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Ava said she’d be home at six. It’s a forty-minute drive from The Manor to Lusso. It’s completely doable, if the traffic is on my side. But I can’t risk it, especially at that time of day. If I’m not there when she gets home, she won’t be able to get in. She’ll leave.
I start dressing urgently, forgetting my earlier coyness, and dart out of the changing rooms.
“Oh my fucking God,” Sarah yells. “Where the fuck are you going now? Jesse! We have a meeting!”
“I’ll be back.” I sprint through The Manor, leap down the steps, and dive into my car, pulling off fast, the back end of my Aston all over the place, the air dusty. I split my attention between my phone and the road, pulling up Google and searching for the nearest key cutter. A mile down the road would be too far, too much time lost. I locate one three miles from Lusso. “Fuck it.” I put my foot down and overtake a tractor up ahead, driving like an idiot, distress, as ever, getting the better of me when I’m behind the wheel, but this time for an entirely different reason.
I arrive at my destination, park illegally, and dash into the store, slapping a key to my penthouse on the counter. “As quick as you can,” I pant, checking my watch.
“Any particular color?” the shop assistant asks, and I frown, looking up to find him gesturing to a wall of keys in every shape and color known to man.
“Pink.”
“Coming right up.”
“And a few extra,” I say, remembering John’s demand.
Like a speed demon, I race through the streets to Lusso with my newly cut pink keys and run into the lobby. Clive looks up, his face alarmed by the disheveled man sprinting toward him. “Mr. Ward?” he says in question as I land at his desk, panting like a loser.
I slide a key across to him. “Make sure you give this to Ava when she gets home from work.”
“Oh, you’re giving her a key.” He takes it, smiling.
“Of course I am. She lives here.” I turn but think of something that I perhaps should have thought of before. Returning my attention to Clive, I find a smile for my new friend. “The CCTV files,” I say, glancing at the bank of screens. I know my girl. She’s cunning. She’ll want to know who the mystery woman who turned up here is. “If Ava asks, don’t give them to her.”
“Oh?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You hear what I’m saying, don’t you, Clive?”
“I think so, sir.” He feigns some pathetic kind of thinking face, as if trying to figure out exactly what it is I mean. Crafty fucker.
“This shouldn’t be an issue, since it’s restricted to residents,” I remind him.
He puckers his lips, holding up the key and looking at it, still thoughtful. “Ava isn’t a resident?”
Oh, he’s good. I narrow my eyes on him, dipping into my pocket and pulling out a few notes, leaning over and stuffing them into his blazer pocket.
He smiles, bright and satisfied, and pats his pocket. “You have a good day, Mr. Ward.”
I shake my head, walking away. I’m being blackmailed by an old man. Today is getting shitter by the second.
12
I pushmy way into my office and first note Sarah’s furious face. Then the woman on the couch. My bank manager. An array of paperwork is fanned out on the coffee table before her. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, joining Sarah on the opposite sofa, ignoring her questioning look. I’ve rejected all her calls while I’ve sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, making me a whole hour late for our meeting.
“You remember Juliette?” Sarah says.
Nope, can’t say I do. But that’s not a surprise. I don’t remember much about life before Ava, my days spent in a haze of drink. “How could I forget her?” I flash her a killer smile, expecting her to become flustered. She doesn’t. Instead, she goes to her laptop. I look at Sarah out the corner of my eye. She looks away.
“I need some form of photographic ID. Your passport or driver’s license.” Juliette’s fingers work fast across the keys of her laptop. She’s not happy. Well, neither am I. I don’t want to be here. I lift my arse and rootle through my pocket, pulling out my wallet and driver’s license, tossing it on the table for her.
Picking it up, she inspects it closely, taking her time, keeping me waiting. She’s proving a point. Then her eyes move to me. And back to the photo on the license.Jesus, come on.“It’s me,” I assure her, receiving a tight smile.
She says nothing and slides a piece of paper across to me. “I need your signature here.”
“Sarah’s a signatory on the account.” I move the paper to my right toward Sarah, and she pushes it right back. I look at her in question.
“I’ve already signed it. Anything relating to the bank requires double authorization, and John’s gone home to feed his trees.”
