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WHEN I GOT home to my Kensington apartment last night Connie’s stuff was gone. It was the soft furnishings I noticed first. The leather sofas looked bare. The dining table was stripped back to rustic wood, the runner and candelabra gone. Suddenly the Chinese takeaway I’d picked up after my gym session didn’t appeal. I took out my good friend, Jack Daniels, and a shot glass and spent hours numbing my mind, staring out across Hyde Park and the black sky.
This morning I got dressed for work, made my own coffee in the filter machine and ate breakfast alone. I’m not incapable of being alone, but this morning, for some reason, it really hit home. Connie is gone. Maybe it’s the fact I tossed and turned all night rather than sleeping that’s making me feel it so hard today. It’s not like I’m pining after Connie. I did the right thing. Breaking off the wedding was fair to both of us. But finding myself alone in my apartment again, it felt like it used to. It felt like a bachelor pad. I was right back there, single and drinking through my problems. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I’m not that guy anymore. The irony is, my reward for changing, trying to be a better man, is not sleeping and hanging the way good old Jack makes me hang. Fucking miserable. A fucking mess.
I’ve screwed up again. The one thing everyone expects from me. The one thing I do well. I’ve given everything up for…. nothing certain. A memory of something I once held and let slip away.
If leaving was the right thing to do, why do I feel so shit about it?
“Clark, I have Jay Hamilton on the line for you.”
“Tell him I’m in a meeting, Marcus.”
“Yes, sir. And your ten a.m. meeting is convened.”
I check my watch: 10:02. I give it another minute then switch on the camera that’s perched on top of my computer and dial in to the con-call. My COO, is seated at the head of a table, flanked by other senior members of my team in Dubai. “Gents.”
“Clark, we’re all here.”
“Let’s get straight to it,” I say.
“Right, I had dinner with Hassan Deeb last night. He’s a contact of mine—”
“—on the Gulf Cooperation Council,” I state in a way that’s intended to tell my COO and the others that I’m in command and I know what he’s talking about.
“Yes, Clark, that’s the man. He’s also a member of the government of Bahrain.”
I relax back into my chair, my interest piqued. “He gave you some inside information?”
“Certainly did. It’s all on the QT at this stage, but he said there’s a well in the Persian Gulf that’s coming onto the market. It’s already been dug and set up for conventional extraction. Even at current barrel prices the well could still make money, but the profit margin will be lower than the government’s other options, so it’s decided to sell.”
“What kind of life-span are we talking?”
“He hinted at ten years’ extraction time making a profit.”
“When should we expect it to go on the market?”
“Hassan said the government was geared up to send out a tender inviting bids this Thursday.”
“Two days. Can anyone bid?”
My COO shakes his head. “No. The government has looked at the market and narrowed it down to five companies it wants to bid. I don’t know who the five companies are, but I do know Layton Oil is one of them.”
I don’t let my internal smile show. This could be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. The chance to do something that would show my father I am worthy of heading up his company.
“Send me the details you’ve got. I might be interested.”
Almost as soon as I disconnect from the meeting, Marcus treads cautiously through the frosted glass door into my office. He’s holding a mug of coffee which I haven’t asked for. Usually, the only coffee I get that I don’t ask for is the first one of the day — always a double-shot cappuccino — when Marcus starts at eight thirty.
“This means you’re about to tell me something I don’t want to hear,” I say, accepting the drink.
He places a tabloid on the desk and adjusts the Bluetooth headset that’s permanently tucked behind his ear, holding back his tousled blond hair. “Or show you something.”
He looks as if he doesn’t know whether to stay or go. His feet shuffle in one direction then the other, wafting his over-indulgence in aftershave under my nose. With a “humph” and a nod, he leaves me to scan the newspaper at the page he’s folded over.
Socialite Constance Hamilton dumped hours before her wedding to Clark Layton, Chief Exec. of Layton Oil and notorious bachelor.
I stare at the image of Connie being ushered into the back of a Bentley, the driver holding an umbrella over her head to shield her from the paparazzi. My already pounding head throbs even harder. I’ve humiliated her and she doesn’t deserve it. But God knows it was the right thing to do.
And they’ve got it wrong, the press. Just like everyone else will, they’ve assumed my motivation was fucking other women. It wasn’t. True, I used to screw other women. That’s how I got my kicks: taking control in the sack. The place I knew I was good at something, and where I knew those women would appreciate what I gave them — a damn good time.
