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I roll my lips and wince internally as the brown paper tears. My father and brother have a very fragile relationship.
“Right.” His head bobs as he continues to eat.
“You don’t need an invitation to come to lunch, Dad. I’ll call Mase—”
“Scarlet,” he orders, his no-nonsense tone I rarely hear and miss so much, telling me to stop. “Do something for me today.”
I lift my chin in question, but I already know.
“Don’t worry about Mason or me or anyone else. Make today whatever you want it to be, and don’t worry about what anyone else has to say about it.”
I roll my eyes and nudge his shoulder. “That’s easier said than done with two stubborn men at the centre of my world.”
He hums to himself, kissing the top of my head as I look down at the three books on my lap. First editions of Thomas Hardy’sThe Return of the Native.
“Hey,” he mutters, and I look up at him, tension clenching my throat as I survey his tired eyes. “It could be worse—”
“Could be better,” I recite back, our age-old saying spreading warmth through my chest. “Thank you, Dad. I love them.”
“Good. Now go out today and enjoy it. You deserve to let your hair down.”
The Montwell. A magnificent skyscraper located slap bang in the middle of London’s financial district. My brother’s kingdom and home to Ellis and Frey Real Estate. A company founded by Anthony Lowell and Glen Montgomery and now run by their sons, Mason and Elliot.
By the time I finished college, Mason had already left university and was in the process of taking over my father’s role in the company. Taking it on myself was never a dream I possessed, and with Mason being four years older than me, it fell in his hands first.
You could say I love to hate it.
It holds childhood memories if nothing else.
Standing here now in the grand entrance, I find it awe-inspiring, if not a little concerning, to watch men and women carry themselves through the foyer with such importance. You can see their minds ticking, but what are they thinking about? The meeting that just went wrong, the bitter words yelled at a loved one before leaving for work that morning, or the shitty sandwich they had to bin because it didn’t state it came with mayo. They seem happily unhappy. Contented. Bored, with not one smile in sight.
“Excuse me.” A suited man blusters toward the glass revolving doors, knocking me in the shoulder. “Sorry. So sorry,” he says, not stopping to check on me but so very British enough to apologise.
I sometimes wonder what my life might have been like if I was the firstborn Lowell. Would this right here be my world?
“Can I help you?” I turn in time to catch the receptionist’s eyes scanning the length of me, from the top of my twisted lavender bun to the tips of my pale-pink Converse. Something tells me my presence displeases her somewhat. “Are you lost or something?”
Just be polite, Scarlet.I smile with a sigh and walk to the desk. “No. I have lunch with Mr Lowell today—”
She suppresses her snicker, but I catch it, and so does the woman at her back. “Yeah, we all do, sweetie.” She dips her head to the side and looks at me like I’m stupid. “Mr Lowell left around twenty minutes ago. Are you sure you’re not supposed to meet him there?”
“No, I was supposed to meet himhere. But it’s fine—I’ll wait upstairs.”
“Not without myauthorisation, unfortunately.” She pops a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and averts her eyes, moving a stapler around her desk with a piece of paper in her hand, not doing anything while trying to look busy. I frown at her, curious why Mason and Elliot struggle to staff their building with friendlier people. “You can wait over there.” She nods toward the chairs at the left of the entrance. “Or outside in fantasyland.” She looks up at me through her lashes, her lip twitching. “I like your dungarees. Did you borrow them from the sixties?”
Okay, this bitch is an asshole. “Yes, actually, I did. I borrowed them from my mother, Ellis Lowell. Although, her best friend, Freya Montgomery—” I twist my head and smile thoughtfully as I gesture toward her. “You’ve heard of them both, right? Well, these belonged to Frey, looked better on Mum, and now me.” I step past the desk and drop my eyes down her frame. She’s stunning. “I love your dress… but it would suit you better in red.”
Satan’s bitch.
I take off toward the bank of elevators, knowing she’ll be begrudgingly calling up to let them know I’m here.
The Montwell isn’t somewhere I visit often, and I wouldn’t usually wave my name around like a weapon—it feels kinda gross. I tend to stay out at the estate with Dad as much as I can, and when I do venture into the city, it’s never for long.
I’ve never felt like I fit in here. It’s partly a “me” problem, but it’s also people like the receptionist who feel the need to not only judge a person based on the way they look but voice it, to go out of their way to make someone feel different and small just to make themselves feel better. It’s people like my lecturer at university who took one look at me and my name and told me I didn’t fit the image of a doctor and that I should go live off my trust fund instead.
I’ve learnt that being unapologetically myself only offends the people who need self-acceptance the most in life. I can do the dresses, curl and pin my hair, and then throw my favourite Louis over my shoulder while I walk down Oxford Street. In fact, it’s one of my favourite forms of self-care when Dad is feeling well enough for me to venture out. But am I going to dress or conform to please anyone other than me?
Hell no.
