. And a brother called Dorian. And a brother called Daryl.”

“That’s a lot of brothers and sisters.”

She nodded, her ponytail bobbing. “I know. Matilda said was I coming back tomorrow. Am I going back tomorrow, Mummy Ryn? Is I ’lowed to go back tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow, next week. Did you like it there, then?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve got lots of friends. Crystal and Ingrid and Matilda.”

I never made friends that quickly as a child; I didn’t make friends that quickly as an adult. Tiga? No problems.

Her face was taken over with a huge grin that fired a shard of jealousy into the heart of my chest. I’d been worried about letting her out of sight for ten minutes, and she couldn’t wait to be away from me.

“Are you going to come and play for the whole of the time next week?” Tegan asked.

“No, I’m going to work.”

In the middle of the pavement Tegan stopped swinging my hand and halted her skip. “Why not?” she asked, panicked; horrified that I wasn’t going to be around. I’d wanted her to feel something, to at least miss me, but not this terror.

“I have to go to work.”

“Why can’t you come with me?”

“Because I’m an adult and adults have to go to work.

But you can play with your friends all day then tell me about it later.”

“Are you going to come later?”

“Yes, in the evening. And then you can tell me who else you met and about their brothers and sisters.”

“Do you promise you’ll come afterwards?” she asked.

“Yes, I promise.”

“Double-promise forever and ever, amen?”

“Yes,” I replied. She stared at me until I said, “Yes, I double-promise forever and ever, amen.”

Tegan grinned at me and started skipping again. One foot in front of the other: skip, hop, hop, skip, along the pavement. Her bare legs, crowned with red open-toe sandals, dancing up and down.

The glow on her cheeks and luminescence in her eyes reminded me of Adele. Reminded me of that first proper smile Del had fired at me. How struck I was by that smile.

“Guess what?” Tegan asked.

“What?”

“Crystal’s got a cat.”

“he doesn’t look like a monster”

chapter 16

I
hesitated outside the ninth-floor office, my hand raised to knock.

On the other side of the door was Luke Wiseman, the new marketing director of Angeles. He’d summoned me via e-mail to his office to have a “chat”(his word, not mine) the third day of my return to Angeles.

The thought of coming back to work had turned my emotions into a pendulum that swung constantly between fear and excitement. Fear gripped me every time I remembered that I’d been away for so many weeks I might not remember what to do. Then the pendulum would swing to excitement because I’d been away for so many weeks I might not remember what to do, meaning work would be a different type of challenge. Then I would be afraid again because I was going to be miles away from Tegan. I’d spent two days without her while she was at playgroup, but once I was back working in the city center, being with her would be dependent upon traffic and public transport; I couldn’t just walk around the corner to get her. Then I’d be excited again because I wouldn’t have to watch hours of children’s television so I’d be able to stop speaking and thinking in the overemphasized way the presenters did.

Between the anxiety and anticipation lay the knowledge that I’d be meeting Luke Wiseman. He was my boss, the person I would work most closely with, and he was also my first ever work nemesis—the only colleague I’d known to get a job I should have been given. His presence at Angeles would be rubbing my face in my failure to make it to the top.

On my first day back at work, Tegan, who hadn’t been blighted by nerves on her first day at playgroup (she’d been excited on the way there and then incredibly chatty that evening), had given me an extra-big hug at the school gates. “Have fun at your work,” she’d told me, like I was the child and she was the adult.

The train ride into Leeds city center after that had been nerve-racking; all I could think about was not being intimidated by Luke Wiseman. By the time I’d reached my tenth-floor office I was flitting between wanting to throw up and deciding to slap him the second I met him to show who the real boss was around here. I’d found out ten minutes later that he was in London until Friday.

Friday. Today.

Once I knew I wouldn’t be forced to deal with my arch enemy, I relaxed at work, enjoyed people dropping by to tell me their news, to find out what I had been up to. Betsy, who’d been alone in our office for nearly two months, acted as though I had returned from a year living abroad. She’d spent the day offering to make the tea and running around the desk to engulf me in bear hugs. “You could have me up for sexual harassment,” she said at one point, “I’m so tempted to snog you.”

“The feeling’s mutual, mate,” I’d replied, a little surprised but immeasurably happy that I’d been missed. We were friends Betsy and I, but I’d always thought it was a work thing. It was nice to know she actually cared. “But without the snogging.”

Ted had left yesterday in his usual dignified, understated manner. At lunch he’d asked me to accompany him to the sandwich shop. Once there, he’d confessed he wasn’t returning to the office, couldn’t stand the extravagant goodbyes Angeles staff usually held, so “Goodbye, Kamryn. I’ll keep in touch.” And that was it, no more Ted.

