At the Greek Tycoon's Bidding

She never minded running through e-mails with him, or typing up letters that had to be done late at night after he had left the office. Nor did she balk at buying expensive jewellery for girlfriends, or even ordering the customary bunch of red roses he would have delivered when a relationship was nearing the end of its natural life span.

On a couple of occasions, when he had been out of the country and way too busy to shop, she had even purchased gifts for his mother, which she’d had couriered over to Greece. She could be relied upon to choose just the right thing. He should know. He had seen the reactions of the recipients.

There was nothing Beth could tell her that Heather didn’t already know. This time, though, it was different. She had finished her illustration course and had come top of her class. She no longer needed to save madly. In fact Theo’s generous salary, and the fact that she paid no rent—at his insistence—meant that she had managed to foot the bill for the course, buy all her coursework material, even take herself off on various excursions to exhibitions of interest, and still have money in the bank. Not enough to put down for buying her own place, but more than enough to rent somewhere on her own.

Every word Beth was telling her now made sense. Confronted by too much of the truth to be palatable, Heather took refuge in vague answers.

‘I actually know of an apartment…’ Beth casually announced, glancing at her watch because her lunch hour had extended well beyond its time limit. ‘It’s in my block. It’s not as big as mine, just the one bedroom, but you’ll love it, and you wouldn’t have someone knocking on your door in the late hours of the night, expecting you to fling on a dressing gown and follow him so that you can transcribe some letter that he could easily get his secretary to do the next day…’

But I never mind doing that, Heather wanted to say. She knew better, though. So she nodded distantly and tried to look enthusiastic. ‘I could have a look…’ she compromised.

Beth took that for a definite yes and stood up and reached for her briefcase. ‘Good. Let me know when you’re free and I’ll sort out an appointment for you. But I’m telling you now that you won’t be able to sit around and think about things, because it’ll be snapped up in no time at all.’ As if aware of the preaching tone of her voice, she grinned sheepishly and gave Heather a friendly hug. ‘I care about you,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘And I hate to think of you languishing in that man’s house, desperately waiting for him to notice you while you busy yourself doing his dirty errands.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Of course you do!’ Beth cut short the protest briskly. Heather, she had decided long ago, had an amazing knack for justifying Theo’s bad behaviour and her responses to it. She had met him a few times in the past and knew, realistically, that hell would freeze over before he looked at Heather in any way aside from that of one lucky employer who had a doting employee at his beck and call. He liked his women tall, thin and vacant. Heather resoundingly didn’t fit into any of those categories, and as far as Beth was concerned she let herself down by feeding the illusion that one day he might see her with different eyes.

‘I’m off now, darling. You take care—and phone me. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Heather agreed readily, not quite dismissing the option of moving out, but not giving it much importance either.

Fate had brought her together with Theo, in a manner of speaking, and fate wasn’t quite ready to take her away.

But the application in her handbag, the possibility of a flat and Beth’s stern little talk did have her thinking as she made her way back to Theo’s place.

On the way back she stopped off and bought a few things from the delicatessen at the corner—things she knew he would like. He would be away for the weekend, but tonight he would be in. She would make him some spaghetti Bolognese, to which he was very partial.

As she approached the apartment block she tried not to think of his weekend activities. He was seeing yet another of his impossibly beautiful brunettes. This one was called Venetia, and she suited the name. She was almost as tall as he was in heels, only wore designer clothes, and on the one occasion she had met Heather had treated her with the slightly disdainful superiority of someone very beautiful in the presence of a troll.

That Heather was jealous was something she would never have revealed to Theo.

But, on top of everything else, it filtered into her system now like poison.

It was no longer enough to content herself with the silly delusion that enjoying him was enough. Yes, she found him endlessly fascinating, with his endearing arrogance, his sharp wit and his moments of real thoughtfulness. But was it really enough?

She had completed her course two weeks ago, and in its wake the grinding clang of time was left marching on, reminding her, in the sudden void, that she had a life to be getting on with—and not a life that revolved around one man who really didn’t pay her a scrap of attention even though she knew, in some inexplicable way, that she was virtually indispensable to him.

Or are you? a nasty little voice in her head said, making her pause in her tracks. You’d like to think you are, but don’t we all believe the things we want to believe and discard the rest?

It was with a heavy heart that Heather walked up to his apartment. She had started that as a form of exercise over the past few weeks—as a way of counteracting her love of chocolate and all things sweet and therefore calorie laden.

Theo lived on the top floor of a high-specification block of penthouse apartments in the very heart of Knightsbridge. Typically, his was by far the largest, encompassing the entire upper floor of the building. It was as big as any conventional house, although laid out in a contemporary fashion, and he had not stinted in its decoration. In fact, he had told her, as she’d traipsed her way through in awestruck silence on her very first day, he had simply employed the top designer in London to come in and have his way with it. His only constraints had involved colour—as little of it as possible—and no plants which would require looking after.

Over the months Heather had done nothing about the colour, but she had brought in plants, which she religiously tended.

She had also brightened up the walls with some of her illustrations, unruffled by Theo’s initial grunting response and then gratified by his occasional appreciative remarks.

Her interest in hanging a few more, which she had been looking forward to choosing from her portfolio, had been squashed under her uncustomary downward spiral of thoughts.

She let herself into the apartment, dumped the food in the fridge and, still reeling from the depressing effect of Beth’s opinions, headed for the shower.

It was wonderfully refreshing. Although summer was on its last legs, and had been a particularly uneventful one even by English standards, it had been a muggy day and she had built up a healthy sweat trekking up the flights of stairs with a fairly heavy carrier bag.

The sound of the doorbell being rung insistently only just managed to penetrate the sound of the shower and the clamour of her thoughts.

Of course it wouldn’t be Theo. Theo never, but never, got back before seven in the evening. He also possessed his own key, which he would never be scatty enough to misplace. But even so…who else could it be? The porter on the ground floor would never allow any salesperson to go up the elevator. It would have been more than his life was worth. Very rich people hugged their privacy and would have been horrified at the thought that any old person could come knocking on their door demanding their attention. In fact, sightings of neighbours were few and far between. Heather was convinced that the super-rich possessed some kind of special radar that warned them when to venture out of their apartments and when not to.

She felt her heartbeat quicken at the thought that she might open the door to see Theo standing there.

It wasn’t Theo. And it wasn’t a salesperson, unlikely as that option had been. It was a short, dark-haired woman in her sixties, with a face that should have been fierce but just looked exhausted.

Heather didn’t know who was more surprised to see whom. They broke the silence at the same time, one speaking voluble Greek, the other stuttering out a bewildered request for some identity. Eventually, they both fell silent once more, until Heather said, her natural friendliness kicking in, ‘I’m sorry, but would you mind telling me who you are? It’s just that…well…not many people are allowed up unless they’re expected…’ She smiled to offset any offence that might have been taken. Not having had time to change into anything else, she clutched the cord of her bathrobe tightly around her and was self-consciously aware of bright black eyes appraising her.

‘Who are you?’ The woman peered around Heather. ‘Where is my son? Is my son here? The man at the desk said that there would be someone to open up for me. I thought he was talking about Theo. Where is he? Who are you?’

Heather gaped. Theo had mentioned his mother now and again—the mother for whom he had the deepest respect and admiration, the mother who never ventured to London because the crowds confused her.

‘Please—come in, Mrs Miquel.’ A shy smile. ‘I’m so glad to meet you. I’m Heather…’