by Carrie Elks
Fix You
By
Carrie Elks
Fix You by Carrie Elks
Copyright © 2014 Carrie Elks
Published by Carrie Elks
All rights reserved
120214
Cover and cover design
Áthilá Pelá
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
For Ashley.
Thank you for rocking with me through the decades.
Here’s to many more.
May 12th 2012
Richard had filled out nicely since she had last seen him. The thin cotton of his shirt clung to his biceps, skimming his taut abdomen as it tucked into his dress pants. His hips were still lean and tight, and she closed her eyes as she tried not to remember how they had felt between her thighs, as he had moved inside her, breathing softly in her ear, as she had moaned and whimpered and—
She shook her head. She wasn’t standing in his large, oak-paneled office just to take a trip down memory lane, as pleasant as that might be. She had flown here, over three thousand miles, to tell him what he deserved to know.
Inappropriate laughter bubbled up in her throat as she considered the ridiculous melodrama of the situation. Her 17-year-old self would be rolling her eyes, wondering how this 29-year-old woman had managed to turn a seemingly promising life into a soap opera.
She glanced up at his face, looking at his lips, which had turned down into a deep scowl. His eyes had narrowed beneath his brows, and his straight, patrician, nose was slightly crinkled in response to her presence.
The contempt he felt toward her was radiating from him.
Hanna tried to keep her breathing steady, reminding herself that although she was in his office, on the penthouse floor of his building, this was her show.
She was in control.
If he viewed her with contempt now, God only knew how he would feel once he’d heard what she had to say. He had been an integral part of her life for so long—as a friend, a confidante, even a lover—but never before did he have the power to break her.
“As nice as it is to see you,” he drawled, the tone of his voice making it patently clear that her being in his office was anything but nice. “I have a meeting in five minutes. Exactly what is it that you want?”
He had no idea, but this was it. Time to open her mouth and tell him what he needed to hear. Her arms suddenly felt heavy, and her fingers trembled, a physical manifestation of her nervousness. Her laughter was replaced by something more unsettling as she tried to take in a deep breath and form the words that she had travelled all this way to say.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She watched his gaze move down to her mouth, staring at it with dark eyes, as her teeth drew in her bottom lip.
“Richard.” Her voice was surprisingly strong. She could do this. She could tell him the truth, and then get the hell out of here.
Back on a plane.
Back home.
Back to him.
“Richard, we had a baby.”
One
December 31st 1999
Her suitcase should have appeared by now. She watched the rubber belt move past, carrying luggage of every description. Perhaps her battered, brown case was embarrassed to be seen amongst the Louis Vuittons and the Henks.
Hanna knew the feeling.
She was biting her nails again. They were already torn down to the quick, and the black polish she had applied only a couple of days before was peeling off in chunks. Her stepmother couldn’t understand why Hanna didn’t opt for the “much classier” French manicure, and why she failed to keep regular appointments at the beautician’s. Finally spotting her case making its way down the baggage reclaim belt, Hanna tried to push past the harassed mother of two in front of her. In one arm the woman held a toddler. The other was rhythmically moving a stroller back and forth, as she tried to rock a tiny baby to sleep.
“Excuse me,” Hanna muttered, leaning forward far enough to grab the handle of her case. She pulled her body back as she swung it onto the grey, tiled floor. It was heavy, full of winter skiwear and warm clothing. She’d barely had time to wear any of it.
Hanna wasn’t even supposed to be travelling today. She was still meant to be at her father’s chalet in Val D’Isere, along with her stepmother and her eleven-year-old half-sisters. But he’d been disappointed in her from the start. The first time he’d taken a good look at her, his nose had wrinkled in dismay.
“Have you done something different with your hair?” His stare was full of angry disapproval.
Hanna had attempted to swallow a grin in response to his understatement. In the year since she had last seen him, she had become a Goth. She’d dyed her hair a dark reddish-black and changed her makeup. Now she had pale skin and dark, dark lips. She completed the look with a black flowing skirt and a tight black corset.
The memory of Philip’s furious expression as he took in her new style made Hanna’s lips curl up in amusement. She swung her suitcase onto a luggage trolley, its bulk making her movements awkward.
Philip had been almost apoplectic at her new style, and Olivia had decreed Hanna was to remain in the confines of the chalet at all times, fearing one of their friends might spot her. Hanna was to be their dirty little secret for the week. After two days of reading and filling her face with chocolate, she was bored.
She had found out that Philip, Olivia, and her sisters were planning to spend New Year’s at their friend’s Chateau about fifty miles from Val D’Isere, and Hanna wasn’t invited. There had followed an almighty row, which resulted in Hanna being banned from the chalet and placed on the next flight to London, at no little expense to Philip’s bank balance.
