Page 71 of Third Time’s a Charm

“Maybe later,” Lil says when I suggest she joins me for a glass of wine. “I’ll have a coffee, thanks,” she directs to the barman, who obliges, adding a glass of water that he slides towards me.

“Nope.” I shake my head, which might have been a mistake. It’s already a little fuddled. “Another glass of wine, thank you. In fact, bring the bottle.”

I don’t want to talk about what happened this morning. I don’t want to think about what happened. And I sure as shit don’t want to feel what happened.

Lil picks my phone up off the bar, turns it off and slips it into her pocket. Then we sit in silence for a long time, her sipping coffee, me slugging wine.

I remember the day she thought Ant had betrayed her, and how she guzzled the better part of a bottle of stupidly expensive French champagne at her cousin Emily’s wedding.

They recovered from that, but I can’t see a way for Jasper and me to recover from this morning.

He damned himself with his own words.

The taxi driver was probably right. There will be another job. There might even be another man—although right now I can’t imagine trusting anyone ever again.

Because Jasper broke something in me that I didn’t even know he’d started to heal. He broke my trust. That tiny shoot of green that was just beginning to sprout again after losing my brother, and with him, my mother. And I don’t think I can ever trust anyone enough to get that back.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Jasper

Idon’t follow Louise to the lift. I need to try and make this right before I talk to her. And to give her time to calm down.

I stalk back to my office where Tate Brown is lounging back in what is still, for the next couple of minutes at least, my comfortable leather chair, as if nothing untoward has happened. Despite the early hour, he and John Mackelden are sipping on glasses of my personal, very expensive whisky. Tate is chatting on the phone like nothing’s happened, Mackelden nodding along like this is all playing out as he expected. I stand just out of line of sight and listen to Tate’s side of the conversation.

“I’ll talk to HR this afternoon. I think we can assume Louise Baker’s resignation is definite, which is a pain in the arse, because now I’ll have to find someone to take over her responsibilities for the wind-down. I hope it doesn’t mean I’ll have to put my trip to the Barrier Reef on hold.”

Mackelden waves his hand. “No need for that, Tate. I can take on whatever little jobs need doing.” Little jobs. Condescending prick. As if the work Louise does is unimportant. I know enough about Mackelden to understand he’ll either fob them off on someone else or leave them undone entirely.

If only I’d seen Mackelden’s file earlier. I’d have known there was more to shutting the Australian business down than it appeared. Maybe I could have saved myself, and Louise, some trouble.

And trust Tate to be using the company dime to fly to Australia to supposedly sort out a mess. When in reality, he’s going to be taking a holiday.

My guess is there’s a twenty-something woman somewhere in Sydney with a Black Amex racking up dollars as we speak, waiting for Tate to finish ‘work’.

Based on his tone, I imagine he’s talking to the managing director in London, who is one short rung down the slimy shithead ladder from Tate.

There’s silence for a moment before Tate responds.

“No, I’ll speak to Spencer-Jones. I’m sure he wasn’t serious about his resignation. Heat of the moment and all that.” More silence. “Agreed. There needs to be some accountability for speaking to me that way, but don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll work something out.”

Oh, we’ll work something out, alright. But it won’t be what he’s expecting. The information I have is damning. I just need to figure out the best way to use it for maximum effect and foolproof results.

I’m about to walk through the door when Tate continues. “Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been getting his dick wet. They’ve just spent ten days alone together, and she’s got a great rack …”

There’s a lewd chuckle of agreement from Mackelden.

He’s a misogynist arsehole. They both are. And they’ve gone too far. A red mist descends.

Fuck the British stiff upper lip. Fuck professionalism.

I don’t remember storming through the door. I don’t remember charging up to Tate. I don’t remember him standing up.

All I remember is him sprawled on the plush carpet, blood trickling from his nose. My knuckles stinging. And John scampering behind a chair for protection while the electronically nasal, disembodied voice of the managing director squawks from Tate’s phone, demanding to know what’s going on.

I loom over Tate, my pulse pounding. “If I ever hear you talk about Louise Baker like that again, a bloody nose will be the least of your problems.”

With one last look of scorn for Mackelden, I scoop up my satchel and jacket from the chair where I’d discarded them before this shitshow, tuck them under my arm, and walk out without a backward glance.