by Louise Bay
Private Player
Louise Bay
Published by Louise Bay 2021
Copyright © 2021 Louise Bay. All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN – 978-1-910747-728
Contents
Books by Louise Bay
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
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One
Nathan
I watched from the edges of the lawn where guests were gathered. The groom, one of my oldest friends, grinned like his team had just won the FA cup. The photographer scurried after him and his bride as the happy couple flitted among groups of guests enjoying their canapés and champagne.
Everyone was full of smiles, air kisses, and congratulations.
Everyone except me. I hated weddings.
It came down to small talk. Some people were good at chatting about the weather, or Wimbledon, or whatever else it was that small-talkers talked about.
I wasn’t that guy.
Add in the bad wine, cold food, and prolonged speeches, and weddings became my personal hell medley. And that was before the soon-to-explode bomb landed in my lap last night.
I should have been in London. Working. Planning. Strategizing. Defusing. Instead, I was listening to the tick, tick, tick—powerless to stop the explosion I knew would come. I glanced at my phone. Gretel was supposed to come back to me by four with details of some last-minute story the Sunday Mercury intended to run about me tomorrow—it was the kind of thing that normally didn’t concern me, but given my current relationship with my board, I couldn’t afford to ignore anything. Three fifty-eight. She had two minutes.
Tick, tick, tick.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Well, at least she wasn’t late. I moved toward the trees and pressed Accept. “Go ahead.”
“They have photos of you with Audrey Alpern. Is that Mark Alpern’s wife?” she asked.
The news stuck in my throat like I’d swallowed a mouthful of wood chippings. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Since I’d floated Astro Holdings, there had been murmurs about whether my focus was on the job . . . or elsewhere. The murmurs were turning into shrieks. The market didn’t think I could work hard and play hard. But I’d always been that way. My two passions in life were work and play—business and pleasure. It had always served me well.
Until now.
Until I’d taken Astro public.
Now, instead of answering to myself alone, I had pension funds, investors, and the business press—not to mention the board—scrutinizing everything I did.
Apparently, the rest of the world didn’t think you could run a FTSE 100 company and enjoy yourself.
“Yes,” I replied and I cleared my throat. “I’ve been friends with both of them since before they were married. We all met at university.”
“Was Mark there last night?” she asked.
“Nope.” Of course he wasn’t. Audrey had come to me for help. Advice. Support. Bomb disposal expertise. Her husband had betrayed her—betrayed everyone. Mark was the last person who would have been there last night.
“Well, the Mercury is lobbing words like playboy and cheater and—”
“And none of those words are accurate when describing me, so what’s your plan?” The board had forced me to hire a PR person to repair my reputation as a playboy who was more focused on women than his business, so she needed to do her job.
“My plan is for you to tell me why you were with another man’s wife at Annabel’s at three in the morning. It’s usually better to start with the truth.”
“She’s a friend. We went out for some drinks.”
Gretel groaned on the other end of the line. She assumed I was lying. If I’d been trying to cover up something sordid, maybe I would have. But I was telling the truth. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
“Well, Houston, we have a problem,” she said.
“I’m not sleeping with Audrey Alpern.” At least the Mercury hadn’t uncovered the real reason we were together last night.
“I don’t care whether or not you’re fucking her,” Gretel said. “I care that it looks like you’re fucking her.”
“And I don’t care what it looks like,” I said. “I care about the truth. And the truth is, she’s just a friend. We were having drinks. There’s no story.” Another lie. There was a story, but it was far bigger than me being out with a married woman. It just wasn’t mine to tell.
“Unfortunately, that kind of truth doesn’t sell newspapers. We need to give them some explanation.”
“You want me to make something up?” I asked.
Gretel sighed. I’d not been making her life easy since she joined, but I resented the board questioning my commitment to the job when they were the ones around the table seeing the business thrive. Astro was outperforming its targets on every measure. “We need to offer an alternative perspective to the image of you that’s out there,” she said.
Despite Astro’s success, I was dangerously close to being fired by the board I’d created. If they thought I was sleeping with another man’s wife, especially a man who happened to be one of the biggest wealth managers in London, and I’d ignored PR, the guillotine would inch closer to my neck.
