by Clare London
“Aye. He’s been designing stuff.” There’d been several squares left around the living room, which Greg had bundled into a drawer under the TV so he didn’t have to look at them and remember Perry on the sofa, concentrating on his knitting with his tongue flicking out now and then….
“I sell my woolens t’ a designer in Glasgow,” Aileen said, breaking into his miserable memories. “Just came back from my monthly management meeting. Aye, ye never imagined that, did ye? Thought I was only good for socks and frumpy winter scarves.”
“No,” Greg protested, way too late.
“The store was very interested in Perry’s designs. I think we could develop a range of woolen cloth, created here in North Uist but sold t’ the mainland.”
It was what Perry had been thinking of too. “Like a cottage industry?”
Aileen resisted—barely—rolling her eyes at him. “Ye know nothing, lad. This is big business, nae amateur hour. I need t’ know if Perry is willing t’ go into partnership with me, with his designs.”
Greg’s mouth did the fish impression again. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “He’s gone now.”
Aileen sighed and shook her head. Somehow, Greg inferred she was sighing at him, not Perry’s absence. Bridie came in with the tea and forced a large mug of strong brew into Greg’s hands while he thought over what Aileen had said. For a brief, wild moment he imagined what it’d be like if Perry worked here on North Uist, lived with him. Well, not even with him, but if he were on the same land mass, rather than a bloody ocean of sea and sky away. If only….
“So, Greg,” Bridie said, settling beside Aileen on the sofa. “You look like shite.”
“Ah. Thanks.”
“Did you not ask him to stay? Did you not tell him how you feel?”
Oh Jesus. When was he meant to have done that, when he’d barely realized it himself? “I don’t know how I feel, really, Bridie. Except… scared.”
“Scared?”
“Aye. Scared, pissed off, whatever. I can’t really work it out in my mind.” Greg swallowed hard. “Definitely miserable.”
“Was it something Perry did? Said?”
“Yes. No.” Greg gave a harsh laugh. “It is all his fault. But not. You know?”
Bridie wrinkled her nose. “Astonishingly enough, I do. Must be years of living with my incomprehensible brother.”
“I’m scared of losing him.”
Bridie kindly didn’t point out the fact that it looked like Greg already had. “You mean to the London life? To another man? To someone like your own fucking brothers?”
Greg just stared at her. Aileen sucked in a breath but surprisingly didn’t scold Bridie for her language.
“I thought you knew him better,” Bridie continued. “Even after such a short time. But you can’t have it both ways, Greg Ventura. You can’t have him at your beck and call but also push him away when it gets too heavy.”
“What did he tell you?” Greg growled.
“Nothing. He’s a loyal wee lad.”
“Yes,” Greg said. “He was. Is.”
Rory was sitting in his basket by the fireplace. He’d been moping ever since Perry left that morning. Now he lifted his head and barked sharply at Greg, just once, but with a wealth of doggy meaning.
“I love him.” Greg had never told anyone in his life that he’d loved them—not since his mother, anyway, and he’d only been a kid—and he was suddenly swamped with the need to confess it aloud.
But what bloody use was it, saying it to himself?
“Do you know how good you look?” Bridie said with smug satisfaction.
“Bridie, I don’t mean—”
“And I don’t mean in the mirror. You just are better, you enjoy yourself, you communicate better—”
“Ye smile more,” Aileen added, with a brief grimace of her own.
“Face it, Greg, he’s made you a new man.” Bridie was in full smirk mode now. “Would you have ever said that love stuff before now? You’re an antisocial, self-pitying lug at times—and for no good reason, as we’ve always tried to tell you—but you’ve never been happier than with Perry around.”
Was that why now he’d never felt more bloody unhappy? “Aileen. Are you here to read me the riot act too?”
“Get over y’self, sassenach,” she said crisply.
“Greg.” Bridie perched on the edge of the armchair, looming over him. She slid an arm around his shoulders. “We’re here to help. And here’s what we’re gonna do for you!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“WHAT do you mean, I’m fired?”
