Page 5 of Unapologetic Love Story

The photo was so full of life it sometimes made him forget that she was no longer around.

‘All right, Tori, I’ll go.’

There was an exalted sigh of relief on the other end of his fuzzy landline. He felt a stab of guilt, knowing he was far from her easiest client to manage. ‘Good! Your name is on the list; you’re at our table.’

‘Great.’

‘Eight o’clock?’

‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Dress nice, please. Find a nice tie for that one suit you always wear.’

He hung up. It was true, he only owned one suit. He was frugal that way – a result of his upbringing in Scotland. The occasional designer tie was all he would splash out on in his attempts to fit in with a crowd he didn’t belong to.

Tom’s flat was in Fulham. Parsons Green to be specific, where some of the neighbours liked to pretend that they lived in a small village, despite the fact they were right in the heart of London.

He didn’t share the flat with anybody and it was far too small to host any kind of party or gathering. Not that he would want to. Work had been his constant and loyal companion since moving from Dalkeith in Scotland to large and loud London. He had acquaintances. People he would do a favour for, if they asked. People like Tori, or Ben, his editor. Sebastian, his old flatmate from Cambridge. Ottie, Seb’s girlfriend, at a push.

Seb was the guy who got into fights in the taxi rank and Ottie called herself an empath . . . but took great pleasure in telling other women that they had food in their teeth, especially if they did not.

Tom would occasionally bring women home to bed, but he’d become jaded with one-night stands and he knew he wasn’t cut out for the apps. His mind was never able to get off in the same way his body could. It was nobody’s fault. He was searching for something he couldn’t fully articulate, an intellect that could wrestle with his and leave him a little breathless, for once.

He wanted that more than anything. An opponent. A sparring partner. Someone who, in a world of polite cookie-cutter sameness, was unafraid of picking up a verbal sword and readying for battle.

When evening drew in, he put some gel in his curly black hair, lint-rolled his one good suit and polished his shoes. Keys, phone, wallet. He quickly checked on his elderly neighbour before leaving the apartment building. Mrs Clerk reminded him of his late mother and he enjoyed living next door to her.

‘You look nice!’ she called as he made to leave. ‘Hot date?’

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘Quite the opposite, really.’

He stood on Munster Road, examining the bottom of his shoes. They’d been extortionate, but an investment. Every spot had been polished away, each scuff soon covered up. He’d bought them while at university. They’d felt tight and pinching at the time. He’d assumed with time and breaking in, they would grow comfortable.

They were still his most expensive item, and they’d never become easy to wear.

‘You!’

Tom recognized the owner of the shriek. He knew it well. He’d heard it wheedle, whine and simper. He had virtual folders that bulged with recordings of that voice.

‘Caroline,’ he said stiffly, taking in the forty-something woman with her pale-grey fur collar and brassy blonde hair with dark brown roots. Her Chloé sunglasses weren’t able to conceal the fury in her eyes. She’d clearly been waiting for him to appear. ‘I thought you were only going to speak to me through a lawyer.’

To any of his neighbours, this scene might have appeared to be a lovers’ tiff. Two exes warring in the street. However, they’d never been anything close to partners.

‘I’m a pariah,’ snarled the woman as she slammed the door of her car. ‘You’ve made me a fucking leper!’

Tom frowned at the insensitive comparison.

Fuck you, lady. ‘Oh, really? Maybe you can cure yourself with one of your homemade oils then?’

Caroline had been the subject of one of his hit pieces, and even he had to admit, he’d been meticulous about categorizing her faults. The largest of which was her success in building a multi-million-dollar empire upon the backs of frightened people by claiming her wellness brand could cure incurable diseases. Tom had disliked her then and he disliked her now. The only thing that had changed between them was the story.

She’d been expecting a fluff piece about her Girl Boss legacy.

He’d taken her to the virtual gallows, where, after a careful documentation of her entire list of atrocities and actions, her sentence had been left in the hands of his readers.

‘You’re a bastard.’

As she spat the words, Tom caught the strong scent of cigarette smoke. He’d always found that to be a curious thing about her. The wellness girl who smoked a pack a day.