I deleted the three “Call me back” voicemails. The fourth escalated into “Where are you?” The fifth another “Call me back.” She sounded calmer, more relaxed. Perfect. Just as I’d hoped. But the sixth voicemail was one I hadn’t been expecting. Or maybe it was. I listened as she dumped me—her tone resigned, her words cutting.
“You okay?” Dexter asked, studying my expression.
I ended the call. “Yeah. I’m a selfish, piece-of-shit workaholic. And Danielle Fisher’s ex-boyfriend.”
For the second time this morning, I got a well-deserved wince from Dexter.
I shrugged—as if it couldn’t be helped. As if it wasn’t entirely my fault. “I should have called her back sooner.”
Dexter nodded as he fixed a towel around his waist. “Yeah, you should have. But at the same time, if she was the right woman for you, you wouldn’t forget to ring her. Or avoid her calls. You’d want to speak to her.”
“And what the fuck do you know about dating the right woman?”
“I know,” he said.
“But it’s not Stacey,” I said, referring to the woman he was currently sharing a bed with.
“Stacey’s not . . . Just because I fucked up with the right woman doesn’t mean you have to. Learn from my mistakes.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to the email from Joshua. “I’ll be sure to mention to Stacey she’s in an interim role next time I see her.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“You first,” I replied. I was being a dick. Danielle had sounded kinda resigned, like I’d lived down to her expectations, which stung. It was the tone my form teacher had used when I’d told her I had no intention of going to university. My grades had been good, but I wasn’t interested in more studying. I didn’t belong in that world. I wanted to be out in the world earning money. I doubt she’d use that tone with me if I ran into her now. She’d thought I was being lazy except it was the exact opposite. University was good for people like Henry and whoever this Matthew and Karen were—I had better things to do. I needed to earn my fortune.
But no matter how rich I got, I still didn’t mix in the circles that Henry Dawnay did.
Well, that needed to change. I had to figure out a way to score an invite to the society wedding of the year.
Two
Beck
I traced my finger down the guest list for a second time. I must have missed something. Someone.
“I checked it three times, sir,” my assistant, Roy, said from the other side of my desk. “I even searched against contacts of your contacts.”
By the time I was out of the shower and back at my desk, Joshua had sent me the guest list from the wedding Henry was attending, and I’d been determined to find my way in. The groom’s father was well known in the City—a partner in one of the oldest investment banks in London. I knew the type—hated it when clubs in London were forced to let women in, longed for the days when no one expected you back in the office after lunch. I should be grateful—they were the men who left meat on the bone that I came along and gobbled off. The bride’s father was a landowner, so he didn’t do a lot except drive about in a Land Rover dressed in tweed. If I just knew someone who would be going. Then I could get them to speak to Henry at the wedding and talk me up, explain how I was good for my word and easy to trust—maybe even mention how I had a business proposition for him. I’d have to be careful who it was. Dexter and I goaded each other, but if he was going to that wedding, Henry would think I was his fairy godmother by the time Dexter was done—any of the six of us would do the same for each other. We were brothers in all but name. But anyone else? I wasn’t sure I’d trust someone outside our circle with something so important. It would be better i
f I was a guest at the wedding myself. Then Henry would be a captive audience and I was sure I could convince him to sign on the dotted line.
“And you’re sure that I don’t know anyone?” I might not have been to the right schools or grown up in the right circles, but I’d been successful for years. I was earning more money than most of London put together, and I dealt with lawyers and people in business all day, every day. But I didn’t know a single person who would be at this three-hundred-fifty guest wedding.
“As sure as I can be. I’ve cross-referenced against your contacts and your LinkedIn page. And I checked the last five years’ Christmas card lists to see if I’d missed anyone.”
It wasn’t so surprising. We might all be British and living in the same city, but I still existed on a different planet to these people.
“I don’t suppose there are any single women on the list?” There must be someone going without a boyfriend. I was single. So I’d track them down, seduce them, and be available as a plus one for weddings and bar mitzvahs. No, that was a shitty plan. I needed to be sure I was getting into this wedding—I wasn’t going to leave it to chance. I wanted some kind of guarantee or contract or something.
“The ones invited with an un-named plus one are at the bottom of the list,” Roy said. I turned the page to find one male name and three female names.
“Do you have their ages?” Or photographs.
“No, sir. I can find that out for you though.”
I needed to know exactly who these three people were.
Candice Gould