by Sonia Icilyn
Avril absently rose from her bed and hugged the towel around her naked wet body. She cut the short distance between the bed and the wardrobe, feeling the soft sheepskin rug under her bare feet. Her damp hair limped like straw around her shoulders as she opened the wardrobe doors and ventured in.
Just as she had left it, the box, embossed in gold with the name of the designer, was on the wardrobe floor. As though she was on autopilot, Avril pulled it from its haven and settled the box on the sheepskin rug.
She needed to take one last look. That was all. A final glimpse of her dreams and hopes of a glamorous future as Mrs. Maxwell George Armstrong III. She grudgingly admired the gold-trimmed lid when, with trembling fingers, she opened the lid. The name of the designer disappeared from view as she waded in.
Avril removed layer after layer of soft tissue paper that protected the delicate fabric of her gown before she saw the champagne silk covered in gilded daisies, gold bugle beads and tiny rhinestones. Her gaze fell in awe at the twinkle and dazzle of each hand-stitched adornment. On a breath of remorse, she carefully removed the dress and held it up to the morning light.
Her slim figure projected with each sleight of the designer’s cut, making the sheath appear much smaller than her ample frame. Then Avril noted the baroque pearls and sequin-filled flowers on the stand-up collar and felt the first prickle of tears threaten behind her eyelids. She recalled choosing the flowers.
Now it seemed a distant dream. Her dress was the only memory left. It should have been a precious patchwork of her life with stories attached as a lasting family narrative of her wedding day. Instead, the satin mules and marabou stole buried beneath more layers of tissue in the box at her feet were further remnants of what was lost. As her gaze fell, she caught sight of the few dried petals that had fallen from her pink rose bouquet.
Stoically, Avril replaced the dress and made a mental note that she would donate it to a charity auction. Though there was much sorrow in her heart, she closed the box and immediately returned it to the bottom of her wardrobe. The towel around her naked flesh, hardly of any worth in comparison to the cost of her wedding gown, felt closer to her now.
After nearly three weeks, it was time to move on, though Avril told herself she was in no hurry. Her resolve not to wrestle with a man’s heart so freely again was still firmly planted in her mind. She had never loved Maxwell, but had grown fond of his brother and Meyrick’s rejection simply made the mockery of her feelings unbearable to handle.
How could she ever have misplaced her emotions in this way?
There was no answer. Even now, Avril cringed at the thought that she had nearly married the wrong man.
Her mind wandered as she threw on jeans and a white linen shirt over clean underwear. As she began to picture a night on the town with Rakeem and Kesse, her spirits lifted. It wouldn’t hurt, she thought, to try and look her best. She planned on wearing something bright and breezy for the evening.
But right now, her thoughts were on paying a visit to the Chairman of the Cultural and Development Committee.
The glow on his face was a simple betrayal that he was thrilled to see her. Reuben Meyer was a grizzly bear of a man with a sprinkling of gray among his full head of short Afro hair. Grazing fifty-five and a mover and shaker within the black community, Avril felt certain that Reuben would be able to throw her a safety line with the prospects of a future.
After all, he was a shrewd businessman. He owned several businesses and off-shore investments in the Caribbean. Reuben Meyer was also a member of several other joint committees.
“Miss Vasconcelos,” he pronounced as she was ushered into his office by one of his part-time assistants, of whom he had many. “What can I do for you on this fine day?”
Avril shrugged and tried to look modest. Reuben Meyer was a virile man for his advancing age and handsome, too. And though he was far too old for her, Avril knew he could be easily swayed by a show of her trademark smile.
“I’ve come by to pick up my ticket for the Amateur Tennis Awards dinner on Saturday,” she replied.
“Sit down,” he invited, gesturing toward a chair that was situated opposite his vast walnut wood desk.
