Until Love Do Us Part

by Anna Premoli

  Not that the male sex was famous for its insight, but Ryan did seem to be a tad above the norm in that regard. To be honest, she was convinced that he was suffering over the fact of not being able to marry Amalia then and there – even more so after finding out about the pregnancy. And no pregnancy had ever been more providential, because if she’d stopped to think it all through rationally the way she usually did, Amalia would never have embarked on anything that crazy. But fortunately love was anything but rational. Anyway, one thing was certain: the next few years would certainly be challenging. Those two would certainly produce one of the most intelligent and stubborn human beings on the planet, and stepping up to the plate as an effective grandmother would be no picnic.

  But she couldn’t wait.

  The game ended as expected, with a resounding defeat for Jackie. She might well be the queen of the cards, but for the moment miracles were still beyond her reach, and with a rotten hand like the one she had, no one would have been able to do any better. She had a clear conscience, and that was enough for her.

  But Jessica tried to twist the knife one last time while she could. She wasn’t the type to sit and watch a free meal pass right under her nose without devouring it and licking the plate clean.

  “Well my dear, a few more games like that and you’ll be risking your centuries old reputation before long. What a shame – all that hard work to climb to the top of the ladder and then it’s just the matter of a moment to tumble all the way back down. The last time you had such a rotten day…” she was adding when she was interrupted by an unsuspecting Addison.

  “Oh yeah! The last time you lost, your granddaughter found a boyfriend!” she exclaimed cheerfully, without even noticing Jessica’s anger. “Isn’t that just crazy?”

  And Jackie, who did not believe in these things – but who wasn’t foolish enough to put everything down to coincidence either – decided at that moment that if fate had been kind enough to find a man for Amalia, then perhaps there was hope for her too.

  “Maybe this time it’ll be my turn,” she joked, “just like our dear Addison said.”

  Jessica turned pale at the thought of seeing her rival steal the show, but Jackie just laughed and began to shuffle the cards expertly.

  After all, she thought, if Amalia had managed it then there really was hope for us all.

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  Writing this book was incredible fun. It was like taking a long journey with my characters. Everything sprang from a passion for the TV show The Good Wife, which made me think that a courtroom would be the perfect setting for a story. What can I tell you, apparently I like arguing…But it was also my first attempt at writing a book in the third person, so, as always, the suggestions of my editor, Alessandra Penna, were crucial in obtaining a good result. She always manages to suggest the very word I want to use but which I can’t seem to come up with while I’m writing. Seriously, how do you do it, girl? Thanks to all the Newton team, who worked hard to get this book published, from signing the contract right through to promoting it. If any of you haven’t yet realized, I can sometimes tend to be rather ‘stubborn’, so you all have my sincere admiration. If it will help, my husband has twenty years experience in the field and would be quite happy to give courses. Big thank to my family and my in-laws, who helped me and kept my little devil busy while I was revising the text.

  I laughed a lot when I was writing the kindergarten scene because I was lying and I knew I was: Amalia’s right, kids walk all over you, no two ways about it… But you end up forgiving them because they’re amazing! Finally, my biggest thanks go to my female (and occasional male) readers: without you, none of this would have been possible. I’m not a particularly social girl (a quirk caused by a chronic lack of time and by having married a computer scientist who knows how this kind of thing works), butXS before I change my mind… send your opinions or whatever else to anna@premoli.net email or contact me via the www.annapremoli.com site.

  About Anna Premoli

  ANNA PREMOLI was born in Croatia and lives in Milan, where she graduated in economics at the Bocconi. She has worked at J.P. Morgan and, since 2004, for a private bank. Mathematics has always been her strong point; writing came by chance, as an 'anti-stress method' during her first pregnancy. Love to Hate You stayed at the top of the bestseller lists for months and won the 2013 Bancarella Prize; the film rights have been bought by Colorado Film.

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  Read on for a preview of Love to Hate You:

  Jennifer and Ian have known each other for seven years. They are leaders of two different teams in the same London bank, and are constantly engaged in a running battle to be number one.

  Ian is a handsome, wealthy and sought-after bachelor; Jennifer is a feisty, independent lawyer. When they are thrown together to work on the same project, Ian makes Jenny an offer she can't refuse: to have free reign of their rich client if she pretends to be his girlfriend.

  Soon, it becomes more and more difficult to tell the difference between fiction and reality…

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  Chapter 1

  I can make it, I know I can make it.

  I have to make it.

  And it's then that I make the mistake of checking my watch.

  Oh God – I'm not going to make it…

  I'm running like crazy along a street in central London because, for the first time in my almost nine year career, I'm atrociously late. Me, the perfect employee, head of the bank's best tax consultancy team – unforgivably late on the day of a crucial presentation.

