He’d found himself posting on a lot of the same topics as someone called Georgygirl. The more he’d read her posts, the more he’d realised that she was on his wavelength. They’d flirted a bit—because an internet forum was a pretty safe place to flirt—and he hadn’t been able to resist contacting her in a private message. Then they’d started chatting to each other away from the forum. They’d agreed to stick to the forum rules of not sharing personal details that would identify themselves, so Gabriel had no idea of Georgygirl’s real name or her personal situation; but in their late-night private chats he felt that he could talk to her about anything and everything. Be his real self. Just as he was pretty sure that she was her real self with him.
Right now, it was practically lunchtime. Maybe Georgygirl would be around? He hoped so, because talking to her would make him feel human again. Right now he really needed a dose of her teasing sarcasm to jolt him out of his dark mood.
He informed his PA that he was unavailable for the next hour, then headed out to Surrey Quays. He ordered a double espresso in his favourite café, then grabbed his phone and flicked into the direct messaging section of the Surrey Quays forum.
And then he saw the message waiting for him.
Hey, Clarence, you around?
It was timed fifteen minutes ago. Just about when he’d walked out of that meeting and wanted to punch a wall. Hopefully she hadn’t given up waiting for him and was still there. He smiled.
Yeah. I’m here, he typed back.
He sipped his coffee while he waited for her to respond. Just as he thought it was too late and she’d already gone, a message from her popped up on his screen.
Hello, there. How’s your day?
I’ve had better, he admitted. You?
Weird.
Why?
Then he remembered she’d told him that she’d had a letter out of the blue from a solicitor she’d never heard of, asking her to make an appointment because they needed to discuss something with her.
What happened at the solicitor’s?
I’ve been left something in a will.
That’s good, isn’t it?
Unless it was a really odd bequest, or one with strings.
It’s property.
Ah. It was beginning to sound as if there were strings attached. And Gabriel knew without Georgygirl having to tell him that she was upset about it.
Don’t tell me—it’s a desert island or a ruined castle, but you have to live there for a year all on your own with a massive nest of scary spiders before you can inherit?
Not quite. But thank you for making me laugh.
Meaning that right now she wanted to cry?
What’s so bad about it? Is it a total wreck that needs gutting, or it has a roof that eats money?
There was a long pause.
It needs work, but that isn’t the bad thing. The bequest is from my grandfather.
Now he understood. The problem wasn’t with what she’d been left: it was who’d left it to her that was the sticking point.
How can I accept anything from someone who let my mother down so badly?
She’d confided the situation to him a couple of months ago, when they’d been talking online late at night and drinking wine together—about how her mother had accidentally fallen pregnant, and when her parents had found out that her boyfriend was married, even though her mother hadn’t had a clue that he wasn’t single when they’d started dating, they had thrown her out on the street instead of supporting her.
Gabriel chafed every day about his own situation, but he knew that his family had always been there for him and had his best interests at heart, even if his father was a control freak who couldn’t move on from the past. Georgygirl’s story had made him appreciate that for the first time in a long while.
Maybe, he typed back carefully, this is his way of apologising. Even if it is from the grave.
More like trying to buy his way into my good books? Apart from the fact that I can’t be bought, he’s left it way too late. He let my mum struggle when she was really vulnerable. This feels like thirty pieces of silver. Accepting the bequest means I accept what he—and my grandmother—did. And I *don’t*. At all.
He could understand that.
Is your grandmother still alive? Maybe you could go and see her. Explain how you feel. And maybe she can apologise on his behalf as well as her own.
I don’t know. But, even if she is alive, I can’t see her apologising. What kind of mother chucks her pregnant daughter into the street, Clarence? OK, so they were angry and hurt and shocked at the time—I can understand that. But my mum didn’t know that my dad was married or she would never have dated him, much less anything else. And they’ve had twenty-nine years to get over it. As far as I know, they’ve never so much as seen a photo of me, let alone cuddled me as a baby or sent me a single birthday card.