He had piles of paper, books, boxes and files everywhere. They invaded every corner of his work space. Avril knew that each piece of material related to the small empire that Reuben Meyer had built over the last thirty years. The man owned property and investment premises in three cities, sponsored a steel band that would participate in the London carnival at the end of the month, and was involved in a handful of monetary affairs in Jamaica that were highly lucrative. She was hopeful he could find her work.
“I was wondering,” she began, as she took the seat he indicated with the flick of his right hand, “if you had any openings?”
“In one of my establishments?” Reuben asked surprised.
“I suppose,” Avril answered, forcing a display of her teeth.
“You’re Miss African-Caribbean,” Reuben stated as he thrust his back into his large leather chair.
Avril swallowed at the note of closure she heard in his tone. “I need to do something with it,” she explained. “Recently, it was suggested to me that I should be cutting into the red ribbon on the opening of a community building, or something,” she added.
“You’ll be telling me next that you should be launching products and attending high profile functions,” Reuben snorted.
“I should,” Avril agreed. “You can’t sponsor and organize a beauty pageant like Miss African-Caribbean and not have the title holder perform some sort of function that’s constructive to the community. Isn’t that why I’m joining you at the Amateur Tennis Awards dinner on Saturday night?”
Reuben sprung forward in his chair. “Here’s the thing,” he started in a patronizing voice. “The Jamaican Festival Competition is one of those events that was designed by the Cultural Development Committee to boost morale within the community. Young girls, like yourself, enter to boast to their friends that they participated in the contest or was lucky enough to win a prize. The runner up and third prize winners are content. You won, received a trophy and five hundred pounds in gift vouchers to spend at selected stores.”
And that, as far as he was concerned, seemed to be his final answer.
Avril was aghast. “There’s nothing more?”
“Your role is to look pretty and, if you’re free, show your face at certain events like the awards dinner this weekend,” he told her in his low baritone voice. “What more do you want?”
Avril shrank into herself. “There’s no expenses allowance, no formal duties or status to having the title?” she asked on a frown.
Reuben let his eyes flicker with cynicism. “Has someone been putting ideas into your head?” he queried suddenly.
Dale Lambert’s face loomed up in front of her like a haunting ghost. “Maybe,” she disclosed.
Surprisingly, her heart pumped adrenaline into her loins. A swell of expectation surged through her, too. Avril was chagrined that the male flight of fancy hovering in her mind could produce such a tangible effect within her.
“Who is it?” Reuben broke into her thoughts.
Avril’s eyes widened at his probing. “He’s—”
“Maxwell Armstrong,” Reuben assumed in annoyance. “Given that you left him standing at the altar, a bachelor, suggests to me that you found out about our little wager.”
Avril was knocked senseless.
Reuben wore a frown. “Maxwell’s got no right throwing you at my feet after the bet we struck,” he bemoaned.
“Your feet?” Avril exclaimed, with a carefully resigned sigh to show her irritation.
“Maxwell bragged that he could get the prize winner to become his wife within six months,” Reuben continued, oblivious to Avril’s state of shock. “You seemed the one that would be the least susceptible to his charms and so you were handpicked to win.”
Avril felt as though he’d slapped her face. Was this the reason why
he’d begged to be in attendance at her wedding? “There were six judges on the panel,” she said, her voice shaky.
“And they went with my choice,” Reuben told her. “As it turns out, you didn’t marry Maxwell so he owes me.”
Avril coughed with consternation. “But I…” She could hardly speak and recalled her discussion with Kesse. This couldn’t possibly be the real purpose why Maxwell had constantly asked for her hand in marriage. Surely not!
“It doesn’t mean that I’m responsible for finding you something to do,” Reuben added, annoyed.
Avril’s throat burned. “Are you trying to tell me,” she shot out, stark-eyed, “that as a contestant of the Jamaican Festival Competition, I didn’t win by fair play?”
There was no hint of propriety. “You were not the prettiest girl on the stage,” Reuben chuckled, misjudging the situation.
She slumped, stunned by the depth of his response. “What kind of farce is this?” Avril demanded, deeply offended.
