Page 12 of Scarred by You

I try to hide the concern that’s hovering in the back of my mind. “Aren’t you always?” I say, attempting to put a lightness to my tone that I don’t feel.

“When you’ve been in the industry as long as I have, you get to know a few people.”

“What’s the price?”

Arthur puts his empty plate on my desk, adjusts his trousers at the knee, and shuffles in his seat. “You’ll get the financials in the tender invitation. If you choose to, you’ll form a bid to compete with the other bidders. All bids will be anonymous. You won’t know what the other companies bid, and they won’t be able to see your figures. Submissions have to be filed by Monday.”

“Monday? Five days?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about that, you can do it. But, Dayna, you have to know something first.”

Despite the autumn sun beaming through the windows, a chill runs the length of my spine. “Go on.”

“My contact told me the names of the other bidders.”

“Tell me.”

“Shale Well. Deep Sea Energy. Layton Oil.”

Clark.

“And… Persian Fuels.”

My vision tunnels. The air is zapped from my lungs. I place a hand over my sternum and feel my heart pounding. “Caspar Kahn.”

Arthur leaves me to it. He says goodbye as he goes but I barely hear him. I watch his mouth move, unable to process his words.

If I go after this well, I enter the bullring with the man who brought down my father. It’s knocked me completely, brought home the sense of raging fire that I feel every time I think about Caspar Kahn and what he did. This feeling isn’t fear. No, with Kahn, I want revenge.

I haven’t seen the tender documentation yet, and I’m sensible —I know I need to understand the figures, work through this with my board of directors. But I already know that I need this well. I want to outbid Caspar. I’d love nothing more than to see his sadistic grin wiped off his face when he realises that, despite his best efforts, Subsea Petroleum is back.

I request a report from Finance on potential funding options so when I get the tender details tomorrow I’ll have something to work with.

After a desk lunch, two calls and one face-to-face with the manager of my Portsmouth site, I’m glad to have my appointment at Amanda Wakeley to pick up my gown for the dinner tomorrow evening. Unfortunately, that reminds me that this year I’ll be opening the evening with a speech to a room of pig-headed men, with a few women thrown in for good measure.

I send my speech to the printer and close down Outlook. I don’t want to, I really don’t, but I can’t resist just a quick glance. I pull up the internet browser and type in Clark Layton Wedding. Unsurprisingly, the first hit is Star Struck, the trashy gossip arm of an equally uncouth online ‘news’ site. Clark and Constance are two of London’s golden socialites — they frequent the right places, get photographed with the right people and, in my opinion, are ripe for an invitation to the next season of Made in Chelsea.

“Hey, here’s your speech. I’m going to head off unless you need anything else?”

I jump at Rachel’s presence and feel my cheeks burn up as I fumble an attempt to exit the browser.

“Erm, what are you doing?”

I hastily click Shutdown. “Nothing. I’m going, I have an appointment—”

“At Amanda Wakeley. I know, I’m your PA. What I meant was why are you reading about Clark Layton?”

“I’m not.” And it’s true; the page had only just loaded when I got caught red-handed.

“I can see the reflection of your screen in the window, Cross.”

I take the copy of my speech and put it in my handbag then grab my red knee-length coat from the stand. “It was on my homepage, Rachel. Why on earth would I be looking up Clark Layton?”

“Right, because your homepage is Star Struck now?” Her words fall on my back as I walk, somewhat huffily, out of my office.

I HANG THE black gown on the back of the bathroom door while I shower, to make sure any creases drop out of the silk. Staring at it as I work a lather in my hair, I start to feel nervous about tomorrow. It’s not about my speech — I know that inside and out. It’s more about who I might run in to. Right on cue, memories of Clark fill my mind…

“Where are you?” I shouted into my mobile above the noise of the bar.

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