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Not Trevor Otley. Please God, nothing to do with the bloody Otleys. I can’t stand the bastards.
Trevor is a bloated, smart assed wannabe business partner of my father’s. Golfing companion, cigar friend, empire-adjacent shadow.
He has the sort of laugh that fills rooms it has no business filling, and a wife who once told me I had such brave hair with pure disdain when I was nineteen and dyed the ends pink. Ooh. Such a rebel.
“What news?” I ask, though I really don’t want the answer.
“Christopher is returning to London.”
There it is.
Christopher Otley.
The name lands like a sharp little stone in my stomach.
I remember Christopher. Tall. Polite. Perfect teeth. Perfect degree. Perfect ability to talk about markets, rowing, and ski resorts without once suggesting there might be a soul underneath the tailoring. He called my paintings ‘interesting’ once, in the same tone someone might use for a genital rash. And he struck my favourite cat, Mabel, with a pebble from a slingshot, laughing his smug boy head off when she hobbled away with a limp.
Piece of shit.
“Good for him,” I say. “I hope he loves it here.”
My father’s gaze sharpens.
“He’s done exceptionally well in Chicago.”
“I’m thrilled.”
“Alice!”
It’s Mum’s voice this time, a cream silk warning as she pats her lips with her napkin.
I put my spoon down. “What? I am thrilled. How lovely for Christopher. Such a joy.”
Dad ignores the sarcasm. That’s one of his more infuriating talents.
“Christopher will be joining us more formally over the coming months. Trevor and I have been discussing the future.”
I roll my eyes, thirteen-year-old me coming back to the fore.
“What a shocker. Aren’t you always?”
“This is a different kind of future, Alice. One in which you have a pivotal role.”
Coldness creeps into my ribs.
“What future?”
“The family future.”
My mouth dries.
No.
No, no, absolutely not.
Dad keeps going, because men like my father do not slam doors. They brick them up slowly while explaining it’s for your own good.
“You’re not a girl anymore, Alice.”