Reuben instantly saw his mistake. “I thought—”
“That I knew?” she finished. Her mouth compressed as she shook her head, thoroughly insulted. “No, Mr. Meyer. I did not know.”
Reuben pushed out a scowl. “I don’t know what to say.” He had the grace to look ashamed.
But Avril rose slowly from her chair and felt something cold squeeze at her heart. She stared at the man whom, for many months, she had respected as a pillar of the community.
“I can scarcely believe what you have told me today,” she began, while trying to steady her nerves. “This should not be the conduct, nor the behavior of someone that I long considered to be a mature, commendable and professional businessman above reproach. To discover that you made my person the subject of a gamble is beneath contempt. I have little recourse than to revoke my title as Miss African-Caribbean and report you to the Committee.”
The phone on his desk rang, but Reuben chose to ignore it. “You wouldn’t do that?”
“You leave me no choice,” she said, as a strange bitterness ate into her. Avril’s body was shaking with absolute stupor as she turned and made her way toward the door.
“Wait!” Reuben was out of his chair in an instant. Seconds later, he was by her side. “I thought you knew,” he insisted. “Wasn’t that why you jilted Maxwell at the altar?”
Her eyes were scathing. “I refused to marry Maxwell because I found out something entirely different about him,” Avril replied, drawn to tears. “This addition makes everything much worse.”
“I’m sorry for causing you any embarrassment,” Reuben sympathized quickly. “It was deplorable of me. If I can make amends within one of my establishments, would you be prepared to forget reporting this…incident to the Cultural and Development Committee?”
“And forget that you used my life as entertainment,” Avril answered, slowly. “No way.”
“It’s a genuine offer,” Reuben persisted.
Avril marshaled her thoughts, shrewdly. A job. Money. An apartment by fall. “Depends on what the position is.” Her tone was sharp. “And the salary.”
Reuben seized the moment. “Let me think on it,” he said, attempting a smile. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
But when Avril left Reuben Meyer’s office with her ticket, she wanted to crumble. How could Maxwell Armstrong do this to her? It was one thing discovering her feelings for Meyrick, quite another to find that Maxwell did not love her at all. Well of course he couldn’t, the little voice in her mind told her as Avril made her way out onto the street. How could he when he had a baby-momma.
The blinding sunlight caused her to blink, but the truth was clear to see. Her instincts had been right all along. Maxwell used her as a publicity commodity, just as she’d suspected. She had also been the subject of a bet between himself and Reuben Meyer, a source of amusement to them both.
Avril could hardly breathe. She needed air and closed her eyes, inhaling plenty of oxygen. When she reopened them, her mind became focused. Leaving Maxwell Armstrong standing at the altar was no longer enough of a degradation. She needed revenge. And what better purpose could there be than to seduce Meyrick Armstrong, his own brother.
A vindictive smile crossed her face as Avril Vasconcelos made her way home.
He was sitting in his car, his mind drifting, when he heard the shrill of his cell phone. But Dale Lambert did not switch to amplified mode to allow the caller to speak aloud inside the humming confinement of his car.
His mind was adrift as he cruised in the left lane along Oxford Street toward his next meeting. The morning traffic was thick, but Dale didn’t care. He was one among the select volume of drivers who had paid a congestion charge to drive through central London and that made him feel privileged to relax and permit his mind to wander.
And right now, he was dwelling on Avril Vasconcelos. He felt entitled, given that he needed this time to himself before he relaunched into the legal world for two depositions, a court hearing and then he’d work through the evening to catch up with some of the backlog. At 10:30 p.m., he was expected to meet his sister for cocktails and show her a few sights of the city by night.
But the cell phone kept ringing and Dale lazily forced the picture of Avril to remain in his mind. He felt curious why she had arrived at his office in a drab denim skirt and what clearly looked, to him, like an hand-me-down white kaftan. The two items did not do justice to her slim frame beneath the tatters.
