On a whim, she tapped out a text to her half-brother, Rafe, as she tried to remember what time it was in Australia.
What do you know about a man called Conall Devlin?
Considering they hadn’t been in contact for well over a year, Amber was surprised and pleased when Rafe’s reply came winging back almost immediately.
Best mate at school. Why?
So that was why the name had rung a distant bell and why Conall’s midnight-blue eyes had bored into her when he’d said it. Rafe was eleven years older than her and had left home by the time she’d moved back into their father’s house as a mixed-up fourteen-year-old. But—come to think of it—hadn’t her father mentioned some Irish whizz-kid on the payroll who’d dragged himself up from the gutter? Was Conall Devlin the one he’d been talking about?
She wanted to ask him more, but Rafe was probably lying on some golden beach somewhere, sipping champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. Did she inform him she was soon to be homeless and that the Irishman had threatened to have the locks changed? Would he even believe her version of the story if he and Conall Devlin had been best mates?
There was a ping as another text arrived.
And why are you texting me at midnight?
Amber bit her lip. Was there really any point in grumbling to a man who was thousands of miles away? What was she expecting him to do—transfer money to her account? Because something told her he wouldn’t do it, despite the fortune Rafe had built up for himself on the other side of the world. Her half-brother had been one of the people who were always nagging her to get a proper job. Wasn’t that one of the reasons why she’d allowed herself to lose touch with him—because he told her things she preferred not hear?
Her fingers wavered over the touchpad.
Just wanted to say hi.
Hi to you, too! Nice to hear from you. Let’s talk soon. X
Amber’s eyes inexplicably began to fill with tears as she tapped out her reply: Okay. X.
It was the only good thing which had happened to her all day but the momentary glow of contentment it gave her didn’t last long. Amber sat on the floor disconsolately finishing her cigarette and then began to shiver. How could her father have gone away to India and left her in this predicament?
She thought about what everyone was saying and the different alternatives which lay open to her, realising there weren’t actually that many. She could throw herself on people’s mercy and ask to sleep on their sofas, but for how long? And she couldn’t even do that without enough money to offer towards household expenses. Everyone would start to look at her in a funny way if she didn’t contribute to food and stuff. And if she couldn’t buy her very expensive round in the nightclubs they tended to frequent, then everyone would start to gossip—because in the kind of circles she mixed in, being broke was social death.
She stared down at the diamond watch glittering at her wrist, an eighteenth-birthday present intended to console her during a particularly low point in her life. It hadn’t, of course. It had been one of many lessons she’d learnt along the way. It didn’t matter how many jewels you wore, their cold beauty was powerless to fill the empty holes which punctured your soul...
She thought about going to a pawnbroker and wondered if such places still existed, but something told her she would get a desultory price for the watch. Because people who tried to raise money against jewellery were vulnerable and she knew better than anyone that the vulnerable were there to be taken advantage of.
The sweat of earlier had dried on her skin and her teeth began to chatter loudly. Amber remembered her father’s letter and the words of Mary-Ellen, his assistant. Speak to Conall Devlin. And even though every instinct she possessed was warning her to steer clear of the trumped-up Irishman, she suspected she had no choice but to turn to him.
She stared down at her creased clothes.
She licked her lips with a feeling of instinctive fear. She didn’t like men. She didn’t trust them, and with good reason. But she knew their weaknesses. Her mother hadn’t taught her much, but she’d drummed in the fact that men were always susceptible to a woman who looked at them helplessly.
Fired up by a sudden sense of purpose, Amber went into her en-suite bathroom and took a long shower. And then she dressed with more care than she’d used in a long time.
She remembered the disdainful look on Conall Devlin’s face when he’d told her that he didn’t get turned on by women who smoked and flaunted their bodies. And she remembered the contemptuous expression in his navy-blue eyes as he’d said that. So she fished out a navy-blue dress which she’d only ever worn to failed job interviews, put on minimal make-up and twisted her black hair back into a smooth and demure chignon. Stepping back from the mirror, Amber hardly recognised the image which stared back at her. Why, she could almost pose as a body double for Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music!
* * *
Conall Devlin’s offices were tucked away in a surprisingly picturesque and quiet street in Kensington, which was lined with cherry trees. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find, but it certainly hadn’t been a restored period building whose outward serenity belied the unmistakable buzz of success she encountered the moment she stepped inside.
The entrance hall had a soaringly high ceiling, with quirky chandeliers and a curving staircase which swept up from the chequered marble floor. A transparent desk sat in front of a modern painting of a woman caressing the neck of a goat. Beside it was a huge canvas with a glittery image of Marilyn Monroe, which Amber recognised instantly. She felt a little stab at her heart. Everything in the place seemed achingly cool and trendy, and suddenly she felt like a fish out of water in her frumpy navy dress and stark hairstyle. A fact which wasn’t helped by the lofty blonde receptionist in a monochrome minidress who looked up from behind the Perspex desk and smiled at Amber in a friendly way.
‘Hi! Can I help you?’
‘I want to see Conall Devlin.’ The words came out more clumsily than Amber had intended and the blonde looked a little taken aback.
‘I’m afraid Conall is tied up for most of the day,’ she said, her smile a little less bright than before. ‘You don’t have an appointment?’
Amber could feel a rush of emotions flooding through her, but the most prominent of them all was a sensation of being less than. As if she had no right to be here. As if she had no right to be anywhere. She found herself wondering what on earth she was doing in her frumpy dress when this sunny-looking creature looked as if she’d just strayed in from a land of milk and honey, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She put her bag down on one of the modern chairs which looked more like works of art than objects designed for sitting on, and shot the receptionist a defiant look.
‘Not a formal appointment, no. But I need to see him—urgently—so I’ll just sit here and wait, if you don’t mind.’