She swore to herself, now that she was nearly eighteen, that she would never again subject herself to the torture of another Alpine Holiday. If her dad wanted to spend time with his oldest daughter—and in Hanna’s mind this was not necessarily a given—then he would have to travel to London to see her.
Hanna and her mum were London-poor. In any other part of the country they could have lived comfortably, in a decent sized house with a garden and a garage. As it was, Diana’s income from her party planning business afforded them a tiny, two-bedroom flat near Putney. From the moment she had run away from her marriage to Philip Vincent, and from Manhattan society, Diana had refused to take any money from him. She didn’t mind him buying things for Hanna, but she refused to take a single dime for herself.
When Hanna arrived home in the late afternoon, it was already dark outside. The road was bathed with the soft orange glow of the street lamps. It was lined with Victorian terraced houses, red bricked and ornate, with peeling stucco and decaying walls. Hanna loved the genteel facade of the once-grand terraces, with their painted white porticos and their black and white tiled paths. They contrasted starkly with the noise and modernity of London life.
She fished in her bag for her keys, knowing that Diana had been out all day working, organizing the Larsen family’s annual party. Though Hanna had never met them, she knew the Larsens were one of her mum’s best customers. New Year’s Eve was always Diana’s busiest night of the year. The fact it was the eve of a new millennium just took things to a higher level.
Hanna had only been in the flat for two minutes when the phone started to ring. A glance at the display told her there were already three voicemail messages. Somebody was obviously in a hurry to speak with her or Diana. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t her father.
“Hello?”
“Hanna? Thank God you’re home. Are you okay? Was the flight good?” Diana hardly paused to breathe. “Honey, I’ve had three girls go down with that damn winter vomiting bug. I need you to put on a uniform and come over and help me. This party is going to be a bloody disaster.” She lowered her voice into a whisper for the last sentence; leading Hanna to wonder who else was in the room with her.
“Okay, just give me the address.” Hanna wedged the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she reached for a piece of paper.
“It’s number five, Cheyne Walk. In Chelsea. Get a cab and I’ll pay you back. Oh and Hanna…” Diana’s voice dropped down an octave.
“…Can you tone down the look?” Hanna chanted, knowing exactly what her mum was going to say.
A shower, nail polish removal, and a makeup tone-down later, Hanna managed to find an empty black cab. Her red-black hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and the cosmetics on her face were soft and barely there. She was wearing a typical waitress get-up. Short, black skirt with a plain white blouse.
When she got to the house, she rapped the large, brass knocker on the smartly painted black door a couple of times. A uniformed man opened the front door to her. She didn’t recognize him, so he couldn’t have been one of Diana’s employees. The Larsens were rich enough to employ full-time staff.
Walking into the entrance hall, her breath was taken away by the splendor. The room was open to all three floors of the house, with a marble staircase sweeping up in a curve to the second floor. Right in the middle of the ornately tiled floor stood the biggest Christmas tree she had ever seen. Understated white lights twinkled all the way up to the star on top. It had to be at least twenty feet tall.
“See something you like?” Hanna’s hackles rose at the sound of the smooth, American drawl. She whipped her head around to see a young man standing at the bottom of the staircase. His loose, dark-washed jeans hung almost obscenely off his lean hips. His t-shirt was tight and black, with “Columbia” emblazoned across the front in blue writing.
His face, Lord his face. It was all jaw and plump lips, straight nose and mossy green eyes. His smooth forehead was framed by an artfully styled mop of light-brown hair. He looked like every clean-cut Manhattan boy she’d ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.
She took in a short breath, looking Prep-Boy straight in the eyes. “Not really. I was just wondering if Charlie Brown was missing his Christmas tree.”
She spun around and flounced toward the kitchen, barely hearing his bark of laughter as she walked away. She bit back the smile that was threatening to creep across her lips.
Tonight had just got interesting.
Her mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a spoon in one hand and a battery-powered walkie-talkie in the other. The kitchen wasn’t the usual well-heeled, oak and granite affair. Instead it was all stainless steel with professional grade ovens; the sort of kitchen any chef would kill for. It was hard to picture anybody using the ten-burner hob just to boil an egg.
“Hanna, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you.” Diana ran around the central island, and threw her arms around her daughter. She relaxed into her mother’s arms, screwing her eyes tightly shut as she felt the misery and stress of the past few days seeping away.
She’d missed her mom.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“I’ve half a mind to call your father and tell him what I think of him. I can’t believe he treated you like that, the stuck up, holier than thou bast—”
“Mom, it’s fine.” Hanna flashed her mother a rueful smile. “I think my tirade was probably enough for the both of us. I just want to forget about it now.”