Perry stared at Eddy Latham from the other side of his boss’s outrageously large desk, and felt his stomach roil. Eddy had made him wait two days for a debrief, and now he’d been met with this bombshell.
Eddy leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and peered at Perry through his gold-rimmed glasses. “Peregrine, one thing you’ve always been excellent at is English comprehension. You know what it means. I’m sorry, of course, that it should come to this, but that’s the nature of the job. It was made clear to you at the start that this was a rolling twelve-month contract. We’ve all enjoyed having you around, and I’ll draw up a fine reference for you. But this debacle confirms for me that this isn’t the job for you.”
“Why not?” was all he could think of to say.
“It’s the hunger, Perry. You don’t have it. You don’t have that edge, that desire to win at all costs. To make things happen. You had a mission and a time frame and, unfortunately, you met neither. Now excuse me, I have clients to see before lunch at The Ivy.”
“HE’S livid,” Candace whispered. She and Antony were fussing over a stunned Perry in the staff area, with stewed machine coffee and stale biscuits. “They awarded the TV show to the Howlers a week ago.”
“The Howells,” Perry corrected absentmindedly.
Antony giggled nervously. “Perry, we all call them the Howlers nowadays, like you once did.” He patted Perry’s arm sympathetically. “You’ll need more moisturizer, love. That wilderness has taken its toll on your skin.”
Something Candace had said clicked in Perry’s mind. “A week ago? We’d already lost the contract while I was still on Uist?” No wonder Eddy had abandoned Perry on his own, had suggested Perry stay on for extra time! Eddy hadn’t wanted him back in London to see the disaster—or to admit it hadn’t been Perry’s fault at all. Bloody nerve!
“Apparently the Howlers had friends in management at the production company and pulled strings to win the program. Their agent has been crowing over Eddy ever since. They’ve been archenemies for years.” Candace’s face was twisted in upset. “We’re going to miss you working with us. You really livened up this place.”
It was the unfairness of all this that hurt Perry the most. “I’m just the scapegoat here!”
“Darling. It sucks, I know.” Antony shrugged. “That’s the role of us minions, right?”
A ripple of excited chatter ran through the open plan office. Antony gave a pained squeal, because he was meant to be watching Reception, and darted off toward his desk.
Perry took a gulp of the disgusting coffee—he definitely wouldn’t miss this—and peered over Candace’s shoulder. “Is that…? It’s the Venturas. Why are they in the office?”
“Oh. That. Eddy’s pitching one last time for a Christmas special. The family at home, but without Greg.” Candace shrugged. “He’s clutching at straws, Perry. Let him make a fool of himself. It serves him right.”
The four brothers made their usual fabulous sight: designer suits, perfect hair, the whole arrogant/entitlement thing they had going on. Antony on Reception was cooing and blushing like royalty had arrived, which, in fact, it probably was in the media world. The Venturas murmured hellos to everyone, accepted cups of freshly brewed, decent coffee. Geoff led the way as always, with Gerry blustering in his wake. The twins were mugging mischievously for people’s camera phones all the way, posing for selfies with the admin staff
.
This was their world, and they were princes of it.
But Perry realized his attitude had changed. Instead of being impressed, he could look at them dispassionately now. They were like models, manufactured from a mold—the same look, the same grooming. The same character, the same selfish self-indulgence. Media plastic. He wondered who the hell would want to see a TV program featuring these self-centered, too-handsome men.
And we let them be that way. We encourage it!
That said, he was without a job because of them. He had quarterly rent to pay next week, and food to buy, to stock up after his trip. His mother needed her scheduled monthly allowance. She still had no idea Perry was making the repayments on her loan, and not his feckless ex, Henry. Eddy would probably sign off on his expenses—if only to make sure he left the building without any fuss—but that was little enough to live on.
He glanced over at the Venturas, now being greeted effusively by Eddy.
He could approach Geoff Ventura direct, couldn’t he? Apologize for failing to bring Greg back to London. He could beg Eddy for a chance to work on the Christmas special instead. He could beg Eddy for a job cleaning the toilets, for that matter.
Forget that!
