by Laura Carter
“Yes, earlier.”
She nods and makes a note on her computer, attempting to be subtle despite being unable to shush the keys. I suspect she has a calendar flag every six months. The anniversary of the explosion and the anniversary of my father’s suicide. Those are the days she can guarantee I’ll visit my father.
She folds her hands in her lap and lets silence fill the room in that way she does. It’s her weapon of choice to make me speak. Today, I feel like rising to her threat. We wait, both of us willing the other to break the stand-off first. She adjusts her glasses unnecessarily and presses her fingertips to her auburn bun.
“Alright, Dayna, how are you finding today?”
I win, yet the victory doesn’t move me at all. “Tough,” I say on a sigh, wondering why I shell out a small fortune every fortnight to sit here.
“How about in comparison to the same day last year? Any easier?”
I shrug. I know it makes me seem like a petulant child but I’m unable to refrain. “I guess.”
“Dayna, why did you come here if you don’t want to be here?” Her voice isn’t admonishing; it’s calm. Calming.
I stand and move to the window, peering out through the horizontal blinds at the view of Westminster. “I came because this is our fortnightly slot.”
“You could have changed days, cancelled. We do that when you’re busy.”
“I guess… I guess I didn’t want to be alone, and if I didn’t come here…”
“If you didn’t come here…”
I take an indulgent breath in and perch on the window ledge, facing Doctor Holland. “I’m afraid I would do something stupid. Get drunk. Find comfort in the arms of a stranger, or worse.”
She nods and rises to reflect me, perching on the end of her desk. “What would ‘worse’ look like?”
I grip the edge of the windowsill. “I don’t know. I didn’t intend for it to have a meaning.”
“I think you did.” She’s right. Worse would look like what I did eighteen months ago. Worse would be running back to Clark Layton, begging him to hold me and take me out of my head the way only he can. Then being dropped like a bag full of trash the next day.
“Would you consider hurting yourself, Dayna?”
“No! Christ! Isn’t that why we’re here? Because my father killed himself and…”
“Left you. Alone. Is that how you’re feeling?”
I look away from her and stare at a gold-framed picture of crashing waves that’s hanging on the wall.
“How did you feel today when you went to see your father?”
As I stare at the picture, I imagine the waves moving, rolling, colliding. I close my eyes and see myself there, in the ocean, the taste of saltwater on my lips, each surge smashing against me. I grip my neck, reminding myself to breathe, and open my eyes. “I felt exactly how I must have looked. Cold. On my knees. Incapable of changing anything no matter how much I hate it. Lost. And, yes, alone.” I look at her through dry, stinging eyes. “I felt… trapped.”
“How’s work at the moment?” she asks the question almost nonchalantly, as if she’s changing the subject. It’s something she does when she doesn’t want to outwardly make an obvious connection.
“Interesting.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I make a sound that’s somewhere between fed up and darkly humoured. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because it’s your choice. In just the same way as walking into my room is a choice you make.”
“Reverse psychology. Nice.” I fold my arms across my chest and wander to the next window along the wall. “There’s a new opportunity. A well. I’ve been invited to bid for it.”
“Do you intend to?”
“Yes.”
She moves back to her desk chair and types another note. “And this is making you feel tense?”
“It’s a new venture for me, sure. But… that’s not really it.” I watch a fire engine charging through the traffic on the street below, lights flashing. “It’s in the Persian Gulf, and Caspar Kahn’s is one of five companies invited to bid.”
Her typing stops. When I look at her, concern is written all over her face. In that split second, I actually feel like she gives a shit.
“I’m going to ask you something, Dayna, and I want you to answer me as honestly as you can. Is the well a sound business move, or do you want to go back to where this all started?”
My eyes cloud. “Both. I wanted to bid before I knew who was involved. As much as it scares me, the Persian Gulf makes sense. But yes, there’s a part of me that wants to put back together what SP lost.”
“And Caspar Kahn?”