And her hair, he thought further. So wild and abandoned that even the blue velvet band she had worn did not tame the unruly locks. He also noted that she did not wear a bra. He couldn’t be sure, but Dale told himself that his potent male instinct had surely detected hardened nipples pushing against the thin threadbare fabric.
Steady, he warned himself as his breath shortened. Stay focused.
He swiftly negotiated two traffic lights then marveled at his professional expertise. He was quite pleased at being able to help her. She had obviously fallen on hard times and he made a mental note to call Lennie to assure him that he had neutralized the situation.
His thoughts strayed again. Her waist was tiny. He drew a picture of her small-boned frame and planted it into the working fantasy in his brain. He liked the glide of her neck, the delicate form of her arms and the long elongated shape of her legs. Even the graceful movement of her spine smote him as she took the seat opposite his desk.
He pined on what it would feel like to taste her lips again. He had come close. A simple peck. Impulsive. Exquisite. Tomato ketchup laced with an imprint of her was all it had taken to make her a constant fixture in his mind. The cell phone invaded with persistence.
Dale fleetingly checked out the number, sighed then took the call.
“Hi!” a voice echoed.
“How was your vacation?” he opened the conversation, while continuing to steer the car.
“It was good,” a female voice sounded out, bouncing softly against the cushioned leather interior of his car. “We returned to Gatwick airport three hours ago.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve diffused the situation,” Dale swiftly moved on. “Armstrong senior gave the word himself.”
“You’re kidding me,” the voice returned, incredulously. “What did you do?”
“I told him about the baby,” Dale returned, “and a few other things.”
“You did what?”
“I had to,” Dale insisted. “There was no other way.”
“So that’s why they sounded amenable to my demands when I spoke with them this morning,” the female replied seconds later. “I couldn’t resist.”
Dale smiled victorious of the outcome. “If Georgie Armstrong wanted any chance of seeing his grandchild, then he had to play ball.”
“How’s Avril Vasconcelos?” the woman queried, concerned.
“She’s on the war path,” Dale answered, equally concerned.
“Can you neutralize her, at least until I finalize visitation rights with the Armstrongs?” she i
nquired softly.
“I’ll try,” Dale agreed, looking forward to the task though he had no idea when he would see her again. “And the father?”
“Maxwell’s not sure he wants parental rights,” she answered sadly. “I need to talk to him again.”
“Let me know,” Dale said, slowing behind a flotsam of traffic. “I don’t want Avril to hear anything inadvertently unless I tell her first.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” she accepted happily.
“And Philippa,” he stalled, his thoughts taking him to the woman whose removal he had orchestrated. “You owe me one.”
“Sure thing,” she agreed. “I’ll see you after the weekend.” The cell phone clicked dead.
Dale blinked, brought Avril’s vivid image to mind, then calmly cruised through Friday morning traffic with her kiss a constant in his daydreams.
Chapter 6
“I’ve got my eye on Meyrick Armstrong,” Avril said, testing for a reaction. She was with Kesse and Rakeem and they were standing in line waiting to get inside club Media Plus on Leicester Square.
She was dressed in a purple velvet two-piece trouser suit with a sultry lilac-colored silk blouse beneath. Avril’s once untamed hair was now orderly pinned above her head with loose hair grips to allow long strands of tendrils to flow around her face, and her newly shaped eyebrows were carefully plucked so that the makeup she applied seemed natural.
Even so, the dash of pink lipstick, smokey-brown eyeshadow and lashings of mascara gave her the strong, confident look she needed to see the evening through. In truth, Avril felt nervous at the possibility of meeting people who were guests at her wedding, but she was determined to carry on her life in the best way she knew how. Majestically.
“What did you say?” Kesse asked, startled.
“I said I’m going to make a play on Meyrick,” Avril amended, her voice raised to drown the laughter from a smooching couple standing behind her.
Kesse grew alarmed. “Is he…interested?”
