Being ignored was irritating. I would certainly take the money for doing nothing, but I wanted to work. I enjoyed being productive and I wanted to get some experience under my belt to prove that I could do the things I already knew I was capable of.
At just past seven, when I’d read almost every file stored on my computer and I was about ready to start pulling out my fingernails to keep myself busy, Douglas put his head around the door to tell me that Andrew wouldn’t be back.
Had he called Douglas and not me? Did that mean that he was going to fire me? I couldn’t remember if he’d actually hired me or just stopped telling me to leave.
Natalie called out from the kitchen. “Want a glass of wine?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
I kicked off my shoes and shuffled two paces to my left, where I collapsed onto the sofa.
“On a scale of one to ten, how awful was he?” she asked.
“I’m not sure I saw enough of him to judge,” I replied.
“Does that mean you didn’t get the job?”
“I don’t think so.” We settled down with our wine and I used my last drops of energy to relay the whole sorry day.
“Honestly, it doesn’t sound that bad. If he didn’t want you to stick around, he would have had you thrown out. I think you can assume you have the job.”
That was a relief. Kinda. The wine was like pure liquid energy. I felt myself coming back to life little by little with every sip.
“I’m sure I haven’t seen the half of it yet, but I think I can handle Andrew. I mean, he’s rude and curt and has mommy issues or something, but like I said, I have a thick skin. I think I’m just going to learn to tune out what he’s saying and focus on what he looks like, because holy moly he’s hot.”
Natalie blew out a breath. “Yeah, there’s no doubt he got lucky in the gene pool lottery. But I bet he’s really selfish in bed. Like, expects it all his own way.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m ever going to find out. I just need him to sign my paycheck.”
My phone began to ring and I pulled it out of my pocket.
All the liquid relaxation of the wine froze in my veins. “It’s Des.”
“As in Des, your father?” Natalie asked.
“Is there another Des?” Technically he was my father, although considering the fact that I’d only spoken to him once in my life, I wasn’t sure if that particular shoe still fit.
“It’s not like he calls all the time,” she said, peering over at my cell screen. “Or ever. Answer it.”
Yeah, I should accept the call. It wasn’t hard. And I needed to speak to him. Needed to create some kind of relationship with him before I asked him for a favor.
I should definitely answer.
I took a breath and swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”
“Sofia?”
“Hi.”
“It’s your—it’s Des.”
“Hi,” I replied. My mind went blank and I glanced at Natalie as if she was going to be able to save me.
“So . . . I said I’d call,” he said.
The one time I’d spoken to my father, I’d called him to say I wanted a British passport. It had been an excuse. I’d needed a reason to call him.
However much I resented him, he was also the solution to at least eighty-five percent of my problems.
“Hi, yes. Thanks.” When I’d spoken to him to ask about the passport, he’d sounded happy—delighted even—to hear from me. Which was weird, because if he’d wanted to speak to me, he could have picked up the phone sometime over the last twenty-eight years and called. It wasn’t like the phone had just been invented. But I didn’t say any of that, because I needed him. Or rather, his money. I had to keep my mouth shut and my eye on the end-game.
“You’re in London now?” he asked.
I’d messaged him when I’d gotten my UK cell number and he said he’d call. I just wasn’t prepared for him to actually pick up the phone. What did you say to the man who was half your genetic make-up but who you’d never met before?
“Yes. Kilburn.” I was supposed to be friendly, supposed to lay the foundation for some kind of relationship. I just didn’t know what to say.
“And you’ve got a job?”
“Yes, in Bloomsbury.”
“That’s good,” he said.
I gave myself a mental kick. I needed to woman up. My mother’s health and welfare was at stake. I didn’t know anyone else who had the kind of money that could pay for a knee replacement out of pocket. So I had to be nice. Friendly. Persuasive. I needed to convince him to pay. My mother’s insurance company had denied her the replacement because she could still walk. When I’d enquired about self-pay options, I’d been told we would need to budget nearly fifty thousand dollars once my mother’s medication and physical therapy were factored in. Not even working for Andrew Blake was going to get me that kind of money any time soon. My mother was in pain all day, every day. She wasn’t going to be able to keep her job much longer without a new knee.