Sweet Deception (10 page)

“Good.” He gave a brief nod. “You made the right decision, Charlotte. I promise.”

“Well, you didn't exactly leave me much choice, did you?”

“That was the idea.”

He held out a hand for us to shake on the deal. I ignored it. After all, seeing the self-satisfied smile on his face, it was taking all my willpower not to punch him.

*  *  *

“Can you believe that asshole?” I said to Lindsay.

It was an hour later, and I was finally back at my flat. My friend had made sure to be in when I got home, just in case I was still suffering any after-effects from my misadventure the other night. Now we were sprawled across the battered sofas in the sitting room, clutching mugs of tea, as I recounted
the agreement Richard had forced me into.

There seemed to be no end to his control-freak nature since I'd landed in hospital. He'd insisted on driving me home, even though I was well enough to get the Tube. I'd wanted to object, but his threat of telling my parents hung over me, so I had to go along with him. It was irritating, the way he was treating me as though I was some fragile little girl who needed looking after.

It had been a silent journey back, with me still fuming about how he'd manipulated me into agreeing to his demands. I was relieved when we finally pulled up outside my apartment block. I needed some time away from him. His parting shot had been to remind me to be at the office at nine on the dot on Monday morning.

Now I gave Lindsay a pleading look. “Seriously—you have to help me think of a way to get out of this.”

My flatmate didn't jump in with a suggestion like I'd hoped she would. Instead she dropped some sugar into her tea and stirred it, before taking a sip. Finally she said, “Maybe you shouldn't be trying to get out of it. Maybe it's not such a bad idea for you to have a change of scene.”

I blinked, unable to believe what I was hearing. “What're you saying?”

She just looked at me. “Come on, Charlie. You're getting out of control. Even you must see that.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Lindsay had always
been my partner in crime. And now she was agreeing with Richard. “Seriously? You're taking his side?”

“It's not about sides. For God's sake, you nearly died the other night! It's not funny anymore . . . As far as I'm concerned, anything that gets you off the scene for a while has my vote. And I'm not going to apologise for feeling that way.”

Her words shocked me into silence. I could see her eyes shining brightly, shimmering with unshed tears. I knew Lindsay was upset with me, but I hadn't realised she felt this strongly. A knot began to form in my stomach. I didn't need this. She was overreacting—making a bad situation worse. And suddenly it occurred to me why.

“This is about Adrian, isn't it?”

“What?”

I ignored the disbelief in her voice, and nodded slowly to myself. “You've found yourself some conventional boyfriend, and you're changing yourself for him, and expecting everyone else to do the same.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, let's face it. You haven't been as up for going out lately, have you? Even before all this happened.”

Lindsay didn't answer straight away. Instead, she gnawed at the inside of her mouth. “I think you're seeing this the wrong way. I still like going out and drinking and clubbing with you, but I want to be doing other stuff, too. I want
more from my life than pulling shifts at the Nick and getting wasted. All I'm saying is that this time at Richard's company may be your opportunity to change your life for the better, too.”

I could tell she was trying to be reasonable, but for some reason her words irritated me. I'd always thought I could count on Lindsay, and now it seemed like she was moving on, and becoming one more person rejecting me and telling me what to do. “So does this have something to do with the interview you had the other day?”

A flash of guilt crossed her face. “Richard mentioned that? Yeah, it was at a casting agency. Answering phones and general admin at first, but it's a foot in the door, and I'll be learning the ropes. The acting hasn't worked out, but I'd still like to stay in the business, and this seems like a good way to do that . . .”

This was all news to me. Lindsay had gone to drama school, and working at the Nick was meant to be her way of supporting herself between acting jobs. But somewhere along the way she'd stopped going for auditions, and bartending had become a full-time gig for her, like it was for me. Now it seemed she was looking at moving on. The unsettled feeling in my stomach began to grow.

“Right.” I snorted a laugh. “So you start seeing Adrian and suddenly you stop going out and decide that you're too good for the Nick.”