“All anyone knows about you is that you’re a surly playboy,” Gretel continued. “Someone who doesn’t like them. People like to feel liked.”
“I don’t give a shit
about being liked.” Being popular was overrated. I cared about results. Loyalty. Getting things done. Not making it onto people’s Christmas card lists.
“Well, you’re an anomaly in many ways,” she said in a sing-song voice, as if she were telling a child their painting deserved to hang in the National Gallery. “I’m trying to help you. And if you want my help, you need to work with me to show the world the best side of yourself. Show them why you’re the youngest CEO the FTSE 100 has ever seen. Show them you’re sharp, focused, decisive, and most of all—open.”
I didn’t want to need Gretel, but I did. Astro Holdings was my life’s work, my passion, and I’d do whatever it took to ensure my position there was safe. Then again, the prospect of being fired by the board I had created wasn’t even the worst prospect coming down the line in the coming weeks. Being thought of as a moody womanizer was likely to be the least of my problems if what Audrey told me last night was even half right. For the second time in my life, being Mark Alpern’s friend was likely to cost me and the people I cared about. This time, I had to protect myself. Protect Audrey.
“Do you have something in mind?” These photographs the Mercury had were like cutting my hand and going out surfing. If I ignored them, I’d be asking for trouble. When the Mark Alpern bomb eventually dropped, the sharks would circle and finish me off.
“We need an entire campaign designed to cast you in a new light. At the center of it would be an in-depth profile of you in a national broadsheet, like the Post. You give them an all-access pass—no questions or parts of your life or business off-limits.”
That sounded like my worst nightmare. I was far from reclusive, but I liked my privacy. Though I’d never considered myself a playboy, my private life involved me getting naked with women fairly regularly. “I’m not sure that will work.”
“It’s the only thing that will—complete transparency,” she insisted. “Then we’ll build in some charity work, some corporate social responsibility. You’ll have to wine and dine some influential people in the City, but if keeping your position as CEO at Astro is important to you, I’m telling you, this is what it will take.”
Bloody Mark Alpern. If he weren’t the subject of an active police investigation, Audrey and I wouldn’t have been meeting last night and I wouldn’t be having this conversation. This was all his fault.
Assignments of blame aside, my business was at stake. I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice everything I’d worked so hard for. I’d done that once before for Mark, and it wasn’t going to happen a second time.
“Set it up,” I said.
“Consider it done,” she replied. “I have a journalist in mind who’s likely to be a little softer on you. She—”
“I’m at a wedding. I’ll expect something in my diary for Monday.” I didn’t need to know the details. This was Gretel’s opportunity to prove she was as good as everyone said she was. And if she was right, it was also my do-or-die chance to prove I was as good as I’d always believed.
Two
Madison
Standing under a sunny sky with a full champagne glass in my hand, watching the bride and groom, I really had nothing to complain about.
Except that I hated weddings.
I especially hated weddings where the only people I knew were the ones getting married. I smiled as Noah made Truly laugh by whispering something in her ear. The photographer hovered around them, capturing snap after snap of evidence of their joy, their love. If anyone deserved it, Truly did. I was genuinely delighted to be here, to see her have her happily ever after. I just wished I didn’t have to feel this . . . awkward. There was nothing like a wedding to make a single person feel alone.
If I’d still been at Rallegra magazine, I could occupy myself with figuring out how to spin the weekend into a listicle: How to Survive a Wedding Without a Plus One or Wedding Hook-Ups: I Do or I Don’t? But now I was trying to fulfil my dream and become a proper, serious journalist. Weddings simply wouldn’t inspire the kind of content my editor was looking for, unless I managed to uncover an investigative gold mine. Inhumane work conditions at the glitter factory, perhaps, or the seedy underbelly of floral arrangement. Long shots, all.
After taking the plunge to start freelancing so I could pursue more serious, hard-edged journalism, I’d landed a maternity leave, covering for a writer at the Post. The Post—I could barely believe it. A couple of times, I’d considered taking a pillow to work and sleeping under my desk, I was so desperate to get the most out of the opportunity.
