She leaned against the car as she changed from her flats into her red-soled Louboutins, then clicked her tongue inannoyance; it would have been smarter to return to her apartment early in the day, while plenty of people were around. But, in any case, she’d been tied up in a conference call with colleagues, seeking advice on Paul’s and Evie’s wills. Evie and Paul had eventually agreed to accept the pro bono service—actually, they’d insisted on paying in eggs and rhubarb, which she relocated to Sam’s kitchen—and the paperwork was proving more interesting than Jemma had anticipated. It seemed that excluding their estranged daughter from their will might be logical, but it wasn’t going to be simple. She spritzed a little more Chanel No. 5 onto her pulse points, gave her evening jacket one more tug, then strode toward the restaurant. Tonight’s venue was high end and flashy. She could guarantee the food would be diminutive and the cocktails plentiful.
The door, whisked open by a black-and-white-garbed attendant, gave her entrée to a room where the only thing sober was the attire. She knew from experience that the occasional colourful standout in the sea of black suits would almost always be a plus-one. Kain had blended so perfectly and, for the briefest moment, she missed the comfort of him being at her side. Then an image of Hamish dressed in—what should she dress him in? Beige moleskins, a classic linen shirt and RM Williams boots, maybe?—flashed into her mind.
‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream,’ Tien said, handing her a glass. ‘What is that odd expression?’ He touched a finger to his lips, pulling up at one corner, though he frowned. ‘A smile? Surely not.’
‘I was about to sneeze,’ she said, then sipped at the sugar-rimmed glass, resisting the temptation to lick her lips. ‘Gin and prosecco. I approve.’
‘And elderflower,’ Tien said.
‘Were you lurking here, waiting for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank God for you, Tien.’ Her friend’s dependability was one of the touchstones in her life.
‘They don’t have alcohol out in the sticks?’
‘Quite the contrary, I’m sure, but I’m not hanging out at hoedowns, knocking back beers.’
Tien pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking dubious. ‘I’ll believe you, but it’d probably be a good idea if you managed to pull Gerard aside and reassure him of that.’
She frowned, the alcohol sitting sourly in her empty stomach. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that Rohan isn’t missing any opportunity to point out you’ve barely been in the office.’
She greeted a couple of colleagues and waved at another, forcing herself to appear unconcerned. Not that it mattered with Tien. ‘So? Gerard knows where I am. And it’s not like I’ve let my billable hours slip.’
Tien took her elbow, drawing her a little away from the steady influx of people. She lifted another glass from the tray of a passing waiter. She was going to need the fortification.
Although the crowd became denser, drunker and louder as they edged their way into the room, Tien dropped his voice so low she had to lean in to catch his words. He responded by placing a hand on her waist, locking them together.
‘You didn’t respond to Rohan’s news on the Wilkins case, though.’
‘What do you—’ she started, but was interrupted by greetings from colleagues. Swept up in the necessary handshaking, Jemma spent the next hour trying to circulate unobtrusively back to Tien, while at the same time keeping an eye out for—and avoiding—both Rohan and Gerard.
With Tien on the far side of the room, and three drinks already past her lips, Jemma took a moment to duck into theopulent bathroom. She pulled out her phone and checked her emails. There were no communications from Gerard, Rohan or Wilkins that she’d missed, yet still her heart pounded and her hands were clammy. Damn, she should never have run away from her problem. She’d given Rohan too much leverage, too much opportunity to undermine her. This was going to cost her the partnership. Maybe she should just have been upfront with Gerard about the threats, instead of trying to handle the issue herself.
She startled as a message from an unknown number flashed up on her phone screen.
Did you choose a handbag?
It took her a moment, then a reluctant smile lifted her lips. Hamish.
The door opened and she tucked her phone away. She had work to deal with. A career to save. No time to flirt with farmers.
She couldn’t bring herself to eat from the circulating trays of crab-stuffed cherry tomatoes, miniature arancini and the ubiquitous selections of fried finger food. The music was irritatingly classical, the stench of vapes and cigarettes wafted in each time the door opened onto the street, and the conversations were artificially friendly, overly engaged and forcedly loud … an entire world away from the last time she’d dined out, in the little Turkish restaurant in Settlers Bridge.
It was another thirty minutes and a fourth gin and prosecco before she worked her way back to Tien. There was no hope of dragging him through the throng to anywhere private, so she edged against the wall, gesturing him close as she glanced around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard.
‘Tien, for God’s sake, tell me what’s going on.’
He looked surprised. ‘It’s nothing bad, Jemma. Just that Wilkins’s wife has accepted more money from him. In fact, she asked for it.’
She sagged, tilting her head back so she could force more air deep into her lungs. ‘Bloody hell. Why didn’t you just say that upfront?’
‘It’s no secret. But Rohan’s making a big deal to anyone who will listen—so, basically to Gerard—about you not being around to reinforce the plan to get Wilkins to pay her off so that she backs out of the criminal case.’
‘I amaround,’ she snapped. ‘But I didn’t even know about this development.’