“Diana, darling, is there anything you need help with?” A soft voice came from the kitchen door. Hanna turned around to see a petite woman smiling at the two of them. Her heart-shaped face was framed with soft, auburn curls.
“I think we have it all under control,” Diana replied. Hanna could see her fingers crossed behind her back as she spoke. “Claire Larsen, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Hanna Vincent.”
Claire walked forward, her arms open as she greeted Hanna, pulling her in for an air kiss. “Hanna, how lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from your mother. Of course, I also know your father and his wife.”
Hanna grimaced at the mention of Philip and Olivia before quickly rearranging her features. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled at the lady in front of her. She was at least half a head shorter, and that was in expensively made heels.
“What a beautiful accent you have. And I love your hair. The color is so interesting.”
Usually, when someone said that something about Hanna was ‘interesting’ it turned out to be a thinly veiled insult. Olivia seemed to use the word a lot whenever Hanna was around. But the kind tone of Claire’s voice led Hanna to believe she genuinely meant what she said.
“Thank you.”
“I must introduce you to my family later. My husband, Steven, would find you fascinating. I think he’s a closet Marilyn Manson fan. And Ruby and Richard would just love you.” Claire was gushing. Hanna stepped back from her American host. She wasn’t used to being treated with such friendliness.
“Richard and Ruby?” she questioned.
“Ruby is my daughter. She’s ten years old. She’s at school at St. Nicholas.”
Hanna nodded. It figured; St. Nicholas’s was an expensive London prep school. She suspected that Ruby Larsen would turn out to be as annoyingly spoiled as Hanna’s own half-sisters.
“And Richard is my husband’s son from his first marriage. He’s in his final year at Columbia. I’ll miss him when he goes back to New York.” Claire’s smile faltered as she continued. “My own boy, Nathan, is somewhere in the Andes trying to ‘find himself.’“
“How utterly careless to lose himself somewhere so remote,” Hanna replied, causing Claire to laugh in response.
“So like your Mom.” Claire cupped her hands around Hanna’s cheeks in a surprisingly intimate move before drawing back. “Make sure you come and talk to me tonight. It will make for such a refreshing change from all those stuffed shirts.”
“I’ll bring you a sausage roll.” Hanna winked at Claire, and then turned to her own mother to ask where she was needed.
Between the friendly mother, the handsome, preppy son, and the Marilyn Manson-loving father, Hanna thought she might come to rather like this family.
RICHARD LARSEN ACCEPTED another glass of champagne from a waiter, as he weaved his way through the party crowd. It was cold to the touch, and icy beads of water ran down his fingers where he held it. Taking a sip, he quickly scanned the room for someone—anyone—interesting to talk to.
He was wearing his usual tux, with a fitted white dress shirt and black tie. The suit fit him like a glove, and the jacket clung smoothly to his wide shoulders. His pants were perfectly sized for his narrow waist. He had the physique of
someone who played a lot of sport.
Since he’d come to London, he’d been able to act like a 20-year-old man for the first time in a long while. He had worn jeans, t-shirts, and hooded sweaters without so much as an eyebrow being raised. He had visited pubs, consumed pints of beer, and flirted with pretty girls. Most of whom his mother would have deemed to be far below his social standing.
Unfortunately, this sort of party was reminding him a little too much of home, and of his mother and her society friends.
Seeing his father and Claire standing in the corner of the drawing room, he pushed his way past the throng of people to get to them. As he walked, he heard snippets of conversation.
“Of course, John is on-call for when the millennium bug strikes…”
“I’m so excited about the river of fire. Bob Geldof is like a modern day Gandalf…”
He didn’t understand any of this talk. He found it hard to even decipher the accent, let alone comprehend exactly what it was these English people were trying to say.
“Richard.” Claire spotted him when he was about a yard away. Richard stepped forward and kissed his stepmother on the cheek. She smelled of lavender and roses. She reached out and touched his lapel. “You always look so handsome in a tux. And so much older.”
“And you look spectacular as always, Claire,” he replied. She smoothed down her dress and gave him a huge grin.
“You charmer. You’re getting more and more like your father every day.”
In his peripheral vision, he spotted someone approaching their little group. Whoever it was, they were dressed in black and white. He assumed it was one of the waiting staff.
“Can I offer you a Cumberland chipolata, blanketed in choux pastry, with a honey and mustard dip?” Richard recognized the girl. He’d seen her standing in the hall earlier. Her dark hair and pale skin were hard to miss.
“It looks like a sausage roll to me.” Claire smiled at the girl. They seemed way too familiar with each other for a waitress and her employer. “Hanna Vincent, please let me introduce you to my husband, Steven Larsen, and my stepson, Richard.”
