Page 13 of Scars of Silk

Their side of what? I refrain from rolling my eyes. What would be the point? Connie Fairclough, Elijah’s awful grandmother, is still living in the previous century. I can’t stand the woman, although I’ve always received her nod of favour.

Finally, a waiter makes eye contact with me and I motion him over, ordering a glass of the house champagne.

“I don’t think it’s drama, Dad. I think Connie is losing her grip, and I will be honest and say it’s long overdue. How they’ve dealt with Peter’s death is appalling.” From under my lashes I watch my father for a reaction, but he doesn’t make one at all. Not even when I bring up the death of Elijah’s brother. That’s just how it is, uncomfortable matters aren’t discussed—ever.

“Hmm. With that awful girl.”

“Awful girl? Faith is talented and determined. She’s incredibly strong. She’ll be a credit for the Faircloughs.”

“Nonsense. Elijah should have married you, as was always the plan.”

“Your plan, Dad.” Thank God, the glass arrives and I take a deep sip. “Elijah and I don’t feel that way for each other.”

“So?” His stare is frank. His hair is greying, but his forehead is still smoother than the average sixty-four-year-old. “You don’t marry for love. You marry because it’s right and then hope love follows.”

“And if it doesn’t?” We’ve had this argument so many times I’ve lost count. “I don’t want to love like that, and we can’t keep going over it. I’m not marrying Elijah Fairclough. He’s in love with someone else, a person who I admire and respect.”

“The lower class.”

“Jesus,” I mutter into my glass. “You can’t talk like that anymore. Classes don’t exist.”

“Of course, I can. If one person has millions of assets to their name and the other doesn’t, it puts them in a different class.”

Oh God. We are about to head into the realm of the “New Money” speech.

“I don’t think money matters, and you know that.” In my head I think of tattoos, fingers, and moans. I warm a little and shift in my chair. My head has been going there a lot the last couple of days. The place where tattoos cover bruises and bruises cover something else; something deep and dark under the surface.

Dad, sensing I’m pulling away, changes the subject. “Your mother wanted to invite you for dinner on Sunday. I hope I can tell her you can come.”

“She could ask me herself. There are these things called phones. Sometimes people use them to dial a number and talk to a person.”

“I shall take that as a yes.”

God, no. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sit in the silence that echoes around the family home, making polite small talk with people who I should be laughing with, loving in the crazy way I believe families should have. I don’t want to be looking at my mum and feeling guilt for the life she lives. I don’t want to see that fake smile and know there is nothing I can do to help her apart from what I already try to do.

“Okay. Any reason for the dinner?” I ask.

“No, I don’t believe so.” There’s a flicker in his grey eyes though and I know he’s lying. Lying comes all too easy to the Richards family. Lying is the norm.

“So, tell me what you are working on.” He leans forward, switching all his attention onto my face for our weekly interview.

I sigh. “I’m researching for Elijah; but I can’t discuss the case.”

“I thought Elijah was out of country?”

“He was in New York, but I believe he is back now.” I don’t add that I know he’s moved back into his own house, leaving Faith at the Fairclough London property, alone. I definitely don’t need to tell my father that.

Food arrives which I didn’t order; but I pick up my fork, grateful for a break in the conversation.

“Have you thought of Scott Harrington?”

I nearly choke on my scallop. “Excuse me? Scott Harrington? I haven’t seen him since university.”

“He’s doing well for himself. Investment banking, I believe. Quite a buzz.”

“What do you mean thought of him?”

“As a match.”