“I want to beat him. This is the only way I know how. I want revenge, Louise, and if I don’t get it this way…” I shake my head to rid it of all the violent thoughts I’ve had about what I’d like to do to Caspar Kahn. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m in over my head, with everything. That I can’t run this company and I can’t go into battle with big players like Persian Fuels. I’m terrified of ruining everything my father worked hard to build, but more than that… I’m scared of being alone.”
Doctor Holland hands me a tissue. I take a seat on the sofa again.
“Have you thought about taking a break? Leaving London for a couple of weeks?”
“I can’t do that. I have too much to do.”
“Dayna, I say this as a friend as much as your therapist. You’re twenty-nine years old. You’re young, and you need to act like it sometimes. Go out, dance, watch a movie, meet a guy.”
“You make it sound so easy,” I say through a sniffle.
“It should be.”
“IS THAT EVERYTHING?” Duncan asks after loading my ski gear into the back of the four-wheel drive that replaces the Mercedes for today.
“Are you being sarcastic?” I ask over the rim of the Starbucks coffee he brought me.
He fights a smirk, but his eyes are laughing. “No, not at all. I thought you might need more, given it’s a short break and all.”
I scowl playfully. “Now I know you’re being sarcastic.”
I climb into the passenger side and listen to the start of the five a.m. love songs on the radio as we drive the dark, empty streets of London to Heathrow.
At the airport, Duncan stacks my luggage on a trolley, after I assure him I’m capable of getting from the car to the check-in desk alone. He waits until I’m through the automatic door before pulling away. His wife and little boy are lucky to have such a good guy.
As is par for the course, Heathrow is packed, despite the ungodly hour. On a work day, getting up at four-fifteen in the morning doesn’t seem too bad, but on a holiday-day, it’s a form of cruelty. Scouring the large digital screens overhead, I find the flight number Rachel gave me — Geneva — we’re on time for an 8:05 departure.
My trolley needs a kick-start, but once I get rolling I manoeuvre through the crowds, trying not to jab anyone with my overhanging skis, and wheel into the business-class queue.
“Dayna!” I watch Rachel theatrically navigate the barriers only to ditch her trolley and crash against me. “I love your thirtieth already!”
“Quit ageing me prematurely.” I hug her back. “So, Geneva. Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Well that depends. Do you think it means we’re going to Verbier, your faaavourite ski resort?”
I give her the kind of squeal that would usually irritate me and pull her into another hug. “Thanks so much for arranging, Rach. I’ve decided this is exactly what I need, a few days away.”
“Erm, yep. I should tell you, Teddy arranged certain things.”
“He did? I’ll have to thank him. He texted to say he’s here already. We’re meeting in the first-class lounge.”
“Free coffee. As if sent from the Caffeine Gods!”
When our bags are checked and admin taken care of, we head to security. A male guard hands us each a small plastic bag. While I switch my few liquid items
from my hand luggage, Rachel dumps her tote huffily on the ground and kneels to find her mound of liquids and pastes.
“Can I get another bag? Bloody make-up fiends,” she mutters as she dumps more items into the over-full second bag.
“Do you want me to carry some?” I ask.
“Excuse me, miss. You can’t carry luggage for another passenger,” the guard cuts in, his broad chest puffed out.
“For God’s sake, it’s a bloody lipstick,” Rachel chides, wagging the gold stick at him for effect.
“Come on, you’re good. She’s good,” I tell the perturbed guard. I help her stand and we head for the scanners.
Her foot taps as we wait in the short queue for the bag scanner. Her pupils bore holes in me when she thinks I’m not looking and she doesn’t make conversation. Usually I can’t shut her up.
“Why do I get the feeling there’s something you want to tell me?” I ask her.
She folds her arms across her chest. “I… it’s just that…”
“Ladies, step forward.”
We do as instructed by a woman as terrifying as Cruella De Vil and place our things in two grey trays before stepping through the body scanner.