Anger stabbed inside his chest. Yes, he knew his junior job was the lowest of the low, and he’d fucked up the one chance they’d given him. But he knew he was good at what he did, and he had tried as best he could. And this wasn’t fair!
He was damned if he’d approach Geoff, Gerry, George, or Gareth Ventura for any bloody favors. And definitely not Eddy Celebrity-Boot-Licking Latham. Perry’s last words to Greg had been truthful—he didn’t want Greg to be caught up in this pile of media shit! He didn’t want Greg dragged back to this superficial, two-faced, hypocritical, back-stabbing business at all, in fact—
“Perry?” Candace jabbed him in the ribs. “Who’s that just come in behind them?”
A tall man strode up to Reception. “I’d like to see Eddy Latham,” he said, loudly enough for Perry and Candace to hear him from the other side of the office.
Geoff Ventura obviously heard him too, because he stopped abruptly on his way over to Eddy’s room. The other brothers also turned to look.
“Fucking hell,” Gerry said succinctly. “Look what the cat dragged in!”
Greg Ventura stepped away from Reception and glanced over the rest of the office. Everyone was staring at him. Perry recognized a hint of nervousness in the way his hands were half-curled into fists, but it was unlikely anyone else would.
“My fucking gorgeous God’s gift,” Candace breathed.
Greg wore a splendid designer three-piece suit—and Perry knew a splendid designer when he saw it—with a startlingly white shirt and sumptuous purple silk tie. Perry wondered where he’d bought the suit. It looked personally tailored to fit Greg’s every measurement, and it wasn’t one of the commonly available styles Perry had seen in this season’s catalogs. Greg’s shoes matched perfectly and were highly polished. Perry realized he’d never seen Greg in shoes, only ever in hiking boots or slip-on clogs. Greg’s whole aura was one of self-confidence and assurance.
Perry’s appraisal slid up to Greg’s face. Their eyes met. Perry’s breath caught in his throat.
Perry knew he was biased but, honestly, Greg had never looked more handsome. There was something about his healthy, craggy features that added style to his sophisticated clothing, rather than conflicting with it. Where so many models nowadays looked pretty, but pale and aloof—or as Perry’s mum often said, “white and spiteful”—Greg looked stunning. His wide mouth accentuated his smile, and his striking features caught everyone’s attention. No one would ever mistake Greg Ventura for anyone else. He looked fully alive. Suddenly his smart, well-groomed brothers were the pale ones in the equation.
“Tongue back in, darling,” Candace murmured to Perry. “Do you know him?”
There was total silence in the office apart from a phone ringing persistently, which was blatantly ignored. Perry noticed with some smugness that every woman was fascinated and admiring—and several of the men too.
Then a second phone rang and the temporary spell was broken. People shuffled back to their desks and started tapping again on keyboards. It was only an act of course—it was obvious that everyone was watching to find out who Greg was and why he was here.
“Are you from the TV company?” Antony asked, wide-eyed. He and one of the makeup girls, Amy, were gazing at Greg like he was fillet steak inexplicably served up at a fish and chip restaurant.
“In movies?” Amy asked. “You must be. Don’t tell me—I’ll remember in a minute. I’m sure I saw you at that premiere last month in Leicester Square.” Amy was a shameless celebrity hunter. “Or one of those wonderful dancers on Strictly Come Dancing. You move like one. Or that fabulous French revolution series, full of gorgeous hair and ruffled shirts. Wait a minute, maybe you’re one of the recent Eiger exploration team, is that it?” She tilted her head to one side, puzzling out what context she’d seen him in.
Greg looked a bit dazed at the attention. He darted a glance at Perry that seemed to say “help me out, here” and Perry weaved his way through the desks to Reception. Amy and Antony never even turned to acknowledge him, maintaining their mouse in the eye of a big cat pose in front of Greg.
When Greg smiled at him, the brilliance made Perry blink, and his stomach flipped with joy.
“Why are you here?” Perry asked. “You said you wouldn’t come.”
“That was for the program. I came to see you,” Greg said.
