Did he just say swoon out loud? And why the fuck is he just walking into my office without knocking?
“What is it, George?”
“I’m just leaving for lunch. Hi guys!” He waves to the others.
“Actually, before you go, George. This is your boss, Elliot Montgomery. You should run all your queries through him from now on, and these are our friends, Charlie and Lance.”
He takes his time walking around the room, shaking their hands.
“Is that The Bolshoi?” George asks in surprise, moving to stand at my back. He peers down over my shoulder to get a better look at my screen.
“It is.” I look up at him. “Have you been?”
“Absolutely not. It’s in Russia. It’s one of the most prestigious ballets in the world.”
“Useful. Thank you, George.”
“Are you going? To Russia?” he asks, excited.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Of course, but if you’re trying to impress a lady. Which I presume you are judging by the roses you had me send this morning.” He brazenly leans over me, typing on my keyboard. I don’t miss the look Elliot gives the boys. “Then it’s got to be Paris. The Palais Garnier,” he says, standing. “It’s not got quite the allure that The Bolshoi has from the outside, but the interior, history and atmosphere is unbeatable.” He smiles triumphantly. “I will see you after lunch. Anything you need whilst I am out?”
“No, George, that will be all.” I want to thank him, but then the little shit will think I’m going soft on him.
“So, Paris?” Charlie asks.
“I will be taking the jet on Friday; you won’t be using it?” I ask Elliot.
“Nope, all yours, mate.” He grins.
* * *
My finger tapson the steering wheel as I contemplate what to say to my dad. We’ve barely spoken a word on the drive and we’re now only a few minutes away from the hospital.
“I appreciate you taking the time today, son.”
“It’s Scar’s birthday, she shouldn’t have to go to the hospital,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road and not meaning to sound so harsh.
I don’t want to be angry at him.
“You’re right. Although you know how she is.”
I do. My sister would never allow my father to go to an appointment alone. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body.
Maybe I’m a coward, but the hospital brings back horrific memories of my mother. It’s funny—some memories I fight to remember. The best ones are so vague, yet others—the worst ones—remain so vivid.
I remember the clinical smell of my mother’s hospital room, the blue lid on her jug of water, and the board above her head—it had her doctor’s name on it. I was four years old, but I will never forget Dr Lucas Smith.
He only ever brought the worst news.
“You wait here. I won’t be long,” my father tells me as he climbs from the Bentley.
I sit for a moment, knowing his pride will have me wait in the car, but I also know this scan is important and if I don’t go in with him, Scar will have my ass for not getting all the information.
I watch as he struggles towards the doors, and I can tell he is fighting against the pain. I’m out of the car and opening the door before he can reach for it. He rolls his eyes at me, but I also catch the relief in them—realisation that he isn’t alone.
We stand at reception, side by side.