“What were you going to say?” I ask, as I zip up my boots.
She opens her mouth but doesn’t speak, then smiles and picks up my coat, holding it out for me to take. “Never mind.”
“What are you up to, Rachel Parmer?”
She bites her lip. “You’ll see soon enough.” She mutters something under her breath as she leads the way to the first-class lounge.
“After you,” she says, standing by the red tinted-glass door.
The first person I clap eyes on is Teddy, perusing a selection of pastries near the door. “Fred!” I bound into his welcoming arms.
“Snot Face. Happy weekend-long birthday.”
“It’s my birthday tomorrow. Today, I’m technically three years younger than you, and I am going to gloat until the cows come home.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell me if you’re still feeling so youthful tomorrow.”
I hold my palm to his warm brown cheek and tap it three times on a grin.
“Here’s the birthday girl!” I turn right into Yvette and her thick-knit jumper.
“You’re all trying to age me, aren’t you? It’s like a sick joke.” She laughs and pulls me into a hug. “Oh, hold me all day long; this jumper feels so cosy. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m excited about this weekend. We’re excited about this weekend. We hardly see you anymore.”
“You saw me two weeks ago, but true, it isn’t enough.”
I step back from her and tap Teddy’s shoulder as he selects a cinnamon swirl from the buffet. “I hear you had a hand in organising all this. Thank you.”
“Oh don’t thank me yet.” He flashes a wide fake toothy grin.
“Hey hey, girly.”
Tim, a friend from uni who I haven’t seen in months, heads over to me, flanked by Amy, who Rachel and I lived with at uni. Matty is also with them. He’s Tim’s old housemate, the ex-captain of the university rugby team, my friend — oh, and my ex. There’s nothing left there but friendship though. In the three months or so we were together, post-drunken night out fumbles tended to turn into unstoppable giggles in his bed, rather than sexy time. Not that he gave the rugby team that version of events.
“You guys! This is an amazing surprise.” I hug and air-kiss them all, grabbing Amy last. Her voluminous brown curls shield my view of what I both think is and hope isn’t behind her, sitting in a leather chair, one foot crossed over the knee of his other leg. I let Amy go and take a step back, from both her and him. My head spins with my sudden change in heart rate and the worry that takes hold in my chest.
He bends to put his coffee down on a table then wipes his hands on a napkin as he rises and makes his way over to us. I’m acutely aware that my friends have stopped moving and talking. Everyone in the room is waiting for my reaction.
“Someone please tell me this is a godawful coincidence,” I ask of any of my friends. It’s a plea. Because I cannot spend a weekend with this man. I wanted to get away from everything, including him and the fucked-up way I feel about him.
Clark’s blue eyes are trained on me. His chiselled jaw is outlined with stubble. His polo shirt is tucked into indigo jeans, displaying the contours of what I know lies beneath — a finely tuned torso, the lightest kiss of the sun colouring him, a small trail of almost perfectly shaped hair down his navel.
I tear my gaze from him and glare at Teddy. “Tell me.” My words are a croak. I’m not sure what hurts more, the words grating my throat, that Clark Layton is walking towards me, or the fact that I know what Teddy is about to confess.
“We’re staying in his family’s chalet,” Teddy says.
I try to flee, but Teddy’s arms hold me still. “He’s having a rough time of it, Dayna. Come on, give him a break. You’re going to be skiing. You don’t even have to speak to him if you don’t want to.”
I clench my fists at my sides. “Give him a break?”
“Come on, Dayna. You said you were over him a long time ago.”
I lied. “Fine. Whatever. Forget him, we’ll have a great time. I’m not going to turn my back on you because you sold your soul to the devil.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Am I the devil in this scenario?” Clark’s voice is smooth, self-assured.
I brace myself before facing him, trying to contain my anger at both him and the whole goddamned situation. “If the horns fit.”
His lips turn in a crooked smile. The very smile that brought me to my knees. I remember the taste of those lips, the feel of them between my teeth, the touch of them against my neck.