“Me?” Perry winced at his simpering tone, but it had slipped out with his happiness.
“Well, it’s lucky you caught him here!” Candace crowed, appearing at Perry’s side. “Because Perry’s leaving the company tomorrow.”
“What?” Greg frowned. “Leaving?”
Perry shrugged. “We lost the TV option. And officially it’s my fault. At least, I’m the one who has to fall on my virtual career sword.”
“That’s not fair!”
Perry shrugged again, though he was ridiculously touched by the sympathy. “Well, it has its advantages. You’re no longer needed back in London and won’t get swept up in all this crap. But…. Um.” He tried hard not to blush, but reckoned he’d failed when even the tips of his ears felt hot. “I could have let you know by phone. Why did you make the journey all the way from the Western Isles?”
“I thought I was the fisherman,” Greg said softly, with an increasingly wide grin.
“What?” Then Perry realized what Greg meant and blushed even more. “Oh God, no, I wasn’t fishing for compliments!” Well, not really. “I just wondered….” He’d been saving himself to e-mail Greg that very night, or maybe call him. He’d just needed an excuse. Dammit, he wasn’t even bothered about that. He’d just worried how soon it’d be before Greg told him to piss off from stalking him, if he created spurious reasons to call every night, until he could bum the money off someone to go back out and visit the Isles—
“I couldn’t wait to see you. I miss you.” Greg looked almost sheepish, which was a very fine look on someone so unutterably gorgeous. “From the minute you left until the minute I could get to the ferry and fly over here after you.”
“Wow,” Candace breathed, transfixed.
“I miss you too.” Perry wanted to grab Greg, to kiss him, to hold him. He pulled up just in time, realizing Candace and Amy and several other just-happened-to-be-passing staff members were enthralled at the little drama unfolding in front of them. “How long are you here for?”
“I can’t stay long, just overnight—Alasdair needs help with the sheep, with lambing coming up. And Rory won’t take medicine from anyone but me—”
“Oh my God, Rory’s sick?”
“Who’s Rory? Another hunky friend?” Candace hissed to Antony.
Antony shrugged, his adoring gaze still on Greg. “Who knows? You think he’ll have a brother too?”
“Just a chill,” Greg reass
ured Perry. “He’s hardy, but he’s not a youngster anymore, and I think he outpaced himself that night you saved Fiona Mackie. He went out the next day as well, you know, and found that damn doll of hers. But he’s on the mend now.”
“Perry? You saved someone’s life?” Candace was still hanging around at his elbow, eyes wide. “Were you with this gorgeous man at the time?”
“A hero,” Amy sighed. “I knew he had to be that.”
“Perry’s the hero, not me.” Greg dismissed the fans like they were nothing but a small flock of annoying sea birds. He turned back to Perry. “Come back with me. I know I shouldn’t ask, but I want you to.”
“To North Uist? To the croft?”
“What’s a croft?” Candace asked.
Greg rushed on as if Perry had already begun to refuse. “I can try to make it more comfortable for you. I could put in central heating. Double glazing. No, triple glazing, if you want.”
“No central heating?” Antony’s face screwed up in shocked disgust.
“I’ll make sure Rory stays in the spare room. Well.” Greg flushed deeply. “That’s if you don’t want to sleep there yourself.”
“A threesome?” Antony murmured. “How very bohemian.”
“Perry? Christ, am I messing this up? I knew I would.” Greg frowned. “Are you still angry with me?”
Perry took a deep breath. “Angry? Why would I be?”
Greg frowned. “Is that sarcasm?”
Perry laughed much too loudly, but his heart was beating so quickly he felt light-headed. “No, it’s genuine. I’m not angry with you, you idiot. I understand precisely what you see in that place, why you don’t want to leave it. You’re not just hiding away there—you’ve made your life and love there. I understand your decision, believe me. I wish I could—”
“What?” Greg jumped on his pause. “Sounds like you want to come back there yourself.”
“You mean, come back to that erratic weather? Being woken by the noise of sheep every morning? Of not a tree in sight? No manicurist? No decent hairstylist? For that matter, no shops?”
