Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
She grimaces. “Yes, we’re in the sticks here, you have to order Ubers well in advance, and the nearest taxi firm is in Oxford. Do you want me to call?”
“Would you mind?”
“Sure.” A few clicks on the screen of her mobile and she starts talking, telling them where we are and where I’m going. She frowns. Thinks. Covers the receiver. “Two hours.”
“Two?”
She nods, eyes a little wide.
“How on earth do guests come and go if they don’t drive?”
“Chauffeur. Either theirs or ours. And we have the helicopter pad too.”
“Of course.” I exhale, exasperated, and think. “Clark,” I breathe. I’ll use his car. “Thanks for trying,” I call, dialling my brother as I wander away. Of course, he doesn’t answer, and I growl my frustration as I come to a stop at the entrance to the Library Bar, seeing people dotted around, drinking, chatting quietly. Soft, relaxing jazz plays in the background. I breathe in and let my eyes drift to the end of the bar, remembering every detail of the moment I first set eyes on Jude Harrison. Except then, he was your not-so-average businessman. How wrong I’d been. How fucked I didn’t know I was.
I head for Evelyn’s, passing through the glass tunnel and breaking out into the chilly nighttime air, following the illuminated gravel path through the pergolas draped in white clematis until I reach the glass building on the other side of the paddocks. The lights from inside shine out, and when I enter, I just have to take a moment to appreciate the space. This isn’t a nightclub—not like I know nightclubs. This is a cocktail bar on steroids, with a DJ and velvet club chairs that no man or woman has ever thrown up on. The bar is oval-shaped, set dead centre, stools lining the entire circumference, and tubes suspended from the high ceiling cast a hazy light on the white stone surface of the bar.
I search the clusters of people, scan the bar, the seating areas. No Clark. “Where are you?” I say to myself as “Silence” by Delerium starts playing, and a swarm of mid-forties people flock to the dance floor. I smile, seeing them transform one by one into their lost clubbing selves.
Stepping out on the terrace, I spy my brother smoking. “You haven’t smoked for two years,” I say, approaching with a scornful look.
“Shhh,” he slurs, holding the B&H upright to his lips. “Don’t tell Rachel.”
My God, he’s already slurring. “Can I take your car?”
“Huh?”
“Your car. Can I drive myself home in it? Apparently, taxis don’t exist around here, and you have to prebook an Uber.”
“Amelia, dear older sister, do you have a car?”
“You know I don’t have a car.”
Clark takes a hit of nicotine and inhales it deeply, dropping his head back and blowing the smoke into the air, sparing me. “I do know, which is how I know you don’t have any insurance.”
“I can’t drive on your insurance?”
“No. And I still wouldn’t let you, even if you had your own insurance, because you’d only be covered for fire and theft, so if some idiot drove into my shiny new Range Rover, I’d be rather fucked off.”
I pout. “You don’t trust me.”
He laughs. “I trust you with my life. You’re the most reliable, sensible woman I know. It’s the other road users I don’t trust.”
“Please?” I beg.
“The answer is no.”
Damn it, he’s obviously not that drunk. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Have some bloody fun, Amelia.” He takes one last puff and stubs out his cigarette, hooking an arm around my neck. “Why’d you want to leave so bad?”
“I don’t.”
“Come on, let your little brother buy you a drink.” Pushing his lips to my cheek, he smothers me.
“Fine.” It’s not like I have a choice. I quickly text Abbie to let her know I’m stranded. “I’ll have a Chablis.”
Clark leads me back inside, where the frenzy on the dance floor continues, the track still pumping. I find myself scanning constantly, every muscle tense. Clark says something. I can’t hear him, but when he pats one of the stools at the bar, I get it. I slip onto the green cushioned seat, the backrest shaped like a shell, the legs gold. Beautiful bottles of expensive liquor and fancy glasses decorate the middle of the oval.
“I saw you talking to Spector earlier.” Clark’s half yelling, half slurring, waggling his eyebrows. “Want to share?”
“There’s nothing to share,” I reply, frowning. Is the music getting louder? “Everyone suspected she’s retiring, and now it’s confirmed she’s slowing down.”
“So what did she say?” he shouts back.
“She told me to consider a mentor.”
“I’ll mentor you.”
I try not to appear offended. “Why, thank you,” I say on a smile he won’t misread. “But fuck off.”
Clark laughs and pushes my wine toward me, leaning on the bar. I see his mouth move but can’t hear him.