  When I get to the turnstiles in the atrium, I unceremoniously dump the contents of my bag out onto the floor. I'm gasping for breath from panic and the effort of running – I need to find that damn badge quickly, otherwise I'll be for the high jump.

  I search desperately through the pile of stuff until I find what I'm after, then hurriedly shove all the rest back into the bag – well, almost all the rest, but it doesn't matter. I wasn't particularly attached to that lip gloss that's rolling away anyway.

  Ok, here I am – only two hours behind schedule!

  “That was a nice little scene. Are we on You've Been Framed?” asks a deep, perfidious voice behind me.

  My hand hangs suspended in the air, gripping the badge I was about to pass over the scanner. I don't even need to turn around to know who it belongs to.

  Ok, now it's official: I'm not going to make it.

  *

  Part of me is tempted just to swipe my badge and keep walking without even turning round, but that might look as if I was running away, and the day I run away from Ian St John will be a pretty chilly one in hell. And despite all the doom and gloom and Mayan prophesies and Hollywood disaster movies, the end of the world is not yet quite at hand.

  “I do my best to keep my colleagues entertained,” I say, turning slightly.

  From the corner of my eye I see his tall, menacing figure approaching. I swipe my badge quickly, rush across the atrium and press the lift button in front of me furiously. I'm in a hurry, if he hadn't realised.

  “Well I never thought I'd see anything like that,” murmurs the voice that a second before was behind me and now is… right next to me, damn it. We're both standing in front of a lift that apparently just doesn't want to come. All this technology and you still find yours
elf unable to avoid the one colleague you don't want to bump into. Why hasn't anybody invented some kind of app or something to help you avoid making a fool of yourself the way I just did, I wonder?

  Even without looking at him, I can tell that he is staring at me with curiosity. I'd do the same, if I were him.

  I look up, and am dazzled by the bluest pair of eyes in the whole of creation, and I lower my head quickly, as though in annoyance. What a waste – a pair of eyes that gorgeous on such a puffed-up, snotty, hateful creature.

  But my curiosity is too much for me, apparently, and as I give him another look I can't help but chuckle.

  His pitch black eyebrows are lowered warily, an expression that I've often seen on his face. He must practice looking as ominous as possible in front of the mirror or something. Though, of course, he's not doing a very good job of it.

  “Glad to have provided you with some amusement on such a challenging day. Didn't you have a presentation about, what… an hour ago, Jenny?” he asks, giving a theatrical look at his watch.

  There's a ping as the lift finally arrives and the doors open.

  “You bastard,” I think, as I walk inside.

  Oops – I thought I'd only thought it, but I obviously didn't.

  Ian follows me in with a chuckle.

  “I might be terribly late, but what on earth are you doing turning up at this time of day? Employees as dutiful as you don't usually like missing a chance to show the bosses what good little boys they are…” I say, tart as an unripe blackberry.

  “Breakfast with a client,” he says neutrally, not at all put out by my insinuations.

  Of course – Ian takes all his female clients out. Apparently they simply swoon in front of him.

  Though, to be fair, the whole female population of this building probably does. And the ones in the office across the street. And in the street round the corner…

  I'm very glad that I'm apparently the only one who doesn't.

  He reaches round me to press the button for the fifth floor, adding sarcastically, “Since you're so late, you might at least push the button.”

  The truth is that I was distracted, damn it, and this morning I could really do without any other annoyances.

  The lift sets off with a slight jolt.

  “Come on, Jenny,” he says, “tell me what happened. You're never late—”

  And so finally I turn to face him, and he stares back at me like a big game hunter who's got his prey in his sights. A rebellious curl of dark hair falls jauntily across his forehead, and with a studied gesture he flicks it away from those intense eyes. If I were being objective, I'd have to admit that the contrast is amazing, but fortunately I'm extremely biased when it comes to Ian and can ignore his physical appearance completely. The drooling of my colleagues is more than enough for me.

  “Let's get one thing straight,” I tell him, sounding annoyed, “first of all, it's none of your business why I'm late this morning and, second, don't act like you care, because I know very well that you couldn't give a monkey's.”

  At first my words don't seem to provoke any reaction, but then a cheeky smile of derision forms on those well-sculpted lips.

  “Jenny, Jenny… how can you think that about me?” he says, as though talking to a little girl, just as the lift stops at our floor. I turn around and am on my way out when I hear his voice again, this time sounding rather annoyed: with a certain satisfaction I realise that it's taken me about two and a half minutes to make him lose his temper. Impressive, but I can do better.

  “Anyway, I do care, because they called me up here to calm down Lord Beverly, who's been waiting for his tax advisor for exactly one hour.”

  And with those words he strides off quickly towards the meeting room. I stand stunned for a moment and then hurry after him.

  I catch up with him just as he's opening the door of the meeting room; there's nothing for it now but to follow him in.

