‘It’s Hampstead Heath.’
‘You never know! And you’ll have to escape suitors whose breasts are too small for your liking.’
‘I’ll be fine…’
‘You’re mad… Go, then!’
‘It won’t make any difference if we speak a bit longer.’
‘But my future best friend just got back from lunch and— Hang on. I’m navel-gazing again. Sorry. What do you want to speak—’
‘It’s alright, Els, go get her! And keep me updated.’
‘Will do. I love you. Mind the monsters!’
Charles promises he will, hangs up and points his torch at the path climbing across a clearing on his left.
His mission would be easier if he didn’t have to search for clues in the dark. But his Loris-strategy for tomorrow night depends on it, and taking a day off to go on a hike would be pushing it.
Besides, the new client is coming to the firm first thing in the morning, and Gareth would claim the account forhimself if Charles were to miss that meeting.
He tugs at his beanie and steps over a root. When twigs crack in a grove, he stops in his tracks but shakes off the horror-film sequences Elsy put into his head.
No, there are no monsters in Hampstead.
At least not in the park.
***
The next day, Charles discovers that their new client is a property developer who, ten years ago, avoided prosecution thanks to his amazing lawyer, Milton Ledwell. Which means that Clifford’s trust in Charles was partly motivated by this convenient coincidence.
A winning bet given how the man’s enthusiasm increases when he understands who will be dealing with his finances.
Clifford is in seventh heaven, and Charles goes back to his desk, fuming.
He doesn’t care that he’s being used for his connections nor about earning Clifford’s admiration. Before Christmas, Charles only threw himself into work because of the misguided illusion that he could perhaps find meaning and purpose in the future planned out for him. Since his return, he’s chosen to remain involved, coming to a healthy compromise between acceptance and refusal. Getting the most from this experience won’t doom him to a lifelong agonising career.
Charles also hoped to find meaning and purpose in his ability to discount the part his father played in his professional situation. To grow from it, in spite of him.
But the meeting with the client reminded Charles of the nepotism he benefited from and foreshadowed countless conversations about his genitor’s greatness. A place that he was progressively clearing ofMilton’s influence stinks of him again.
Going Robin Hood on the firm is tempting.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
Charles glares up at Gareth’s peeved grimace that breaks a new record of stupid.‘Do you care?’
‘Your murderous vibe is distracting.’
‘Because it’s not directed at you for once?’
Gareth frowns, but his line rings before the comment computes.
Charles checks his phone and opens an email from his father, forwarded from an Italian contact.
‘I told you that getting carried away was unwise.’
Charles browses the summary of Enrica Bianchi’s decisions about her art inheritance and lets out a lengthy sigh. It’s beginning to feel like a general conspiracy to drain his spirit.