Her cheeks flushed. “That isn't it at all, and you know it! I'm genuinely worried about you, and you're trying to turn this into something it's not! I only want the best for you, and as my friend, I thought you'd be happy that I'd met a nice guy and that I was trying to start on a new career for myself.”

“It's hard to be happy for you when you're becoming as boring as the dullard that you're dating.” I knew I was going too far by attacking her boyfriend, but I didn't care.

“How dare you!” Lindsay's eyes flashed. “Don't start slagging off Adrian because you're unhappy with your life!”

We glared at each other for a long moment. Neither of us was the type to back down. After a moment I stood up. “I'm going to rest up before work tonight.”

“Yeah?” Lindsay got to her feet, too. “That sounds like a good idea.”

We both turned away. I slammed my bedroom door on the way in, and a second later Lindsay did, too.

*  *  *

I wasn't looking forward to going into work at the Nick that evening, because I knew I'd have to hand in my notice. I decided it would be best to get it over with quickly, so the first thing I did was tell my boss, Malachi, that my last shift would be Saturday night, because I had a new job starting on Monday morning. I didn't go into the details of how I'd
been forced into it, but I let him know that it would be an office job—the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was going to a competitor. He got funny about things like that.

In fact, for someone who worked in an industry that by its very nature employed transient workers, he could be surprisingly moody when anyone resigned. So I fully expected to get some grief from him about leaving on such short notice.

“So you're finally joining the nine-to-five grind?” He finished pulling a pint, and handed it to a customer, then turned back to me. “I never thought I'd see the day.”

“I know, right? I can't see it lasting.”

“Well, I hope it does.”

I frowned. “You do?”

“Yeah. I think it'll be good for you.”

“Really?” I couldn't help feeling a little hurt. I'd expected him to be furious about the short notice—to demand I stay longer. I'd almost thought I could put Richard off for a month or so by saying I needed to stay until a replacement could be hired, and that he might forget the whole arrangement as time went on. But now it seemed Malachi was totally on board, and I was stung by his willingness to let me go. “But you always said I was your best barmaid.”

He leaned up against the bar, stroking his goatee as he mused the point.

“Yeah,” he said. “You working here is good for my business, but is it good for you? That little stunt you pulled on Sunday night?” I'd have loved to keep that from him, but unfortunately I'd had to explain why I couldn't work Monday and Tuesday nights. “I've been waiting for something like that to happen.”

This was news to me. He must have seen the shock on my face, because he gave a little smile. “It's a hazard of the trade—bar staff liking the sauce a bit too much. This is a breeding ground for alcoholics.” I was about to object, but he held up a hand to quiet me. “But it's not like that with you. You drink, but it's not about the booze. You abuse alcohol, but you're not addicted to it—not yet, anyway. There's a darkness in you that you're just trying to cover up. And that makes this the wrong place for you to be around. So I hope this new start works out for you. You're a good girl, and I'd hate to see you get dragged down to a place you can't come back from.”

Before I could even think about formulating a reply, he turned back to serve a customer. It was probably lucky that he did, because I had no idea what I'd say to him. That little speech was about the last thing I'd expected to hear from the usually taciturn Malachi. When did everyone turn into an amateur psychologist? And, more to the point, when had everyone decided I was a problem that needed to be solved, a victim who had to be saved? It seemed bizarre, given that
out of everyone I knew, I was the one most able to take care of myself.

Needing a moment alone, I went through to the kitchen, and began to unload clean glasses from the dishwasher. Whatever anyone said, I wasn't keen on Richard's little plan to straighten me out. Unfortunately it seemed there was no way I was going to be able to get out of it. Malachi had been my last hope—and look how that had turned out.

And then it struck me—while I might not be able to convince Richard to release me from our deal, what if it was his idea? I couldn't outright play up—that would just make him call my parents—but if I made minimal effort at his office, then surely he'd get so fed up that he'd have no choice but to let me get back to my life with no more interference.