And that had to hurt, being rejected by your family when they didn’t even know you.
It’s their loss, he typed. But maybe they didn’t know how to get in touch with your mother.
Surely all you have to do is look up someone in the electoral roll, or even use a private detective if you can’t be bothered to do it yourself?
That’s not what I meant, Georgy. It’s not the finding her that would’ve been hard—it’s breaking the ice and knowing what to say. Sometimes pride gets in the way.
Ironic, because he knew he was guilty of that, too. Not knowing how to challenge his father—because how could you challenge someone when you were always in the wrong?
Maybe. But why leave the property to *me* and not to my mum? It doesn’t make sense.
Pride again? Gabriel suggested. And maybe he thought it would be easier to approach you.
From the grave?
Could be Y-chromosome logic?
That earned him a smiley face.
Georgy, you really need to talk to your mum about it.
I would. Except her phone is switched to voicemail.
Shame.
I know this is crazy, she added, but you were the one I really wanted to talk to about this. You see things so clearly.
It was the first genuine compliment he’d had in a long time—and it was one he really appreciated.
Thank you. Glad I can be here for you. That’s what friends are for.
And they were friends. Even though they’d never met, he felt their relationship was more real and more honest than the ones in his real-life world—where ironically he couldn’t be his real self.
I’m sorry for whining.
You’re not whining. You’ve just been left something by the last person you expected to leave you anything. Of course you’re going to wonder why. And if it is an apology, you’re right that it’s too little, too late. He should’ve patched up the row years ago and been proud of your mum for raising a bright daughter who’s also a decent human being.
Careful, Clarence, she warned. I might not be able to get through the door of the coffee shop when I leave, my head’s so swollen.
Coffee shop? Even though he knew it was ridiculous—this wasn’t the only coffee shop in Surrey Quays, and he had no idea where she worked so she could be anywhere in London right now—Gabriel found himself pausing and glancing round the room, just in case she was there.
But everyone in the room was either sitting in a group, chatting animatedly, or looked like a businessman catching up with admin work.
There was always the chance that Georgygirl was a man, but he didn’t think so. He didn’t think she was a bored, middle-aged housewife posing as a younger woman, either. And she’d just let slip that her newly pregnant mother had been thrown out twenty-nine years ago, which would make her around twenty-eight. His own age.
I might not be able to get through the door of the
coffee shop, my head’s so swollen.
Ha. This was the teasing, quick-witted Georgygirl that had attracted him in the first place. He smiled.
We need deflationary measures, then. OK. You need a haircut and your roots are showing. And there’s a massive spot on your nose. It’s like the red spot on Mars. You can see it from outer space.
Jupiter’s the one with the red spot, she corrected. But I get the point. Head now normal size. Thank you.
Good.
And he just bet she knew he’d deliberately mixed up his planets. He paused.
Seriously, though—maybe you could sell the property and split the money with your mum.
It still feels like thirty pieces of silver. I was thinking about giving her all of it. Except I’ll have to persuade her because she’ll say he left it to me.
Or maybe it isn’t an apology—maybe it’s a rescue.
Rescue? How do you work that out? she asked.
You hate your job.
She’d told him that a while back—and, being in a similar situation, he’d sympathised.
If you split the money from selling the property with your mum, would it be enough to tide you over for a six-month sabbatical? That might give you enough time and space to find out what you really want to do. OK, so your grandfather wasn’t there when your mum needed him—but right now it looks to me as if he’s given you something that you need at exactly the right time. A chance for independence, even if it’s only for a little while.
I never thought of it like that. You could be right.
It is what it is. You could always look at it as a belated apology, which is better than none at all. He wasn’t there when he should’ve been, but he’s come good now.
Hmm. It isn’t residential property he left me.
It’s a business?
Yes. And it hasn’t been in operation for a while.
A run-down business, then. Which would take money and time to get it back in working order—the building might need work, and the stock or the fixtures might be well out of date. So he’d been right in the first place and the bequest had come with strings.
Could you get the business back up and running?