It went without saying that writing for the Post was very different to writing for Rallegra. I was used to writing upbeat articles about how to knit or spice up your sex life or how to spice up your sex life with knitting. Overnight, I had to switch gears and research leading politicians and breaches of legislation by the aluminum industry. It was more exciting than it sounded. I loved immersing myself in a subject and thinking about nothing else for weeks, rather than flitting between makeup tips and poncho reviews.
The problem was, with few contacts and a history in women’s magazines, I’d not been able to find a juicy story yet. I’d just done small bits here and there and helped other, more experienced journalists with research. But this was my chance to make a splash. To prove I wasn’t my mother’s daughter, destined to write for a gossip column. If I could impress over the next three months, I’d be first in line when something permanent opened up.
The clock was ticking.
I drained my champagne glass just as we were ushered inside. At least there would be assigned seating and I’d have someone to talk to during the reception. I loved getting to know new people. I loved asking questions, getting under their skin, finding out what made them tick. No matter who sat next to me at the reception, I’d be able to write a book about them by the time the speeches started.
The seating plan was displayed outside the bright conservatory, and I found my name in the list of people on table eight. As I stepped into the room, swathes of green and white flowers dripping from the roof, down to every table and across every surface, drew my gaze.
It was dazzling. If I’d been getting married, I’d have chosen a wedding just like this.
I made my way to my assigned table and took a seat, scanning the room to see if anyone was approaching. I glanced at the name cards either side of me. The one on the left read Nathan Cove—poor guy probably hadn’t even heard of the idiot banker who was partying his way through London after making ten trillion pounds or something when he sold his company last year. I knew all about that Nathan Cove because my mother enjoyed writing about him, which meant I got to hear about his exploits over dinner. This Nathan Cove probably loved spreadsheets and lived with his mum. Then on my right was Tom Miller. It was a Hardy-esque name that conjured up a man full of integrity and grit—a man with a story. I began to feel a little better. Two people who would be forced to talk to me. I could pepper them with questions and prepare to write their biographies.
Perfect.
An older couple approached the table and checked out the place cards. “This is us, Marjorie,” said a gentleman with a grey beard and matching hair that stuck straight up, as if he’d just had an electric shock.
He turned to me. “I’m Tom Miller,” he said.
Not quite the brooding hero I’d envisaged, but he looked nice enough. And he might have a deep, dark past I could explore.
“I’m Madison,” I replied.
“Your name is Medicine?”
“Madison,” I said, a little louder.
“Ahh, Mary. Sorry about that. You’ll have to excuse me, dear. I’m a little deaf on my right side.”
My heart sank. So much for asking Mr. Tom Miller a thousand questions about his past. I wasn’t sure he’d hear me if I asked him to pass the butter. He’d busied himself getting his wife seated and pouring water for the entire table when someone pulled out the chair to my left.
I felt a tug at my dress, followed by the sound of ripping fabric. I whipped my head around
to find the pink sleeve of my dress caught on the back of Nathan Cove’s chair. The hole was getting bigger and bigger, and I pushed my chair back in an effort to stop my entire sleeve being taken off.
“Wait!” I shouted. “You’re ripping my dress.” I tried to hook my other arm over to free myself but couldn’t reach, so I shifted around, stretching one leg over Nathan Cove’s chair to keep my balance as I tried to stop the rip getting any bigger. That didn’t work—I still couldn’t reach—so I half-stood on my other leg, spread-eagled across the chairs.
The person moving Nathan’s seat stepped closer, about ten centimeters away from me. “Can you move out of my light?” I snapped. “I can’t see what I’m caught on.”
“I would, but the entire room may get a view I’m not entirely sure you were planning to show everyone this early in the proceedings.”
I glanced up at the sound of the deep, resonant voice, and my breath tripped at the sight of a man’s long eyelashes and twinkling eyes. It was a full three seconds before I remembered I was trapped on the back of a chair and had just been informed I was showing everyone my knickers.
“Shit,” I said, hopping off Nathan’s chair so I was crouched between the two seats—legs firmly together—fiddling with the fabric of my sleeve.
