скачать книгу бесплатно
“Drew.”
Melanie might be the name on my birth certificate and passport, but I’ve always been Drew to my family and friends. I got my middle name from my Uncle Andrew. It’s a weird quirk of our family. Presley is the same; her real first name is Anne, but no one calls her that.
“Why don’t you use your real name?” Pauline asks.
I shrug. “It’s kind of...basic.”
She frowns. “My sister’s name is Melanie.”
An awkward silence descends over the group, burrowing under my skin. But the moment Sherilee opens her mouth and begins to discuss the best type of napkin origami for rehearsal dinner table settings, I question my stance on silence.
An hour later, things have not improved. I’m learning that weddings are serious business, with Google spreadsheets and accountabilities and brainstorming sessions and rehearsals and dress rehearsals. I wouldn’t be shocked if one of them asked me to set a SMART goal for how I want the wedding to go.
And it’s not even my damn wedding!
Better live vicariously while you can, Little Miss Not-Marriage-Material.
I shake off my snarky inner voice and concentrate on my second beer. Not only did I cave and reach for my drink before any of them even glanced at their prosecco, but I’m currently entering the stage of the evening where my verbal filter clocks out.
And unfiltered Drew is not for the faint of heart.
“So, games for the hen’s night. We’re thinking something fun, like a quiz on how well we know Presley.” Pauline taps a Montblanc pen against her chin. “Maybe some wedding-related trivia.”
“And pass the parcel.” Annaleigh claps her hands together. “We could include fun wedding things, like a garter and a pen for signing the guest book.”
“Or condoms.” The comment slips out before I can check in with my brain. See? Unfiltered. “You know, for the...wedding night.”
Sherilee laughs awkwardly and moves her pen as if she’s writing it down, but I can see that no ink is being wasted on my suggestion.
“I saw this cute take on pin the tail on the donkey,” Pauline says. “But you had to pin the kiss marks on a picture of Ryan Gosling. Fun, right?”
This suggestion is met with a round of appreciative oohs. I went to a hen party once where we had to pin something on a poster of a hot, half-naked guy...and it wasn’t a kiss. But I get the impression that games involving photorealistic male appendages also wouldn’t make the cut for Presley’s capital P Perfect hen’s night.
Stop snarking. Now.
“What about a goodbye singleton treasure hunt?” I suggest. “A friend of mine did that last year and it was really fun.”
“Sounds interesting.” Annaleigh drums her nails against the tabletop. “How does it work?”
“It’s kind of like The Amazing Race but for all the things you would do when you were single. You get a point for each item—get a guy’s phone number, dance on a table, do a shot with a dirty name.”
“Actually, that sounds super fun.” Annaleigh looks at me, surprised.
Phew. Maybe I won’t disappoint Presley after all.
“We could have a scaling point system. The more difficult the item, the higher the point value. And we could have tie-breaker activities in case two people have the same amount of points.” Sherilee’s eyes widen. “I’ll make a spreadsheet.”
I decide it’s a good idea to end on a high note. I’ve provided one useful suggestion—which did get written down, thank you very much—so that means I can now make a graceful-ish exit. Well, as graceful as is possible after a couple of beers while wearing platforms.
“Ladies, as much as I am thoroughly enjoying myself right now, I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I announce. “Can we wrap this up?”
“Sure.” Annaleigh looks as relieved as I feel. “Sherilee is our resident note taker, so she’ll send the minutes out. If you could review them and respond within twenty-four hours, that would be great.”
I nod, swallowing my growing desire to murder my sister. “Absolutely. I will definitely read every single word. Even the footnotes.”
At this, Sherilee perks up. “Usually nobody reads my footnotes.”
Sarcasm is a foreign language, I see. Lord help me. I down the remainder of my beer and rest the empty pint glass on the bar with a thunk. “Happy to be the first.”
“And the best man will email you tomorrow,” Annaleigh reminds me. “If you don’t hear from him, let me know.”
I climb down from my bar stool and bid them a good night. The bar’s clientele mirrors my sister’s friends—suits and pencil skirts, perfectly highlighted hair. Pearls, diamonds, Louboutins. Presley would fit right in. I decide to text her as I walk.
DREW: I love you more than anyone else on earth.
PRES: Wow. That bad, huh?
DREW: Where do you find these people?
PRES: They’re my friends, D. Be nice. I know they’re a little intense.
DREW: Ya think?
PRES: They mean well.
Debatable. I got some hella strong Regina George vibes tonight, but I vowed I would not let my personal shit interfere with my sister’s big day. That means no snarking at her friends.
DREW: How long til this is all over? ;)
PRES: Three weeks. And trust me, I want this done as much as you do.
Unlikely, but I’ll let her have it. I might look like the lovechild of Debbie Harry and Wednesday Addams, but inside I’m a big ball of mush when it comes to my sister. Nothing will get between us. Not even email minutes with footnotes.
PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!
Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.
And truthfully, the people here do seem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend I do have is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.
But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.
I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehow not be tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.
Capital P Perfect!
I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah, that happened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.
I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.
CHAPTER TWO (#u2ac12bc4-eac8-59e3-aed7-ffad2f0f3c78)
Flynn
“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”
I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.
Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.
“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.
“What?”
“Channel my mother so effectively.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”
The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know not to call a woman old.
“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.
“It’s nine p.m.”
“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.
“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.
I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all: you shall not pass. It’s why she’s so good at her job. But I know she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.
Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.
“You haven’t left this place before midnight in over a month. It’s not healthy.” She sighs. “I know you care about these trials. I do, too. Everybody does.”
My niece, Zoe, stares at me from a photo on the side of my desk. She’s like a laser burning into my skin, reminding me over and over. Pushing me. Driving me to stay one more hour. “Then we have to keep working.”
“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to walk in here one day and find you dead on your desk from a heart attack.” When I don’t take my eyes off my screen, she claps. The sound is a bullet through the room.
“Did you just clap at me?” I gape. “You know I sign off on your bonus, right?”
She folds her arms. “Trust me, I don’t work solely for the money.”
“Then why am I paying you more than most people here?”
“Because you’re trying to convince me not to retire so you don’t have to churn through twenty more assistants before you find another one who will put up with you.”
Damn, she got me there. “I did not enjoy that.”
“Neither did they, I’m betting.” Her face is full of concern. “It’s one night. You won’t solve the world’s problems today. Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.”
I want to tell her that I don’t own a television, just to wind her up...but I feel like she might explode from frustration. And she’s right, I don’t want her to retire. Not yet.
“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to shred every document in the office and then set it all on fire.” She stares pointedly at me.
“You know our servers have a triple-redundancy that backs up to a secure off-site location, right?” I can’t keep my face straight and she shakes her head at me. “See, you’re doing it again. Better stop or I’ll start calling you Mum.”
“Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now.” She punctuates each word with a clap.
“All right, all right.” I shove my chair back and smooth my hands down the front of my suit pants. “No need for the aural abuse.”
Francis watches as I grab my trench coat and look longing at my laptop—my inbox exploded past two thousand emails earlier this afternoon and I could use a night of digital filing.
If only Mum could see you now.
My mother, who believed wholeheartedly that life was a party, would be appalled by my lack of social life.
Good.
Besides, I go to charity balls and cocktail parties on the regular—it’s part and parcel of being a CEO. Though I have to admit, even when I’m there in body, my mind is always on work. The picture of my niece continues to watch me from the desk and I make her a silent promise, as I do every day, that I will help her.
“Come on, out with you.” Francis herds me into the common area, which is mostly empty. I spy my head of IT bent over someone’s desk and the CFO talking on his phone. I have a great team—built from scratch with my own bare hands. I’ve met a lot of top dogs who surround themselves with sycophants, but I always promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I want people who are renowned in their fields. People who challenge me.
Maybe not as much as Francis challenges me, mind you.
On the way down on the elevator, my mind spins.
Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.
Is that what normal people do? I can’t remember the last time I did anything in my apartment that wasn’t changing my clothes, sleeping or taking a shower. It’s basically a hotel room at this point. I don’t eat there. I don’t entertain. The closest thing I get to free time is the hour I spend at the gym every morning running on the treadmill and lifting weights while I listen to the notes that Francis voice-recorded the evening before.
I live for my job.
How many people can say that? I threw in a seven-figure salary as the youngest equity partner with a boutique consulting agency to start my own company. A company with a purpose that is more than raking in zeroes. I wanted to do something important with my life, not be another thoughtless corporate drone whose only care in the world is whether to holiday in Europe or the Maldives.
My frustration builds as I walk the short block to my apartment. Francis can get on her high horse about the way I live my life, but I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that’s not being some money-chasing egomaniac like my mother, a woman who was only ever capable of giving a shit about herself.
I enter my apartment building, trying to shrug off the bad memories along with my coat. A night without the distraction of filing emails seems like a daunting task. Quiet moments are the worst. Maybe that’s another reason working 24/7 appeals to me—easier to avoid the stuff I don’t want to deal with.
“Mr. Lewis.” The concierge waves me over as I enter. The poor man looks like he’s run through a tornado—his tie is skewed, his hair mussed. “We’ve had some issues with the elevators today, but they’re working now. Just wanted to let you know in case they take a bit longer than normal while we get everyone up to their apartments.”
I nod and continue on. I don’t know my neighbours. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you who lived next door. I’m not one of those people who feels the need for community connection. Nor do I want to attend the various social events the building puts on for its residents. Frankly, if I had to stand around making small talk with people I don’t know or care about, then I’d rather be doing it where I might find an investor for my business.
When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.
Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.
When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.
“Hello?”