Clark steps to one side, giving me a welcome break from the intensity of the connection between us. To my surprise, I’m presented with a similar face — slightly darker skinned and less groomed, but still attractive.
“Hi, Dayna, it’s nice to see you again.”
I can’t say the same, not because I dislike Spencer Layton, but because his presence is dependent on his big brother’s. I hold out my hand. “Hi, Spencer.”
He takes my hand and leans in to kiss my cheek. His skin is different than his brother’s, coarse and dry. His scent, while pleasant, doesn’t make the hairs on my body stand up or send a current through me that sensitises my skin. “Thank you for letting me gatecrash your birthday weekend.”
“Thank you to you and your family for the chalet.” Come on, Dayna, shake it off. Shake him off. “Right, who’s up for champagne breakfast on me?”
“You mean courtesy of the first-class lounge?” Amy asks.
I slip my tongue out briefly, and she laughs. Rachel drops an arm over my shoulder and yanks me into her side. “Mine really is on you, foxy lady. I used your air miles.”
I nudge her ribs gently. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She leans into my ear so only I can hear her say, “Maybe it’s a good chance to put it to bed. In the non-sexual sense, naturally.”
I cast a glance back over my shoulder to Clark, who hasn’t moved and is looking right back at me.
I FIND MY seat in the fifth row of business class. Rachel, Teddy and Yvette are in the row behind. I’m sitting by the window, and the two seats next to me are free. I hope it stays that way. When I can’t book first class because the flight isn’t long enough, I always have Rachel book extra space so I don’t have anyone in the seat next to me. It’s not that I’m completely anti-social. Not always, anyway. I just like to spread my elbows and pull my feet onto my chair. I don’t want some random person leaning over my shoulder to see my screen or trying to make small talk.
“Champagne?” an air steward asks, holding out his tray for me to take a glass.
“Thank you.” I take off my boots and curl my feet onto the seat. I’m just getting comfortable when I see Clark heading in my direction. Please no. He looks bloody pleased with himself as he locates
his seat on the aisle of my row. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumble for my own benefit.
I find my phone and hammer out a message to Rachel:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
I hear her laugh in the seat behind before her reply lands:
IF YOU WEREN’T SO PRECIOUS ABOUT YOUR PERSONAL SPACE YOU’D BE ON THIS ROW WITH ME
Goddamn it. Some personal space. Sitting one seat away from Clark is just about the most claustrophobic I could ever be. As if two feet will be enough to stop the air feeling so heavy between us that I’m struggling to draw breath.
He closes the overhead compartment and takes his seat. I fight against my body’s desire to look at him. I fail, and end up scowling at the supercilious smirk on his face.
I plug in my headphones and start scrolling through the inflight entertainment until I find a movie I think I’ll like, despite knowing I won’t have time to finish it on this flight.
Unusually, I pay full attention to the safety talk and actually listen to the captain’s welcome speech. I read the inflight snack menu as my chosen film plays through my ears. Everything, anything, to stop me from thinking about how I’m squeezing my thighs together and my nipples are hardening in response to him being so close.
It’s a good tactic. Until the onscreen couple take things to the bedroom. As Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome crawls over the naked body of his on-set beauty, I find myself thinking about our first time…
It was technically date three, if we count meeting at Teddy’s celebration drinks on the Friday, dinner Saturday and drinks Sunday. That’s how it was for us. Those four short weeks felt like a lifetime. An incredible lifetime. From the moment we met, it was like we couldn’t stay apart, as if there were a force so great it defied logic and sense.
Frankly, I don’t know how I managed to hold out until date three. I wanted him the first night. God, I was desperate for him the second night. And that third night, I knew I had to have him or lose sound mind for another day.
We’d had drinks closer to his apartment in Kensington than my place at Shad Thames, but we only flagged one black cab and he got in beside me. He called out my address for the driver, then his own.
