by Clare London
Alex was silent for a few moments. Busted. “We needed to take more notice of their feedback and enthusiasm. I didn’t do it for the praise. It’s just the right thing to do.”
“Exactly. It’s good work, and perfect for the company. Your heart and loyalty are in the right place, Alex. You just need to master the rest of it.”
He grimaced at the smirk on her face. “You mean foreswear the relaxed timekeeping, the delight in every change of fashion, the joy of spending money?”
“Oh, but yes. Maybe you should consider monogamy, too, as a gesture towards showing your maturity…? Well, okay, from the look on your face, maybe that one’s a step too far.”
They both laughed and Alex hugged her. That should set the office gossip cat among the pigeons, the wayward son clutching the very prim PA in full view of London’s business district!
“I worry about you,” Tina murmured into his shoulder.
“Me?”
Flushed, she lifted her face up to his. “You make people think you have so much fun. But I think… maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re a little lost.”
Alex didn’t want to parrot again, but he did. “Lost?”
“Forget it.” She shook her head.
“I have grown up, Tina, whatever people may think. And I dearly want to contribute. I just haven’t found… well, the right opportunity so far.” An aimless daydream skittered into his head, featuring his father asking him to help steer the company through challenging times ahead, in a warmer voice than Alex had heard for several years. And Henri, clasping his brother’s shoulder in gratitude for his help and companionship in decision-making. Alex brightened. “You think I should call Papa and talk this through?”
“Um. No. You need to give it more time.” Tina looked alarmed. “To be honest, he was very disturbed by that rumor about a reality show with you and the circus performer. And so soon after the garden party debacle. The Palace was most displeased.”
“Look, the show was never going to be made, right? And the Palace? I had an open invitation from the underbutler. In writing.” Almost.
Tina’s rueful smile confirmed none of his excuses were working on her. “I’m sure, after a few months, Mr. Charles will welcome you back into the fold, and then you can prove your worth, can’t you?”
A few months? Alex’s dreams of immediate board appointment as joint CEO with Henri began to deflate.
“I know you’re not the most patient of men,” Tina continued, correctly reading his chagrin. “But just make sure you keep in touch with your father in the meantime.” She looked earnest. “Maybe I could see about getting you on the occasional guest list for his monthly industry dinners.”
Alex’s dreams popped with a loud farting noise. “No way,” he said shortly. Industry dinners? Boredom #101, to say nothing of the implied insult in “occasional guest.” How mortifying for a Bonfils son! “If I’m to prove my worth, it should be with something much more important.”
Tina looked genuinely shocked. “But that’s not going to happen overnight, is it? I don’t mean any offense, but you know so much less about the business than either your father or Henri.”
“I can learn. I can catch up.”
“Of course you can. Just not in the middle of this troublesome period.”
“Now you’re patronizing me.” And wait a moment… he forced his gaze away from the smoochy-eyed looks the man on reception was giving him and glared at Tina. “What do you mean, a troublesome period? What trouble is there at Bonfils’s?”
Tina’s eyes widened and she went very red. A-ha. So she obviously shouldn’t have said that. Jesus, was Papa keeping everything from him?
“There have been… worrying events,” she said slowly, lowering her voice. “Breakages in the warehouse beyond usual tolerance levels, an increase in customer complaints about deliveries. There’s a certain amount of tension at work because these are the months leading up to the UK Heritage Wines Awards and we need everything to run smoothly. Your father is relying on that event to launch our new Angel’s Breath sparkling wine. It will be a magnificent triumph.”
English sparkling wine was growing in worldwide prestige and popularity, and Bonfils Bibendum had always excelled in their selections. Even though he hadn’t attended all the management meetings, Alex knew that Angel’s Breath was something special. Unlike French producers, Bonfils had decided not to whole bunch press the English grapes but to crush them first. This wouldn’t work well in a hot climate but in Britain’s cooler climate, it boosted the flavor. It was a masterstroke.
