Page 22 of The Invitation

“When might I expect you, just so I can let staff know in case I’m not on shift?”

Good question. “Can I let you know? I’ll have to see if a friend can bring me.”

“You don’t drive?” she asks in confusion, obviously having seen that I have a driver’s licence.

“I drive, I just don’t have a car. I live in the city. It’s Tubes for me. Much faster.”

“Oh, I see. Then just let me know when you can pick it up.”

I thank Anouska, hanging up and tapping my desk with my ballpoint, my mind taking me back to the Library Bar. Then the steam room.

And I’m burning up.

Get a grip, Amelia.

I flap the front of my dress as best I can to circulate some cool air, pouting as I check the time. “Shit.” Flipping open Mrs. Willer’s file, I start marking my notes in order of priority. First up, convinceMrs. Willer she can’t skip contributing to her pension pot this financial year or she’ll lose a massive chunk of her allowance. I scribble down a few more notes and hop onto the call, sitting back in my chair, smiling when Mrs. Willer appears. I’m certain her hair gets whiter every time I see her, not through age but through bleach. She’s a lovely-looking woman in her forties, successful, with three daughters and a bitter ex-husband. “So good to see you, Mrs. Willer.”

“Amelia, you’ve been looking after my money for nearly two years. You know my children as well as I do. Hate my ex as much as me. I think we’re past formalities. Call me Violet, please.”

I smile. “Violet.”

“Come on, then,” she says, settling back in her green velvet chair and accepting a flute off a tray being held out by her personal butler. “How much have I lost this year?”

I laugh, getting my graphs up so I can share the screen with her. “You like high risk, Violet. That comes with its cons, but I’m pleased to report a seven percent increase on your investments.”

“Oh, delightful! I’ll order that new Bentley I’ve got my eye on.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” I reply, making her chuckle.

“Spoilsport.”

“A luxury car is the worst investment you can make, Violet. We’ve talked about this.” And she has ten other luxury cars, for Christ’s sake.

“And the best?”

I smile. “Your pension.”

An hour later, I’m thrilled—and surprised—to have secured Mrs. Willer’s full commitment to her pension, as well as a nice top-up on her ISAs. Checking my diary for my next call, I see I have half an hour to shoot over to Pret to get some lunch. I grab my bag and leave, texting Abbie and Charley to see if they’re up for a workout after work. Abbie is all in. Charley has coffee and a playdate with a mum from the nursery.

I travel down in the elevator, checking myself in the mirror, smoothing back my hair and reapplying my soft pink lippy. I smack my lips and brush down my black pencil dress, which falls to my shins, wriggling my toes in my black stiletto slingbacks. I grimace, wishing I’d put on my trainers to do my lunch run. Stepping out of the elevator, I pull my phone out and scan the market as I blindly swipe my card to let myself out and walk as fast as my heels will carry me across the reception area. As I’m crossing the road, I take a call from Mum. “How’s Dad?” I ask.

“Oh, please do make peace with him, Amelia. He’s driving me mad sulking around the house. He hates that you’ve fallen out with him.”

“I haven’t fallen out with him,” I say tiredly. “I just want him to know I’m upset.”

“He knows.”

“So he’ll stop interfering with how I choose to live my life?”

“Probably not,” she grumbles. “You know your father.”

Yes, he’s a stick-in-the-mud. “What can I do?” I ask. “Apart from become a baby machine and a homemaker?”

Mum falls silent, which says it all. There’s nothing I can do. I’m not interested in proving myself. I accepted that would never happen when I quit being a glorified receptionist at the family firm and got myself a job that did my qualifications justice.

“I’ll come over this weekend,” I say on a sigh. I don’t want tonottalk to my dad. I love the old bugger dearly. So I’ll make peace like I always do, bynotacknowledging the problem. Brushing it under the carpet and pretending I’m not deeply wounded that he doesn’t think I’m capable of running the family business with Clark. As an equal.

“Oh good,” Mum chimes, happy. “Rachel wants to finalise the seating plan, we have a final fitting for the dresses, and her best friend, Josie, wants some help with the final plans for the hen party. I’m doing picky bits and mimosas.”

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