Though it would help if he knew what kind of business it actually was. But asking would be breaking the terms of their friendship—because then she’d be sharing personal details.
In theory, I could. Though I don’t have any experience in the service or entertainment industry.
He did. He’d grown up in it.
That’s my area, he said.
He was taking a tiny risk, telling her something personal—but she had no reason to connect Clarence with Hunter Hotels.
My advice, for what it’s worth—an MBA and working for a very successful hotel chain, though he could hardly tell her that without her working out exactly who he was—is that staff are the key. Look at what your competitors are doing and offer your clients something different. Keep a close eye on your costs and income, and get advice from a business start-up specialist. Apply for all the grants you can.
It was solid advice. And Nicole knew that Clarence would be the perfect person to brainstorm ideas with, if she decided to keep the Electric Palace. She was half tempted to tell him everything—but then they’d be sharing details of their real and professional lives, which was against their agreement. He’d already told her too much by letting it slip that he worked in the service or entertainment industry. And she’d as good as told him her age. This was getting risky; it wasn’t part of their agreement. Time to back off and change the subject.
Thank you, she typed. But enough about me. You said you’d had a bad day. What happened?
A pointless row. It’s just one of those days when I feel like walking out and sending off my CV to half a dozen recruitment agencies. Except it’s the family business and I know it’s my duty to stay.
Because he was still trying to make up for the big mistake he’d made when he was a teenager? He’d told her the bare details one night, how he was the disgraced son in the family, and that he was never sure he’d ever be able to change their perception of him.
Clarence, maybe you need to talk to your dad or whoever runs the show in your family business about the situation and say it’s time for you all to move on. You’re not the same person now as you were when you were younger. Everyone makes mistakes—and you can’t spend the rest of your life making up for it. That’s not reasonable.
Maybe.
Clarence must feel as trapped as she did, Nicole thought. Feeling that there was no way out. He’d helped her think outside the box and see her grandfather’s bequest another way: that it could be her escape route. Maybe she could do the same for him.
Could you recruit someone to replace you?
There was a long silence, and Nicole thought maybe she’d gone too far.
Nice idea, Georgy, but it’s not going to happen.
OK. What about changing your role in the business instead? Could you take it in a different direction, one you enjoy more?
It’s certainly worth thinking about.
Which was a polite brush-off. Just as well she hadn’t given in to the urge to suggest meeting for dinner to talk about it.
Because that would’ve been stupid.
Apart from the fact that she wasn’t interested in dating anyone ever again, for all she knew Clarence could be in a serious relationship. Living with someone, engaged, even married.
Even if he wasn’t, supposing they met and she discovered that the real Clarence was nothing like the online one? Supposing they really didn’t like each other in real life? She valued his friendship too much to risk losing it. If that made her a coward, so be it.
* * *
Changing his role in the business. Taking it in a different direction. Gabriel could just imagine the expression on his father’s face if he suggested it. Shock, swiftly followed by, ‘I saved your skin, so you toe the line and do what I say.’
It wasn’t going to happen.
But he appreciated the fact that Georgygirl was trying to think about how to make his life better.
For one mad moment, he almost suggested she should bring details of the business she’d just inherited and meet him for dinner and they could brainstorm it properly. But he stopped himself. Apart from the fact that it was none of his business, supposing they met and he discovered that the real Georgygirl was nothing like the online one? Supposing they loathed each other in real life? He valued his time talking to her and he didn’t want to risk losing her friendship.
Thanks for making me feel human again, he typed.
Me? I didn’t do anything. And you gave me some really good advice.
That’s what friends are for. And you did a lot, believe me. He paused. I’d better let you go. I’m due back in the office. Talk to you later?
I’m due back at the office, too. Talk to you tonight.
Good luck. Let me know how it goes with your mum.
Will do. Let me know how it goes with your family.
Sure.
Though he had no intention of doing that.
Copyright © 2016 by Pamela Brooks
ISBN-13: 9781488003165
An Unlikely Bride for the Billionaire
Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Douglas
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