Page 145 of Worth Every Penny

My adrenaline high crashes so hard and fast I nearly fall to my knees. “Not here?”

“No. Like I said, he’ll be back next week. Can I take a message?”

I stare at her, unable to process what she’s telling me.

“Kate?”

I spin to find Matt Hawkston standing behind me. He looks so like Nico that confusion swells my brain.

“Perhaps I can help?” he offers.

I shake my head. “No. It can wait.”

“Okay.” He stares through narrowed lashes, like he’s assessing if I’m really all right. Then his features relax. “Great news about your spa project though, eh? Bet that feels like a huge relief. Great result. Congrats.”

“What about the spa project?” I ask, more confused than ever.

“You didn’t hear? David Webster called in this morning. Spoke to your brother. The Argentum board had a re-vote. They were so impressed by your presentation, they overturned the previous decision. It’s back on the table.” He pauses. “Listen, I’m on my way out. But give Jack a call. He’ll talk it through.”

Matt disappears down the corridor, and for a moment I don’t move, wondering how everything in my life just did a complete one-eighty.

I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a message to Jack.

Me: Where are you? I need to talk.

He responds in less than thirty seconds.

Jack: St Paul’s. Meet me on the Millennium Bridge? I have an hour before my next meeting.

The sky overhead is thick with cloud, but there’s a dense heat that hangs like fog in the air. I walked here so fast I’m sweating, and my clothes stick to me in places they shouldn’t. We’re halfway across the bridge, St Paul’s Cathedral behind us, the Tate Modern opposite.

I lean on the railing, glancing down into the murky water of the Thames below. Jack stands beside me. There aren’t many other people around, probably because of the sky overhead threatening to break the week-long heatwave we’ve endured.

Jack has just finished catching me up to speed, filling me in on the links between Curtis and Martin Brooks, and how the events all played out. I search my phone for the photo I took of the graffitied van at mum’s drinks party. Now that I look closer, I can almost recognise the handwriting as Charlie’s from all the scribbled notes he takes in meetings and leaves lying over his desk. But I could be imagining it; foisting my new knowledge onto the photo.

“It’s not bad,” Jack says, nodding appreciatively at the image.

I arch a brow. “It’s an erect dick. It’s hardly a work of art.”

Jack laughs, leaning his elbows on the railing, his hands clasped. He lowers his head, still chuckling.

“You’re sure he did it?” I ask. “Martin Brooks orchestrated the theft of Dad’s art collection? And everything else?”

“Yeah. Irrefutable proof. He had some serious demons. Absolutely plagued by the idea that Dad never paid for his crimes, so we ought to instead. All of us. Mum, me, you, even the Hawkstons.”

I can’t get my head around how someone can be so bitter and twisted.

“Although…” Jack continues, drawing me from my reflections. “It was a bit unfortunate that Curtis was also sleeping with Matt’s wife. That seems to have been more coincidence than anything else.”

I can’t keep the shock from my face. “Curtis was sleeping with Gemma Hawkston? At the same time he was sleeping with Mum?”

“Yeah. They met at my birthday party. Torrid love affair, supposedly.”

“Poor Matt,” I say. “He looked fine when I saw him earlier.”

“He’s not about to spill his heart to you in the corridor, is he?” Jack shrugs. “I think he wanted a way out for a while, to be honest. He’ll file for divorce.”

“What a mess.”

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