For the first time that day, I felt a surge of hope. This didn't need to be quite the disaster I'd feared. I just needed to bide my time, and play things the right way.

With my plan in place, I carried the glasses through to the bar, humming as I went.

The following Monday morning, I emerged from Tottenham Court Road Tube station just before nine. It was a crisp, bright day, and as I joined the throngs of commuters hurrying towards Soho, I tilted my face towards the warm sun. But it was hard to enjoy the pleasant weather when all I could think about was what lay ahead—my first day at Richard's advertising firm, Davenport's.

I knew more than I wanted to about the business—and Richard's role in it—because of my mother's obsession with everything he did. I'd spent dozens of family dinners being bored to tears as she recounted how he'd saved Davenport's from bankruptcy, and turned it into one of the most cutting-edge advertising firms in London.

Davenport's offices were based in Soho, which was pretty much London's equivalent to Madison Avenue for advertising firms. Soho, Covent Garden and Charlotte Street formed
the heart of the industry—where there were plenty of cocktail bars and upscale restaurants for entertaining clients and celebrating account wins. As I walked along Dean Street with all the other commuters, I couldn't help thinking that this was the last place I should be. It might be the hub of the sought-after media and arts industries, but it was still too conventional for my liking.

I didn't bother to cover my mouth as I yawned. I was pissed off and tired. I'd been working in bars ever since I'd been kicked out of art school six years ago, so I hadn't been up this early for ages.

To get to Richard's office building, I had to walk through the maze of streets that made up Soho. As I passed a row of shops, I caught sight of my reflection in one of the windows. I hadn't made any effort to tone down my appearance for the office. I was wearing what I pretty much had on at the bar every night—thigh-high thick cotton stockings, a black miniskirt, white tank top and my favourite vintage leather jacket. My platinum-blonde hair hung wild around my shoulders, and I had on my heavy blue-black mascara and eyeliner. Usually I would have fit right into the area, but at this time of the morning the commuters were out in force. The media types might not be suited and booted businessmen, but they were still well turned out, while I looked—to put it politely—scruffy. No wonder I could feel all the suits giving me sideways looks, wondering what I was doing here.
I stuck out like a whore at a church fundraiser.

When I'd walked into the kitchen that morning, Lindsay had literally spat out her cornflakes when she saw me.

“You're not seriously going like that?” she'd said, not making any effort to hide her disbelief.

“Why?” I'd cast a glance down at my attire, as though I had no idea what she was talking about. “What's wrong with how I look?”

She'd shaken her head, and held up her hands in defeat. “It's none of my business what you do,” she'd said, and resumed eating her cereal.

The atmosphere between us had been tense since our bust-up a few days earlier. For the first time ever, we hadn't spent any of the weekend together. She'd texted to say that she was staying at Adrian's for a couple of nights, and to call if I needed anything. I hadn't bothered to phone, and she hadn't attempted to get in touch again. Right now, I think we both knew it was best if we stayed out of each other's way.

I tried not to be impressed as I arrived at Langley House, the building that housed Davenport's. It was one of those elegant Regency mansion blocks, crafted from beautiful white-grey Portland stone. But while the exterior retained its period feel, the interior had been thoroughly modernised, and was all glass staircases, minimalist furnishings and flat-screen TVs—reminding me of the Apple store on Regent
Street, with its mix of classic exterior and modern interior.

As I walked into the shared marble lobby, I could feel everyone staring at me. I felt a bit like Julia Roberts's character in
Pretty Woman
, when she goes shopping. The only difference was, I didn't care what anyone thought of me. In fact, shock and disapproval were exactly the reactions I'd been looking for.

Langley House was home to dozens of different businesses—everything from hedge funds to advertising agencies. There was a bank of reception desks in the middle of the lobby, staffed by four well-dressed women. I went straight up to one of the receptionists, whose eyes widened in shock when she saw me.