I thump the table between us with all my strength. Pain explodes in my fist and shoots all the way up my arm, but I couldn’t care less about that right now.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what people think of you, Cyril! You’ve wrecked Ruby’s entire life with your shitty lies.”
I glare at him. He stares back, stone-faced.
“I know you’ve still got the originals. I’m giving you a week to take them to Lexington.”
“I…”
I stand up and look down at him. “If you don’t give Lexington the photos, me hating you will be the least of your problems,” I say, deadly quiet.
Cyril swallows hard. He looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists, then relaxes them again. There’s no mistaking the bitter battle going on inside his head.
But I can’t help him. I’ve said all I had to say.
“James,” Cyril croaks again, his voice raw, once I’m almost out of the lounge. “I really didn’t mean for this to happen.”
The combination of fury at Cyril and not knowing what’s going to happen to Ruby and Lydia almost makes me dizzy. Cyril might not be a bad person at heart, but at this moment, I don’t know if our friendship can be saved. Right now, I can’t even look at him.
“I know.”
I leave the club without another word.
7
Graham
Beaufort’s
I’ve been standing, rooted to the spot, for over five minutes now, staring up at the grandiose sign adorning the façade of this sheet-glass building.
I used to walk past here all the time because I was in a theater group that rehearsed a couple of streets away, but I never knew this was the Beaufort HQ. Probably because I’ve never been all that interested in either fashion or big business.
All I ever wanted to do was teach.
When Lydia first told me her surname, it didn’t mean a thing to me either. She had to drop a few more hints before I realized that the suit my grandfather gave me for my Oxford graduation was made by her family’s firm.
For the umpteenth time, I straighten the collar of my dark green shirt and fiddle with the strap of my shoulder bag.
Then I glance at my watch: 2:55. I take a deep breath and start moving.
I follow a couple of business types in suits through the big revolving door and into the lobby.
Lydia once said that the original Beaufort’s shop and tailoring workshop, the one that all the other branches spread out from, got too small in the eighties, so they built this skyscraper right next door to it, for all the head office departments like marketing, PR, finance, and so on to move into. It’s twenty stories high and leaves you with no doubt that important work is done here.
My palms are cold as I stand inside the doors, looking around. There’s a pale marble floor, and all the walls are made of glass. The logo is emblazoned on the floor, with the company name in a semicircle around it.
“How may I help you?” the young man at the reception desk inquires when I finally approach him. He has slicked, side-parted hair, and, like pretty much everyone here, he’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit that must have been made to measure for him.
I deliberately left my Beaufort’s suit at home in the wardrobe, but now I’m wondering if that was a mistake. My jeans and baggy checked jacket make me feel out of place here.
“My name is Graham Sutton. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Beaufort,” I reply.
The receptionist raises his eyebrows, then glances down at his computer, making a few clicks with his mouse. “Ah, yes, there you are.” He types away at lightning speed, then rolls his chair over to a small black cupboard and pulls out a drawer. Back at the desk, he hands me a square white badge, clearly printed with the wordsVisitor Pass, the Beaufort logo above it, and a barcode at the bottom.
“Head through security on the right, and then hold the badge up to the scanner. Once you’re through, you’ll find the lift on the left-hand side. You need the top floor.”
“OK, thank you,” I say, taking the pass and turning to where he pointed.