Alex leaned forward, eager for more detail. “Is that the Bristol warehouse?” It was the nearest to the vineyard. “You suspect industrial sabotage?”
Tina rolled her eyes. “Remember what I said about reining in the melodrama? No, I’m sure they were just mistakes. But while Charles and Henri are sorting all that out, they don’t want…. Oh, hell. You know what I mean.”
Yes, Alex did, and he bit back his dismay. They didn’t want bad publicity from the profligate lifestyle of the second son. They didn’t want Alex associated with a serious business with serious problems, despite it being as much his inheritance as Henri’s. Dammit! He’d have to show them he could be trusted, after all. He could contribute to strategy; his passion could be of invaluable use to the company’s future. Couldn’t it?
I’ll prove my worth before Papa even has to ask for it.
Inspiration came suddenly: a weird, amazing, bizarre idea that had just popped into his mind. “Tina? This thing about me not knowing the business….”
“Hm?” Tina glanced at her watch; she must be due back on duty with his slave driver of a father.
“Wouldn’t it be better….”
“Alex,” Tina said warningly, her eyes widening as if she dreaded what he’d say next.
“…if I started right now, at the beginning? If I got a job and learned about the business from the shop floor?”
Tina’s pretty jaw nearly hit her chest. “What are you talking about? You’ve never actually worked anywhere! And anyway, your father would never let you take a staff job. You’re a Bonfils son, after all.”
Alex blithely ignored the jibe about him never having actually worked anywhere. How unfair! After all, he’d run a disco one night in Ibiza, erected yurts in a Himalayan village, held a “Golf Sale” sign in the middle of Trafalgar Square for an old school friend one afternoon…. “But I won’t be a Bonfils.”
“Sorry?”
“I could go undercover. You know, like that TV program? Where the boss goes into the business in disguise to see how it’s really being run.” Oh my God, what a laugh that’d be! “I can join up using another name. I may even find out where these problems are starting. Your special spy!”
Tina started to laugh, then bit it off at the look on his face. “Alex, no. That’s a daft idea. Why can’t you just show a little patience? Your father will come around and find you a new role.”
He barely heard her: the plans were already spinning in his mind. A new project always brought out the best in him, especially if it involved some risk. He’d need a new hair color, a set of appropriate clothes—he always used his personal account at Harvey Nichols for his clothing, did they do workwear?—and a necessary distance from his family for a few weeks. That could be the sweetest advantage: a whole new life with no one interested in his financial worth or harassing him about his alleged flakiness. “You’ll help me, right?”
“I’ll—?” Tina nearly choked and, for a few seconds, the woman behind reception looked genuinely concerned for her health. “No I won’t! What would Mr. Charles say?”
Alex waved his hand airily. “He won’t know.”
“What?”
“I’d be going undercover from him, too. If he knows, it’ll ruin the whole thing. It’ll blow my cover.” He was even starting to sound like a secret agent.
“Blow your cover? Good God. You’re sounding like James Bond.”
“It would be like a detective no
vel—”
And then Tina just snapped. “The business is not a novel, Alexandre! Not a spy movie, nor some kind of game. It’s been in existence for nearly a century, and both of our families have served it loyally. Two of my siblings work in the warehouse, and before the death of my parents, my mother was a buyer for the London office. Its reputation is terribly important to your family.”
He blinked hard. “Tina, ma chère, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know it’s where our millions come from.”
“It’s not just that. It’s the reason your family thrives as it does. We’ve produced a wide range of extremely superior wines, developing a rewarding relationship with many of the best European vineyards. The prestige, the superior quality, the Bonfils reputation known throughout the world? That’s been your grandfather’s and your father’s life’s work. And Henri’s.”
“I know.”
“And it should be yours.” She sighed. “Forgive me, I’m overstepping the mark again.”
“It’s fine.” It was Alex’s turn to put his hand on hers in reassurance. “You have every right to say it.” Just as Papa did.