  While they've been waiting for me, they've set up something like a tea room and the scene inside would actually be quite funny if this impromptu picnic wasn't all my fault.

  The dreaded Lord Beverly is there, sipping his tea and being entertained by our boss, Colin, who is red-faced and visibly nervous. And Colin is never nervous.

  He has a pretty good excuse today, though, because I doubt there's anyone who doesn't get agitated around Lord Beverly, a man who combines pomposity and menace and possesses all the haughtiness you might expect from an English nobleman who thinks he still lives in the eighteenth century, along with the arrogance that comes from possessing the mountain of money he actually does.

  Most of today's nobles haven't had a penny for generations, and we mere mortals can at least enjoy seeing how low they've sunk, but not Lord Beverly – he deems himself superior by birth and also by net worth, after having managed to brilliantly exploit some vaguely specified mines in New Zealand that have been in his family for generations.

  “Ian, my boy!” says Beverly affably, rising to greet him.

  For a moment I shake my head and wonder if I'm dreaming. Beverly, affable? What the hell has Colin put in his tea?

  Ian shakes his hand firmly and smiles guilelessly. Yes, guilelessly, of course.

  “Lord Beverly! What a pleasure to see you!” exclaims Ian casually. But then I suppose he can afford to sound casual – he's not the one who's late.

  “The pleasure is all mine! How is your grandfather? It's been a while since our paths last crossed, I do hope he's well,” Beverly replies politely, almost as though he were a human being like the rest of us.

  Colin and I exchange a worried look that says, what about if we just go and leave them here to their aristocratic pleasantries?

  Just when I'm on the point of beating a retreat, though, Lord Beverly notices my presence. I should have moved faster.

  “Ah, Miss Percy. Here you are… finally.” It is an observation that sounds like a death sentence – his tone has changed instantly and became as cold as the North Pole.

  “I can't apologise enough for being late,” I say in an attempt to justify myself, but am instantly interrupted with a wave of the hand and a hard look. Someone should remind him that I'm not his dog.

  He's clearly on the verge of giving me a telling off when Ian intervenes.

  “Miss Percy was held up by a serious family problem, Lord Beverly. I do hope you'll accept my colleague's apologies.”

  Beverly, who a second before was about to give me a mouthful, stops and looks at me. He's struggling, you can tell from his expression, and it's clear that he doesn't give a damn about my problems, he just wants to ingratiate himself with St John. Which is curious, to say the least: I'd assumed that Beverly had never needed to cosy up to a living soul in his entire life.

  “Well, I imagine that we all have family problems from time to time,” he concedes, finally. And quite obviously, reluctantly. But he does say it.

  I'm in shock, and for a moment am literally speechless. St John beats Beverly, one nil.

  Part of me is almost disappointed, but the other, more rational part is enormously relieved. I start breathing again. And just think – apart from the light-headedness, I hadn't even noticed that I'd stopped.

  “Thank you so much for being so understanding,” I say theatrically.

  At this point, Colin decides to intervene. “Well, now that everything's been sorted out, I'd suggest that Ian and I leave Lord Beverly in the capable hands of his tax lawyer so you two can work in peace,” and having said that, he starts to move towards the door. But Lord Beverly has other plans.

  “Colin, I was thinking – what would you say if Ian was also present at the meeting?”

  My jaw muscles give way and my mouth drops open. Ian? In a meeting with me?

  Beverly doesn't know what he's asking for.

  But Colin remembers all too well those turbulent times when Ian and I used to work together, and banged heads again and again and again. His face creases up in panic and he turns as white as a shee
t. Poor guy, this is going straight into his 'top ten worst mornings of my life'.

  “Lord Beverly, I think Ian might have an appointment—” stammers Colin in a vain attempt to save the situation, but Beverly isn't one to be intimidated by other people's appointments. The bottom line is that he has been sitting in this meeting room for an hour, obediently drinking tea and eating butter biscuits, and he knows that whatever he requests will be given to him.

  “I must insist, Colin,” he says. And damn him, he knows that that's all it takes.

  Our boss nods resignedly. “Do you think you can free yourself up, Ian?” he asks.

  “Of course, no problem. Excuse me for just one moment,” says the man of the day, before disappearing.

  *

  Oh God. I can't do it.

  I've just got time to get the documents out of my bag before Ian is back, perfectly at ease, smiling and with a determined look in his eye. He's loving this morning, and it's all thanks to me.

  This is undoubtedly the crappiest day of my life. Previously, the worst had been the one when they took out my appendix and I spent all morning throwing up because of the anaesthetic, but today… oh, today is much worse!

  My number one enemy has made himself comfortable in a nice black leather chair next to Lord Beverly and sits there in eager anticipation of the brilliant tax optimization plan I'm about to present to my client.