“Don’t be a big wuss,” I said, slapping him on the back, and causing more of his tea to slop over the side of his mug. He gave me a startled look but the corners of his mouth tipped up again. “Now, I’m loving this tea but . . . where’s the booze?”
Chapter 4
Ten feet tall
Barclay
I rubbed the bridge of my nose as I pushed through the door into the kitchen. It was two in the morning. The conference call had only wrapped up fifteen minutes ago. Six hours we’d been at it on and off, and still nothing was resolved. Since taking on the role of Minister for Business, Energy and Clean Growth, Ihadmade progress. But David Morrison, the unbelievable fuckwit whose ministerial role I’d inherited, had been so intent on dragging the UK back to the dark ages, and so obstructive to the growth of renewable energy industries, that I had had a big job on my hands.
Things were progressing, but we were in danger of being left behind the rest of the world. I knew Nick Chambers, the visionary owner of the tech company that had approached me years ago with his innovation, was feeling the frustration just as acutely as I was, but there was nothing either of us could do. Nick’s company had developed the nuclear fusion tech that was just now coming out globally as a solution to the energy crisis. But it was becoming very clear that affecting change would be an uphill struggle. After the brief conference call with the French president, I’d had to move on to negotiations with the unions for UK oil and gas production. Of course they were concerned by their members losing their jobs. Arguments for re-skilling those workers prior to the energy revolution were not going down well. Despite me pledging 250 million for that very purpose. None of the unions believed there wouldn’t be a net loss of jobs and I didn’t blame them – until I actually managed to pass the bill through parliament guaranteeing those workers their rights, they would be sceptical.
I slumped onto a bar stool at the kitchen island and put a hand to the back of my neck whilst I rolled my head on my shoulders. For some reason, Kira Murphy’s eyes, lit with mischief as she teased me, had been stuck in my brain for hours and had robbed me of my concentration – another reason to find her annoying in my opinion. Nobody spoke to me like that. But then I’d never met anyone quite like Kira before.
My stomach rumbled loudly and I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten. Maybe lunch? A container on the counter caught my eye and I tilted my head to the side.
Did that crazy woman actually order me a dodgy kebab?
I approached it cautiously, gave it a wary poke and then lifted the lid. The first thing to assault me was the smell and, just like that, I was back at uni, stumbling home from a night out with a teenaged Henry who’d come to stay with me and my flatmates during my third year at Cambridge. He was only fifteen. He’d told me he’d rather be taking home the kebab he was holding than any woman. I’d laughed and commented on how convenient that was, considering none of the girls down the union that night would have shagged his underage arse anyway.
“So, if Charlize Theron walked up to you right now, you’d turn her down to eat some rat meat,” I’d asked.
“Of course,” Henry replied. “I’d say ‘Charlize, you may be a beautiful, Oscar-winning actress whom I’ve had fantasies about since the early nineties, but I have questionable meat products coated in garlic sauce to consume; so you’ll just have to wait.’”
I’d been a month away from my finals then, and laser-focused on getting the best results possible. Henry had managed to make me laugh for the first time in weeks when he’d come to stay.
Lost in my thoughts, I’d eaten half the kebab in front of me without even realising what I was doing. Remembering Henry that way was a reminder of why I was bringing that small, chaotic, hippy doctor here in the first place. Back then, my little brother had been larger than life – happy, free, and a force to be reckoned with, even at fifteen years old. Memories of him churned through my head and by the time I was staring down at an empty box, I was grinning.
It felt weird . . . rusty.
Jesus, when was the last time I’d smiled?
*****
“Yo.”
I blinked, twice.
Not only was Kira Murphy on my doorstep wearing the strangest, multi-coloured, very obviously (badly) hand-knitted scarf, but she had no less than four other women with her, and one man (not Mark this time, but a face I was sure I recognised). I was a private person (I had good reason to be), therefore not about to invite five strangers into my house.
I looked down at Kira again. Bloody hell, but did she look ridiculous. The scarf absolutely drowned her small frame. She smiled and waved her hand in front of my face. Her appearance may have been on the bizarre side, but with her cheeky, irreverent expression, and all that red, pink-streaked hair piled on top of her head haphazardly . . . for some reason, the combination made my stomach hollow out the same way it had done when I desperately fancied Gemma Peterson at the age of fourteen. Gemma had been a whirlwind of craziness, so different from my cautious, teenage self – maybe that’s why I was so drawn to her. Until she got expelled that is (which just goes to show where all that craziness can lead you). Kira Murphy had that same magnetic energy about her. She was so free – her movements, her words, nothing was held back, nothing was monitored. I wanted to tell myself it was purely annoying, but there was something . . . almost refreshing about being around her.
“Whatis going on?” I bit out with what I felt was infinite patience.
“Well, it’s book group night so I thought I’d combine it with seeing your bro.”
“Kira,” a familiar-looking, dark-haired woman with wide grey eyes whispered from the back of the group. “You never told us that this . . . I think we should–”
“Pavlos Martakis,” the only man in the group said, slinging his arm around the wide-eyed, whispering women and moving them forward so he could offer me his hand, which I took automatically. “We’ve met before.”
My attention flashed back to the dark-haired girl and my memory stirred. “You’re David Morrison’s daughter,” I remembered, at last. I’d met Camilla Morrison at political events with her father before I’d replaced him two years ago when he was forced to resign. His public support had waned anyway, due to him being a fascist prick who didn’t give a monkey’s about workers’ rights or the environment (not ideal given his role as Minister of State for Business, Energy and Clean Growth), then when details of how he treated Camilla emerged his fate was sealed. This was after a reporter had witnessed the emotional and physical abuse while at a press conference a few years ago. At the time the Morrisons had believed themselves to be alone in a private back room with their daughter, little knowing they were being overheard: a photograph of livid finger marks on Camilla Morrison’s arm had appeared in the papers that same day, permanently compromising the Morrisons’ reputation and ensuring David Morrison’s swift exit from politics.
“Let’s not get into it about that twatbadger right now,” Kira interrupted. “I’m freezing my arse off out here.”
I sighed and stepped back to let them in, not really having a choice.
“Excuse me, sir,” I heard a deep voice behind me and remembered the security detail. They’d only been here a few days and I was still getting used to them. Needless to say, pushing a green solution to the energy crisis did not go down well with oil companies. Nick Chambers recently had a number of threats to his life identified by MI5. As the Minister of State for Business, Energy and Clean Growth, and a politician trying to fast-track change, I was also in the firing line – hence the team now stationed with me.
Sam Clifton, the close protection officer who’d been posted inside the house, moved between the newcomers and me. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience, but I’m afraid I will have to ask to see your identification and perform brief routine searches,” Sam told them.
