‘Have you seen yourself in that dress? I’ll never get anything done.’
I defy any woman to argue with that. Instead, I agree to let Jackson drive me home and plant a kiss on Gregory’s brow before I leave.
‘Scarlett,’ he calls as I’m closing the office door. ‘Thanks. You really are a good lawyer.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Ryans.’
My mood couldn’t be in greater juxtaposition to how I felt when I arrived at the office. Walking past the reception desk, I wonder whether the blonde knows what her precious Mr Ryans got up to at lunchtime.
‘Hi, Jackson.’
‘Scarlett.’
‘I’m sorry for being rude earlier. I wasn’t cross with you; he can be incredibly obstinate.’
All Jackson says is, ‘I’ve worked for him for a long time.’
I suspect that’s as close to him accepting my apology and agreeing with me as I’ll get.
Inside the car, I tap on the partition and Jackson rolls down the screen.
‘Is Sandy moved in?’
‘Mostly.’
‘It’ll be strange to see her in a different house.’
A phone rings through the speakers in the car. Leaning forwards, I see the caller is Boss.
‘Sorry, Scarlett, I need to take this,’ Jackson says as the privacy partition slowly draws to the ceiling.
I try not to allow myself to be irritated again.
‘That was Gregory?’ I ask, already knowing the answer, when Jackson opens my door.
‘Scarlett, I need you to do something for me, okay?’
‘It depends what that thing is.’
‘I need to you go straight up to the apartment and stay in. I have to head back to the office and I’ll bring Gregory home in a couple of hours. Can you do that?’
Rolling my eyes, I head up to the apartment that smells of cleaning products and is as spotless as ever, thanks to Amy. I change out of my dress and into jeans and a jumper. I attempt to switch on the television in the lounge but this damned latest technology is not Scarlett Heath friendly. I make a coffee and sip it at the breakfast bar. As boredom sets in, I start to I feel peckish. The fridge is full of health-conscious snacks but there’s nothing to make a meal.
This is ridiculous, I’m a grown woman.
Throwing a tan, leather bag over my shoulder, I resolve to make something tasty for dinner. I have about an hour and a half until Gregory will be home. I can shop and get some good food underway in that time.
I send Sandy a message and she suggests that broccoli and stilton soup is easy enough to make if you have a blender and that it’s difficult to go wrong with steak, the worst-case scenario being overcooking it, but at least you can still put a meal on the table.
I fill my basket at the store and pop in a fancy – by my standards, not Gregory’s – bottle of red wine.
The concierge is unusually away from his desk when I get back to the Shard. I have a strange feeling, one that I can’t describe, like someone or something is watching me, as I wait for the lift. I walk backwards into the lift, looking around the ground floor, but there’s nothing to see.
Still, I slam the apartment door behind me and quickly lock it.
After working out how to use Gregory’s super-techy sound system, I manage to get the tunes from my phone playing in the kitchen and lounge. My hips swing and my head bobs along to Ed Sheeran. By my reckoning, I have around forty minutes before Gregory’s home. Under Sandy’s instruction, I boil the broccoli and make a saucy concoction of cream, stilton, corn flour and some less important bits of seasoning. Whilst those things are cooking, I cut some potatoes into chunky chip size and put them into the oven with oil.
‘Okay, we’re under control,’ I tell myself between singing along to Ed.
