Could I?
My series was all about this private detective who travelled around solving mysteries in cosy, small-town communities – and, of course, there was a love interest, who’d been dangling in one of those yummy will-they-won’t-they relationships. Only now I’d come to the last instalment, I had to say whether theywould,or theywouldn’t… As well as come up with a satisfying mystery that was not completely separate from the character development.
My heroine, Charmaine, was capable and self-sufficient, smart and able to make friends (and a few enemies) everywhere she went. Kit – her love interest – had been there, helping out, basically being endlessly competent and making heart eyes at her because she was amazing. What possible reason could there be for her to give in and settle down with him when she was so cynical about love after her parents’ bitter divorce? I’d written her strong and independent and I’d be damned if I was going to change that, so…I was stuck. I’d managed to write myself into a romantic subplot corner and I had no clue how to get out of it.
I supposed it didn’t help that I couldn’t draw any useful inspiration from my own experiences. How was I meant to make that kind of relationship convincing in my book when my own love life had sputtered to a halt? The last serious relationship I’d had (and I used the word “serious” in its loosest form), was a year ago. Since then I’d been trawling the depths of online dating and barely got past a second date with anyone. Red flags haunted my dreams.
And was it any wonder? As the train rolled onwards, I noted that the behaviour of some of the couples was actually less than ideal at a second glance. The guy who’d seemed infatuated with his girlfriend one moment ago was definitely making eyes at a barely-legal slip of a thing standing behind her, and why was the dad of that family unit carryingnothing, while the mother of his child had all the bags and the baby strapped to her chest? Red flag, red flag, red flag.
I knew true love and healthy relationships existed, but as a woman with a keen sense of observation, I was starting to believe it was the exception rather than the rule.
That kind of thinking wasn’t going to get meanywherewith my current issue, though. My parents had always taught me that the first step to fixing a problem was reaching out and asking for help, even if it was just to talk things through, and that method hadn’t failed me yet.
Normally, I might have scheduled a call with my agent, but she was recovering from a hysterectomy, so there was no way I would be disturbing her for the next six weeks minimum. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be returning to the office to hear one of her clients had fluffed the landing of her big deal and made herself unpublishable; that would suck for her. And me.
Instead, I posted an SOS message in the Whatsapp group for my ride-or-die author friends. We’d all debuted in the same year, and despite writing in a variety of genres and going in all sorts of different publishing directions, we were still always there for each other. I crossed my fingers that someone would be available soon. The clock was ticking.
Chapter Three
Stephen
Ididn’t stand on the street for long. When the skin on my forehead began to tighten under the relentless sun, it was time to move. I was only half certain of the route I needed to take to return to my apartment from here, but I still moved swiftly, striding through the streets, keeping an eye out for the blue signs pointing me in the right direction for my neighbourhood and little else. Somehow, I made it back without being mowed down by a taxi because, admittedly, I did not have my wits about me.
Inside it was cool and the instant temperature change made me aware of the throbbing at my temples. I placed my jacket and laptop case on the sofa and went into the kitchen for some water. After I finished a whole glass, I set it down on the kitchen island, covered my face with my hands, leaned back and let out a long groan.
Of course the bastard hadn’t been there. Why break the habit of a lifetime and make himself available to me? I had been braced for the awkwardness of an unwanted reunion and now I was back to feeling the acute embarrassment of having no clue where my own father was. And a nasty tendril of relief that I could not afford to let take root.
For some reason my mum had wanted him tracked down and gifted this money, and it was my responsibility to make that happen. Ihadto figure this out.
Taking a deep breath, I dropped my hands, filled up my glass again, and allowed the calm and the quiet of my apartment to wash over me. Other than the generous en-suite joined to the bedroom, it was pretty much all one open space; the living room and kitchen were separated by an island and the bedroom was on a mezzanine floor which gave the living room extra height.There was even a Juliet balcony facing the East River off the side of the dining area, which was never going to get any real use, but it added to the light and airy atmosphere. I concentrated on my breathing and the peace surrounding me until my phone went off with a message. I might have even ignored that for the sake of another five minutes but it was the special alert I’d set for my temporary MD, Georgina.
Georgina:Aren’t you going to join us for Friday night drinks? You’ll be missed.
She’d included a photo of herself pulling an exaggerated pouty face, the camera angled down so there was a very clear view of her cleavage. Not exactly a work emergency.
Tension crept back up my neck again. This was not the first time she appeared to be flirting with me. She was an attractive woman, but I did not have the band-width to waste time figuring out if it was just her version of office banter, if she was genuinely interested, or just fucking with me. It didn’t really matter. Whatever appreciation I had for her charms, it was lukewarm at best and certainly not enough to risk adding to the list of things presently causing me a headache.
But, I knew how important it was to show my face at social events for work, so I texted Patrick — the VP I was going to be covering for when his wife had the twins — to check if the teamwereactually going to be there, and where “there” was, and then I went to have a shower.
I didn’t intend to spend twenty minutes under the freezing stream of water, but that’s what ended up happening. My brain wandered off down paths I didn’t want it to go, wondering things I had been adamant for a long time were none of my concern. Like what my father had been doing these past thirty years that had meant he never felt the urge to get in contact with me? Whydid my mum have that address for him? When had he moved to New York? Before that building was even there I supposed.
I grabbed the shower gel off the shelf and scrubbed the afternoon sweat off, leaving my skin tingling from the mint and my mind clearer. None of those questions were relevant to the task at hand. Because that’s all he was: a task. An item on a list to be checked off. A skeleton to remove from a closet, bestow some money upon and then bury again.
Social media was probably the easiest place to start. Most people were on it, even if it was just an account they’d set up years ago and then allowed to lie dormant like mine did. I didn’t have the time to post witty remarks or photos of what I was having for breakfast and I doubted the world was a worse place for their absence.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I went to check what food I had left in the fridge and concluded I’d have to do some grocery shopping tomorrow morning. I peeled a banana and picked up my phone to check if Patrick had got back to me.
Patrick:Yeah, there are quite of few of us who got cabs straight out from the office. Don’t feel you have to come though. I can make up an excuse for you if you want.
I frowned. What was that about? Didn’t he want me there?
Overall, I’d got the impression Patrick was a decent sort. He was often distracted and needed nudging when it came to some aspects of the handover, but I assumed he was edgy about the imminent arrival of his twins. He spent a lot of time on the phone to his wife and seemed to steer clear of the office politics as much as anyone could in our line of work, but I’d still been careful not to tread on his toes or give him any ammunition to use against me. If he felt threatened by my performance in his role, it was entirely possible his good nature would evaporate. I’d seen it happen more than once. His suggestion that I notgo along just made me think it was all the more important I did show up, in case this was the first sign our relationship was headed that way.
Me:I’m up for it. Where are you?
He obliged me with a pin for the place.
Wonderful. A rooftop bar on Fifth Avenue. Of course it was. Everyone was obsessed with being up in the air. Not to worry, I’d work around it, I always did – and a couple of drinks would help take the edge off. Of everything.
