Page 42 of Duke It Out
“Trying to paint a nice picture of that old bugger wouldn’t be my idea of fun. I’d rather deal with these bloody spreadsheets for the rewilding project, and they’re my idea of hell.”
“That can’t be easy?”
His mouth curves at the edges as he speaks. “Ah, but I’ve got a secret weapon.”
“You have?”
“Kate. She’s an angel. I know what I want to happen, it’s just seeing it on paper makes no sense for me at all. Luckily, I can charm her into helping turn all that spreadsheet bullshit into logic, and then we’re sorted.”
I notice his face lights up in exactly the same way hers did when she mentioned him earlier and the romance writer part of my brain kicks into overdrive.
“Sounds like you two make a good team.”
“She’s far too good for the likes of me,” Jamie scoffs, pushing his plate away.
Safe in the knowledge that I’m not in face the sole occupant of a gigantic castle, I climb the stairs and head back to my room. London life feels a million miles away, even when Anna messages as I’m getting out of the shower to tell me she’s got amazing news to share in the morning. I stare at the screen for a second too long.Amazing newsfrom Anna could mean anything from getting published to dating someone else’s husband.
It’s only as I climb into bed that I realise I still have no idea where Rory’s gone, or for how long.
17
RORY
I’ve arrived to a heatwave,and it’s baking, even by California standards.
I squint up at the almost-finished building. Despite my father’s best efforts to derail the project, we’ve managed to push this one over the line. In just a few months, the first students will walk through the doors of the Kinnaird Academy and Community Centre, and we’ll have fulfilled a promise made over a century ago by my great-great-grandfather.
We stand in silence, watching as the scaffolding comes down and the final cladding panels are installed. It’s everything the foundation stands for – tackling the root causes of deprivation and social disadvantage, levelling the playing field where we can.
I’m painfully aware of the irony, of course, but my job is to make something of the role I was born into.
With a metallic clatter the final pieces slide down, and two burly workmen lift them onto the waiting flatbed.
“Sorry you’ve come at the unglamorous part,” saysPhoebe, our PR director, in her gruff Yorkshire accent. “If the shit hadn’t hit the fan with this journalist I’d have waited until the ribbon cutting.”
I groan inwardly at the prospect and Phoebe shoots me a sideways look.
“I know you hate it,” she says, smiling and shaking her head.
“I didn’t say a word.” I feel the sweat trickling down the back of my shirt. It’s far too hot for a suit.
“You don’t need to.” She turns to look at me, hands on her hips. “How’s the book going? I forgot to ask earlier.”
“Book?”
“Memoir. Record. Whatever we’re calling it today.” She’s no-nonsense, Phoebe, which is why I like her. Direct.
“Well, as far as I could tell in passing. All of this” – I gesture towards the building – “meant I’ve had to leave her to it, which is less than ideal.”
“You’re not happy with the ghostwriter?”
Theo beckons us from the other side of the site, and we walk over, taking off our standard issue construction helmets and high-vis vests as we go.
I look at her briefly. She’s textbook pretty, Phoebe – highlighted blonde hair and a neat figure encased in an expensive suit despite the thirty-degree heat. She picks her way across the unmade pavement in her suede heels. An image of Edie in those horrifically awful boots pops unbidden into my head.
“Rory?”
“Sorry, yes. I’m sure she’s fine,” I say, trying to sound offhand.