Now I had to conquer Luke. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, then knocked on the door. Seconds later, a baritone voice bid me enter.

I took another deep breath before entering the spacious white-walled office. The blinds were pulled down over the window behind the desk to shield the computer from sunlight. I looked around, investigating what Luke had changed about the office. The large yucca plant still sat in the corner, the position of the desk had stayed the same, the blinds were still cream, the meeting table in the corner still had four blue chairs around it. He hadn’t made an imprint upon the place, almost as though he had no need to show it was his domain. If it was mine, I would have put up the covers of
Living Angeles
, I would have added a couple more plants, I would ha—
Stop
, I chastised myself.
Luke has the job, the office, you have to accept that.

The man behind the desk didn’t stand as I entered. In fact, he leaned back in his chair, stretched his tall body and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was sizing me up. I was more discreet as I scrutinized him. His features, strong and well-defined, looked as though an artist had spent hours chiseling them smooth into his clear, tanned skin. His nose was straight, his eyes equally spaced apart, his jaw a smooth line that curved down to his chin. The black hair on his head had been trimmed close, which made his face all the more striking. Around his succulent lips was a thin mustache that ran down the sides of his face into a beard. What stood out about him, though, were his eyes—a bright, clear, burnt orange–hazel color that reminded me of highly polished amber. He was dressed in a white shirt with the top button open and the sleeves rolled up to above his elbows, and smart beige trousers. From the stretch of his body I knew he had a gym-made physique. I recognized his type, I’d worked with many of them over the years: he was Mr. Career. He was dynamic, thrusting, überambitious, and anyone who worked with him had to give 150 percent or he would take it as a personal insult and finish their careers.

While I appraised him, Mr. Wiseman’s hazel eyes flicked over me, took in my raven-black, chin-length bob; my dark brown eyes; my unmade-up mouth; my slender neck, my body hidden beneath a plain red shirt and straight-leg black trousers; my unpainted toes peeking out of wedge-heel sandals. After he’d looked me up and down, his eyes hardened with distaste. Clearly he wasn’t impressed with what he saw.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

“Why, is this going to take long?” I replied, matching his hostile tone.

He smiled suddenly, catching me off guard with an unexpected display of charm. “Please, Kamryn,” he said warmly, as he indicated the seat opposite his desk, “take a seat.”
It’s too late for the charm now,
I thought.
I saw the revulsion in your eyes, I know what you think of me.

“I’d rather stand,” I said, returning his charming smile with one that reached the tips of my hair yet was one hundred percent fake. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

My reply wiped a layer of shine off his glossy smile. He studied me for a moment, obviously trying to work out how to deal with me. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Sorry?” I replied, wrong-footed.
Is he asking me out?
Had I read him completely wrong? Had that expression really been his way of covering up his attraction to me?

“I’ve been having dinner with all the heads of departments to pick their brains about what they think of the marketing of Angeles, see if they have any ideas on how we can improve things. You’re the last on my list…of the marketing department. So I thought, if you’re not busy tonight, we could get it out of the way.”

I was impressed at the number of insults he’d managed to cram into that minuscule monologue.

1. “Last on my list.”
Just in case I doubted that I would be last on every one of his lists.

2. “If you’re not busy tonight.”
Of course, I was bound to be dateless and friendless on a Friday night.

3. “Get it out of the way.”
I was like a smear test to him: unpleasant but necessary.

“Dinner tonight should be fine,” I said, through my fake smile.

“I’ll meet you in the foyer at six-thirty,” he said, trying to outsmile me.

“Should be fun.”

“Shouldn’t it just,” he muttered as I shut the door behind me.

I arrived in the foyer at six thirty-two, according to the huge clock that sat above the receptionist’s area. Luke was there, all six feet two inches of him, wearing a beige raincoat over his trendy clothes. When I emerged from the lift holding my red raincoat he raised his arm and looked at his watch before shooting me another of his fake smiles—anyone would think I was a couple of hours late.

“I’m not late, am I,” I stated as I halted in front of him.

“Just a couple of minutes,” he replied curtly.

“Right. Well, the lift took a bit longer than I thought it would.”

“I didn’t think it’d be your fault,” he said.

“I’m glad you know me so well.”

“I’ve booked us a table at a restaurant around the corner for”—he paused to look at his Rolex—“seven minutes’ time. We’d better hurry if we don’t want to be even more late.”

“Right.”

We turned right out of our corner building, went down onto The Headrow and crossed the street onto Vicar Lane, then took a left into King Edwards Street. The air was thick, heavy and humid, everyone we passed in the street seemed subdued and drowsy, ready to curl up and fall asleep in some quiet corner. I carried my red mac in my arms, fighting the urge to close my eyes and give in to the sleepiness tugging at my senses.

