Absent in the Spring (The Shakespeare Sisters 3)

Lachlan checked his watch. It was almost midnight. ‘Nah, it’s late, I should be getting home. And you should be getting to bed with your wife.’ He stood, offering his hand to his friend. ‘Thanks for a good night. And congratulations, on all counts.’ This time he meant it.

He really did.

The car crossed Manhattan in less than fifteen minutes, not bad for a Friday night. Lachlan nodded at the guard as he walked into the lobby and headed straight for the elevator and to his thirtieth-floor apartment. As soon as he slipped his key into the door and pushed it open he could smell the soft floral scent of the cleaning supplies his housekeeper used. Everything was neat, his breakfast dishes long since cleared away, his clothes laundered and folded, and placed back in his wardrobe.

There was nothing to do except shower, clean his teeth and climb beneath the thousand-count sheets on his bed.

Maybe he should have called an old girlfriend. Or stopped at a bar. Anything to get rid of the echo of his footsteps as he walked through his empty apartment. Anything to soothe the ache that hadn’t left his chest since he’d said goodbye to Grant.

It had to be the sushi. Maybe it hadn’t gone down well. Or it could be the beer. He grabbed a couple of indigestion tablets from the mirrored medicine cabinet in his bathroom, leaving a thumbprint on the glass as he pushed it closed.

An almost perfect oval, with a swirl and loop design. At least it would give his housekeeper something to clean on Monday.

After climbing into bed, he checked his phone one final time before turning off the light. A dozen emails from different business contacts, five meeting requests for the following week. But not a single message from a friend.

He flicked it off, throwing it carelessly onto the table next to him, where it landed with a thump. Closing his eyes, he turned over, ignoring the dull ache in his chest. He was wealthy, he was powerful, he was successful. He had things he’d dreamed of growing up as a child.

What wasn’t to like about his life?

8

Good counsellors lack no clients

– Measure for Measure

Lucy stepped out into the spring air. The sun was battling its way through the wispy clouds, the yellow hues lighting up the puddles from the earlier rain. She blinked twice, letting her eyes become accustomed to the light. The temperatures were warming up, enough for her to wear only a lightweight coat, ditching the gloves and scarf that had become like a second skin for her.

It was only a short walk to the office – a ten-minute brisk pace through Princes Street Gardens and across the railway line. The footpaths were lined with flowerbeds, the green shoots of daffodils and tulips forcing their way through the brown earth. Tiny buds were unfurling on the once-barren trees, the pink candyfloss blossom heralding the brand-new season. In only a few weeks it would fall and coat the grass and footpaths, and the leaves would begin to grow. After a long, cold winter, it felt as though everything was finally coming back to life.

She clambered up the steep stone stairs that seemed to be everywhere in Edinburgh, her lungs protesting at the sudden exertion. By the time she made it to the top she was out of breath, though there was no telltale sign of vapour as she panted. The air was too warm for that. Thank goodness for small mercies.

‘Coffee?’ Lynn asked, as soon as Lucy walked into the office. ‘I was making one for Malcolm anyway.’

‘Yes please. And when you’re ready can you come in and find me,’ Lucy said, hanging her jacket on the stand in the corner of her office. ‘I need to move a few meetings around.’

As Lynn wandered off to make the coffees, Lucy pulled her laptop out and plugged it into her workstation, lifting up her office phone to check for any voicemails. She didn’t get that many these days – most people either emailed or called her mobile. But she still had a few traditional clients – mostly older ladies with more assets than they knew what to do with – and occasionally they’d leave a tremulous message, asking her to call them back.

Not today, though.

After coffee she made some phone calls, then sorted through the piles of letters Lynn had left, filing them into importance. That’s when she saw the one from Dewey and Clarke, the solicitors Duncan MacLeish had appointed. She picked it up, scanning through the words. They proposed a meeting to discuss a compromise, to avoid filing in court.

She licked her lips, reading the words again. Then she scanned the letter and sent an email straight to Lachlan. It was still the middle of the night in New York, or Miami, or wherever the hell he was today, but he’d get it when he got to work in the morning.

It was less than five minutes before her phone lit up, and his name flashed across the screen. She felt a pulse of excitement – or maybe it was adrenalin. Every time she spoke to Lachlan MacLeish it felt like she was going in to battle with a side of herself she didn’t recognise.

‘Good morning. You’re up early,’ she remarked. ‘Or is it late?’

‘It’s almost five in the morning,’ he told her. ‘I need to fit in a run before I get to work.’

For a moment she pictured him in his running gear. Strong, muscled legs, iron-like arms. He had the kind of body that could shelter you from a storm, if only you would let him.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Get a hold of yourself, Lucy.

‘Well, don’t let me stop you,’ she said. ‘Good health comes first. You can always email me later if you have any questions.’

‘I would,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘But your email didn’t have any attachments, so I can’t read the letter.’

Oh bugger. She pulled up her emails on her screen, and he was right, there was no paperclip icon to show the scan was attached. How the hell had she managed to mess up something so simple?