George opened another file. Safety inspections—signed.
The scent of her perfume, barely noticeable, lingering on the air like a soft promise?
The possibility that he could, if he chose, knock on her door and go in to see her? Late at night, after everyone had gone to bed?
He forced his eyes to focus. Words and figures swam on the page—signed, signed, signed. His pen scratched the paper, almost tearing it. He threw the pen down. Decisive governance was all very well, but no need for savage penmanship. “Anything else?” he asked Morris
“That’s all for now. Thank you so much.” The man turned to go but Sweeny lingered. He cast a quick look at the wall and a sly look flashed across his eyes. “You would make a great Seigneurone day.”
George didn’t turn to look. “See you later.”
The twomen left.
Only after the door had closed behind them did he swivel his chair around.
Behind the desk on the wall hung a portrait of the Queen. Next to her, a portrait of his father when he was younger and wearing his full ceremonial regalia. He knew all too well what Sweeny was trying to do. Test the atmosphere for a hint of discord between father and son so he, Sweeny, could push into the cracks and benefit somehow.
It wasn’t the first time people looked at George and saw only what they stood to gain. A promotion, an expensive gift, a secure future.
He swivelled his chair around again and reached for his phone. Anything to change the depressing train of thoughts, he scrolled through his unread messages. There were three missed calls fromBeatrice.
Their last date hadn’t gone well. Someone at a party had teased them about walking down the aisle, and it had soured the evening. “Every man wants to marry eventually,” she’d said when they were in the car. “I don’t believe you’re different.”
His answer had been to drive her to her own home, face rigid, no kiss good night, then drive away. That was the last time they’d spoken. He’d simply never called her again, which was unkind. She deserved a betterfarewell.
On impulse, he pressed the call-back icon, then cursed under his breath.Don’t answer, don’t answer.
“Hello,stranger.”
Fuck. “Bea. Howare you?”
“Better than you, I think. It’s taken you a week to callme back.”
“Yes. It’s always busy here.”
“Where is ‘here’?”
George got up and walked to the large window. The weather forecast had promised a storm tonight, but the village square still baked in the sun.
“You’re not at work,” Beatrice continued. “I popped in yesterday afternoon, and that possessive secretary of yours wouldn’t tell me anything.” Her tone was light, but it didn’t fool him. The last thing he needed was Beatrice packing her Louis Vuittons and jetting over.
“Don’t be hard on my staff. I pay them to shield me from—” He stopped himself in time.
“I’m not exactly a door-to-doorsalesman.”
“But we’re not”—he searched for the right word—“whatwe were.”
“Not lovers anymore,you mean.”
He let the silence stretch. He didn’t want to hurt Beatrice. Heaven knew, she was a nice girl. Confident and sophisticated in public and enthusiastic between the sheets. An ideal girlfriend, really. Until…
“Look, George, I don’t want to give you a hard time, but canwe talk?”
“Wearetalking.” He pulled at his shirt collar and rubbed his fingers over the base of his throat.
“I know we left things hanging a bit when we last met,” Beatrice said.
He didn’t think they’d left anything hanging.