We arrived at a small French restaurant I’d passed a few times but had never entered. The air was fragrant with garlic and tomatoes, and soft music played in the dimly lit interior. Everything about the place oozed intimacy. That surprised me. I’d half expected him to take me to a scuzzy burger bar where he’d order me the cheapest burger on the menu and say that if I wanted a fizzy drink I’d have to buy it myself.

After handing our coats to the maître d’ Luke and I were seated at a table for two in the center of the crowded restaurant. The second we were given our menus we both ducked behind them, hiding from each other. I scanned the ivory-colored card, deciding that if I had to spend time with this man, then he was going to pay top dollar for it. I found the most expensive dish on the menu—lobster—and opted for that. And crab for starters.

When the waiter arrived, to Luke’s credit, he requested a pricey bottle of red wine. To his detriment, he didn’t ask me if I wanted wine, let alone the color I might prefer. I hated red wine, so asked for water instead. We ordered—one of Luke’s eyebrows arching up at my choices—gave our menus to the waiter and then sat back.

“So, Kamryn, tell me about yourself,” Luke said. I mentally sifted though his voice, trying to untangle the threads of geography in his accent. It was a network of American—an East Coast/New York inflection—and southern England—London—and, if I wasn’t mistaken, English Midlands, possibly Birmingham.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, keeping my line of sight focused on the stem of my wineglass to avoid meeting his eye. Every time I glanced at him I saw the naked disgust on his face. Something about me repulsed him. My looks? My body? My continued existence in this world? I wasn’t sure why he’d taken against me in such a short amount of time, particularly when he had the job and I didn’t, but he made no effort to hide his dislike of me. In fact, he wore it like a badge, something he wanted to be defined by: “My Name Is Luke, and Kamryn Turns My Stomach.”

“Anything you want to tell me.”

“All right, I’m thirty-two. I’ve worked for Angeles for seven years now. Five years in London, two years up here. I set up
Living Angeles
with Ted, it actually came from my idea, but I don’t like to brag. Erm, that’s about it. Except to say, I love my work and I’m sad that Ted has gone.”

Mr. Wiseman’s left eyebrow slowly arched up as he regarded me with the same distaste he would a drooling green alien. “I meant, tell me about you,” he said patronizingly. “Your life. Not your work. Are you married? In a long-term relationship? Do you have kids?”

I’m supposed to know that’s what you meant, am I?
I thought. “No, I’m not married,” I replied sarcastically, “I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t have—JESUS CHRIST!” I leapt up, knocking the chair over. Other diners had stopped eating, drinking, talking and stared at me in surprise. I ignored them, fumbled under the table until I found my bag, grabbed it, then ran out of the restaurant, not bothering to say another word to Luke.

Tegan. I’d forgotten her. I’d actually forgotten her.

I ran out onto the pavement while one hand ferreted about in my black leather bag for my mobile. My fingers closed around it and I snatched it up to dial the school’s number. I pressed the “on” button and nothing happened. The battery was flat, obviously why they hadn’t called me.

Panic clutching at my chest, I ran down Vicar Lane in the direction of the train station, mentally calculating how long it’d take me to get there.

What will they do with her? Will they leave her on the pavement until someone arrives?
I didn’t know any of the other parents to call and ask if they’d take her. She’d be sitting there, waiting, thinking I’d forgotten her. Which I had.

I spotted a yellow taxi light on top of a car and almost threw myself under the wheels as I bellowed, “TAXI!” He screeched to a halt and I leapt into the backseat telling him where to go. I added, “And I’ll pay you double if you get me there in under fifteen minutes.”

“Emergency is it, love?” the portly driver asked.

“The stupid cow who was meant to pick up my child from school forgot and so she’s there. All alone. I need to get to her.”

“Bloody hell!” he replied, and sped off.

As we hurtled through the streets, the driver pushing the speed limit whenever he could, I fingered my useless mobile while gnawing on my bottom lip.

“It’ll be all right,” he reassured.

I couldn’t reply, I was choking on my guilt. I’d actually forgotten Tegan.
How? How could I forget? How?

The imposing redbrick building of the school was deserted when we arrived. No cars parked outside, no children or parents milling around. The metal gates were shut, and fear spiked my stomach. I handed the driver twenty-five pounds, all the money I had on me, and leapt out onto the pavement. Guilt was compressing my chest, making it impossible to breathe, while fear squeezed my heart. I ran to the school gates and tentatively pushed one, found it was unlocked. I sprinted the short distance to the big blue doors and with a gentle push that opened too.

“Tegan?” I called. My voice echoed down the emptiness and I had another clutch of fear.
What if she isn’t there? What if someone saw her standing alone outside and took her?
“Tegan?” I called again.