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“She’s not like her old man, Clark.”
“I know. I just wish I could be there for her. I feel useless, Ted. Like every other fucking time, you have to tell me how she is because I can’t get near her.”
“This is different. She’s not ready for you, bud. You need to prepare yourself that she might never be ready for you.” I fight the lump in my throat. “I’ve got a meeting in five. I just wanted to let you know she’s alright.”
“Cheers, Ted. Listen, we need to talk when I get back. I’ve done a lot of thinking out here.”
“Alright, bud. Catch you tomorrow.”
I SPEND THE day talking logistics — how we get oil by sea to and from Brazil, how we move it on dry land. By seven, I’m on my way to the airport, resolute. I’m finally breaking free. I’m finally moving out of Harold Layton’s shadow.
I eat the shitty aeroplane chicken and pilau rice, and I manage to sleep for an hour or two. I’m wrecked when I land back at Heathrow, but I still head straight to Teddy and Yvette’s before work.
I knock on the door of their Notting Hill terrace. Teddy answers in a pair of silk boxers, purple with pink love hearts. For the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh. “Jesus, Ted, what the fuck are you wearing?”
“I’d find you amusing except it’s six a.m and you’re banging my front door down.”
“Sorry, I’m a little wired. I had a lot of coffee on the plane.”
“Beats your usual Jack, I suppose.”
I scowl as I follow him to the lounge.
“You want more caffeine?”
“Ah, probably not. I’ll get going, I just want you to be the first to know. I quit.”
He takes a seat on the sofa and turns on the large flat-screen, holding a fist over his mouth as he yawns. “Quit what?”
“Layton Oil. I’m done. I’m out. I’m resigning today.”
He blinks slowly then turns off the TV and meets my gaze. “Well, fuck.”
