Thirty-one days of seeing him in my mind so often that I want to slap my forehead just to get him out, just for a moment.
At first I don’t react. I barely register that it’s actually him and not just an image my mind has thrown up.
I scroll a little backwards in my feed.
And my whole body tenses. Sweat beads on my brow and my fingers tremble as I lift the phone closer to my face.
Jagger.
I swallow. My throat remains bone dry. I press my fingertips to the outside of it, holding it, as though that will help, all the while staring at the picture. He’s not alone.
To his right is another man of a similar build but different complexion. Where Jagger is tanned and fair, with those spectacular green eyes, his friend is big and muscular, dark, with a thickly stubbled jaw, straight brows and an aquiline nose. His hair, which must be a few inches past his shoulders, is pulled up into a messy bun on top of his head. He has tattoos running down one arm, like a sleeve.
J Ryan Hart and Theodore Hart, of Hart Brothers Industries, have spent the last three days discovering all that Silver Dunes has to offer. Be like a Hart and come play on one of the world’s most highly rated courses. With this view—(swipe right)
I don’t swipe right. I jam my phone back in my bag, my pulse firing out of control. ‘Here’s fine.’ My voice is jerky. I pull cash from my purse and pass it to the driver, opening the door as soon as he’s pulled to the side of the road.
I’m still a block from the meeting but I need to walk. I need to walk and calm down, to get my pulse back under control, before I have to be Grace Llewellyn again.
I have to get my head sorted before I can be the most professional version of myself.
My legs are shaking a little as I walk. I get to the corner of the street and then succumb to temptation, pulling my phone out and staring at the picture of him.
He looks...so happy.
My heart drops.
I study his face for any sign of the pain I’ve been feeling, for any sign that he’s been even remotely miserable. There’s none. He’s tanned, relaxed looking, his hair close-cropp
ed, his clothes impeccable.
I shake my head, sliding the phone away again, lifting my eyes to the intersection. Traffic zips past. I wait for a gap and then push out into it, walking across the road quickly, dipping my head forward.
I’m well prepared for the meeting. I know my stuff. You’d have to: bidding on the commercial sales for one of the hottest high-rises in town takes nous. Nous I have in spades.
But my mind isn’t on the job.
Not one hundred per cent. Not like it should be.
I get through the meeting. My prospective client is the CEO of a French investment company. He’s in his forties, I’d guess, with silver-grey hair, intelligent brown eyes and a nice smile. He seems impressed with my presentation but I’m pretty sure he’s not sold.
I need to get him over the line. I want this job.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk,’ I suggest, ‘and have a look at the precinct? You can get a feel for some of the other businesses that are thriving here.’
He regards me thoughtfully. ‘You have time?’
I realise then it’s after six. I shrug. ‘All that’s waiting for me at home is a half-eaten pizza and a neighbour’s cat I’m feeding.’
I smile to make it sound less sad than it is.
‘Then that sounds like an excellent idea.’
We stroll through the CBD and I point out recent developments, which shopfronts have recently changed hands and why. I’ve made it my business to know the commercial landscape of Sydney back to front. I live and breathe this market. Any question he has I know the answer to.
And as we walk and talk I feel like it’s closer to being a done deal. I tell myself I can breathe easy. Landing this client means I’m okay. That I’m still the same person I was before Jagger. Before Gareth left the business.
It means I can do this on my own.