“Your honesty does you credit.” Tina smiled gratefully. “Now I really must get back to work. I have duties to pass to my assistant before I go on annual vacation next Saturday. I’m really looking forward to three whole weeks of relaxation, and no contact from the office.” They chatted briefly about the remote Greek island she was going to with her husband, and then Alex stood as she took her leave.
“Look after yourself,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “You’re not a bad boy at heart, I know.”
“Is there a but hovering there?”
“You know your real problem?”
“That I hate that sentence?” Alex said wryly.
Tina grinned. “You’ve always been too rich for your own good. And, to be honest, that’s not really your fault.” She glanced briefly and perceptively at the man on reception, who began busying himself with shifting papers. “And try to avoid corrupting our staff, will you?”
Alex scoffed. “You’re the one said I’m not a bad boy at heart, remember? You can rely on me.”
Tina paused, halfway between the chairs and the corridor leading to the meeting rooms. “When you say I can rely on you….”
“Yes, ma chère?”
She almost whispered, but he heard her clearly enough. “Can I rely on you to drop this silly undercover scheme?”
“Of course.”
“Alex? I know you, remember.”
“I said so, didn’t I?” He laughed brightly and waved as she passed out of view. Then he brought his other hand forward: he’d been hiding the crossed fingers behind his back. A silly childish superstition, maybe, but as he had no intention of dropping the silly undercover scheme, it seemed sensible to have something on his side. He moved toward the elevators, on his way out of the building, but had already pressed a direct dial button on his phone.
“Good morning, this is the HR department of Bonfils Bibendum” came a young, bright voice. “How may I help you?”
“Come for lunch, Liam,” Alex said, confident that Liam would recognize his mentor’s voice. “And I’ll explain exactly how!”
Chapter Two
TATE Somerton usually liked breakfast time: not just the food itself, but the bustle of the family all gathered together, discussing plans for the day, catching up on problems and news. Gran was usually still in her pajamas, but the kids would be up and dressed for school, and Tate’s best friend Louise would drop in on her way to work to join them all. Another pair of hands was always gratefully welcomed, with so many bodies to feed and organize. The kitchen would be warm and aromatic from cooking bacon and bubbling tea, spoons clattered in cereal bowls, knives scraped over burnt toast, and inevitably someone would have lost their backpack or books. It was loud, frantic, and fun.
But today was proving to be a bloody challenge.
Everyone had overslept, for a start. Gran’s arthritis was bad and she wasn’t able to help with the kids’ breakfast as usual. It made her unusually tetchy, refusing to put in her teeth, and dropping the chewier toast crusts onto the floor for her pet dachshund Freddie, whom Tate had expressly asked Gran not to overfeed. The kids didn’t help much with his mood, either. Twelve-year-old twins Hugo and Hattie—the H’s, as Tate affectionately referred to them—were arguing fiercely over some character in a sexy reality TV program that Tate wasn’t sure either of them had even watched, and their little sister, seven-year-old Amy, was sniffling. She wouldn’t tell anyone why, just sat at the kitchen table with the occasional sigh over her bowl of cereal. Tate just hoped it was one of her frequent, imaginary concerns rather than anything seriously wrong.
He swung past the breakfast table, scooping up a piece of buttered toast as he went. One bite, and it slipped from his greasy fingers and landed—butter side down, inevitably—on the front of his shirt. Shit. He’d have to change, and he couldn’t remember if he had another suitable work shirt that was both clean and ironed. Turning on his heel, he nearly tripped over Freddie and, as he flung out a hand to steady himself, he knocked Gran’s set of upper teeth off the counter and into the dog’s water bowl. Double shit.
“Hugo hasn’t finished his muesli,” Hattie announced loudly.
“Hattie’s wearing my favorite red socks,” Hugo added.
That was the twins for you. One minute they’d speak as one, then the next they’d be arguing or telling tales on each other. Tate would have to leave them to sort their preferences out on their own behalf this morning, but he ruffled Amy’s hair as he passed.
