Page 29 of Vengeance is Mine

‘That joke is getting very old, Robyn.’

‘Why do you always wear black? It makes you look ill.’

‘It’s a slimming colour.’

‘You’ve got such a hang-up about your weight. I wish you wouldn’t. You’re gorgeous. You should flaunt yourself more. I wish I had boobs like you’ve got.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever run for a bus with them.’ I smiled. ‘You working today?’

‘Not until later. Listen,’ she said, pulling me to one side of the hallway and lowering her voice. ‘Did you see the new bloke move in yesterday?’

‘No.’

I had heard the sound of someone walking up and down the stairs but had been too busy searching the internet and worrying about the fractured relationship with my mother to care.

‘Oh my God, Dawn, you should see him. He’s absolutely gorgeous. He looks just like Chris Hemsworth. Or is it Chris Pratt? Actually, I think it might be Chris Evans. Anyway, one of the hot Chrises. I held the door open for him while he was bringing in a couple of boxes, and the way he smiled at me, I’m sure my ovaries did a little dance,’ she said, with an excited grin on her face.

‘There’s a mental image I’m not going to be able to unsee,’ I said.

‘I’m going to pop round later, see if he’s all right for coffee and sugar.’

‘I’d get your roots done first, if I were you.’

‘Bloody hell, they’re not showing through again already, are they?’ she asked, going over to the window in the door to see her reflection. ‘That’s the last time I go there. I knew she wasn’t putting enough colour on.’

‘Well, as much as I’d love to watch you make a tit of yourself with the new hunk, I’ve got to get to work.’

‘I’ll try and get a photo of him and send it to you,’ she said, with a smile.

‘You’re a tart, Robyn, do you know that?’

‘You say it like it’s a bad thing.’ She stuck her tongue out.

I left the building with a smile on my face. For a brief moment, I’d forgotten the huge tasks ahead of me that day. The chat with Robyn had been exactly what I needed to settle my nerves.

It was another cold morning. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was slowly rising. There was a thick layer of frost on the windscreen, and while the engine of the Golf ticked over, I set to work on the windows with a defunct credit card.

Once in the car, while waiting for the rest of the frost to melt, I made a call. Listening to the call pick up, I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

I had wanted to sound professional and strong, as if I knew what I was talking about, but I ended up chastising myself for stuttering and sounding wet. However, my call had had the required effect, and an appointment was made for later that morning. I just hoped my boss would accept my request for some compassionate leave.

I arrived at work, but I didn’t take my coat off. I smiled at my colleagues and headed straight for Mr Schofield’s grand office. The second I sat down opposite him, I did something I hadn’t expected: I cried. Despite believing myself to be a confident and independent woman, I was still scared of authority and upsetting people. I hoped to plead my case with Mr Schofield and tell him I’d just discovered who my father was and would like some time to get my head sorted. I’d even take unpaid leave. However, the unexpected tears worked in my favour. Mr Schofield, uncomfortable in the company of a weeping woman, called his secretary to come in while he disappeared to another room. Less than an hour later, I left the building. I was to take the rest of the week off, longer if I needed it, and I would still be paid. I made a mental note to buy Mr Schofield a bottle of whisky on my return. He likes a tipple.

By the time it came to eleven o’clock, I had composed myself. It was time to see Clare Delaney.

Clare Delaney worked for Ripley, Blumenthal and Partners. Their head office was on Collingwood Street, not far from where I worked at Schofield and Embleton. The street had imposing Victorian buildings on either side, and the clacking from my heels echoed as I walked as confidently as I could manage. I could see the offices up ahead. The gold lettering above the oak door looked regal and the plaque beside a downstairs window was shiny and new, not tainted by the harsh north-eastern weather. This was a company with money, and they wanted their clients to know it.

I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. I was hit with a smell of newness coming from the deep blue carpet which padded my footsteps. The ceilings were high with low-hanging chandeliers, and the walls were painted a brilliant white to accentuate the original artwork adorning them.

‘Can I help you?’

I recognised the haughty voice I’d spoken to on the phone earlier that morning and turned to face a receptionist sitting behind a very grand desk. She was young, slim and pert. Her face looked pinched, and her lips were thin. She eyed me with an arched eyebrow and made a point of showing she was judging my dress and size.

‘I have an appointment with Clare Delaney. My name is Dawn Shepherd.’

The raised eyebrow went further up the receptionist’s forehead. She was obviously wondering how an overweight goth could possibly afford the services of one of the junior partners.

The stick-thin receptionist led the way down a long corridor where even more original artwork hung on the walls. I supposed these solicitors’ clients must have six-figure salaries and more than two cars in the garage, which made me wonder how Dominic could afford the fees. She knocked lightly on a solid polished door and pushed it open, stepping back to allow me to enter and closing it with a loud bang once I was inside.

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