“You okay?”
She lifted soulful eyes up to him. “The dinosaurs have been ’pletely wiped out.”
Tate blinked. “Um. Yes. But it was a very long time ago, love.”
“Before you were born,” Hattie contributed cheerfully.
Tate could see that only adding to the grief and gave Amy a quick hug. “Cheer up. We can go and see the remains of one at the Natural History Museum, in the school holidays.”
“We can?” Amy was brightening up.
“No. It’s gone,” Hugo announced.
“Hugo, for heaven’s sake!” Tate tensed for protest from the startled Amy.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Gran admonished both Hugo and Tate, totally ignoring the irony of talking toothless herself. Soft food obviously hadn’t been enough for her—her prodigious appetite was usually the talk of the senior citizen’s café—because she was currently gumming her way through a cornflake sandwich.
“They replaced the dinosaur skeleton with a whale’s,” Hugo explained to Amy, though after a wary glance at Gran, he’d swallowed his mouthful of cereal first.
To Tate’s relief, that was a plus for Amy, and she started quoting facts about whales instead. Tate had no idea whether they were true or not, but Amy was never happier than when she had a new topic to investigate. The teachers at school had explained to him that Amy was extremely able, academically speaking, and would need extra support and encouragement at both school and home. While Tate was burstingly proud of his sister, in his experience there was a wide range of subjects Amy already knew more about than he did.
“Late today?” Gran gave Tate a gummy grin as he picked up her teeth to wash them off at the sink.
“Nope,” he said blithely, knowing full well he was. “Is that Louise at the door?” With Gran distracted, he grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and darted up the narrow corridor to the front door. He opened it to his best friend’s yawning face.
“Looks like we’re both slow to get going today,” he said with a smile. They both worked at Bonfils Bibendum’s main warehouse in Bristol, and as Tate didn’t have a car of his own, Louise often gave Tate a lift when they were working similar shifts.
Louise smiled back at him, pushing her habitually unruly hair off her face. “I was partying with the girls from Packaging. What’s your excuse?”
Tate wasn’t offe
nded: Louise and he had a healthy banter going most of the time. “I offered you the after-hours meeting on the new Health and Safety directive for warehouse security, but you turned me down. Your loss, eh?”
“Oh, sorry, should I have been crying over lost chances, rather than dancing the night away at that new club by the harbor?” Louise laughed heartily. She was three years older than Tate—they’d celebrated her thirtieth birthday together last month with giant pizza, much beer, and increasingly bizarre reports of their respective, unsuccessful dating experiences—and she’d been a cherished constant in Tate’s life ever since his parents were killed.
As the oldest child, Tate did his best for the orphaned Somerton family, he really did. He adored them all—they were his reason for living. But with three young siblings to look after, his live-in gran, and trying to keep down a responsible full-time job? There was no time for dancing, let alone anything more romantic. He was knackered most of the time. “Are we ready to go?” he asked, and Louise nodded, jiggling the car keys in her hand.
“Twins?” Tate turned in the doorway to call back to the kitchen. The H’s were casually bickering between themselves, and deliberately ignoring him. “Sally’s mum is picking you and Amy up for school this morning, okay? Make sure you’re ready.”
The H’s didn’t pause their insults, but Tate knew they’d heard him. Amy was singing a popular song but in a strange, high-pitched wail. He paused, unsure whether she was ill or just out of tune, but then Gran poked her head around the kitchen doorframe and grinned at him.
“You get off now, kids,” she replied. “I’ll get them all ready in time. Once Amy’s finished her exploration of whale song, that is.”
Tate rolled his eyes. “I’m going to uninstall the internet on your laptop, Gran, if Amy’s spending time on it at breakfast.”
Gran pursed her lips. Was she laughing at Tate? And he thought he was acting so stern. “And if Hugo can’t find his backpack—”
