Page 62 of The Muse
“I’m being like them. It’s all we’ve got left.”
Patting him on the back, I then walk for the door with only one place to go. Several conversations need having, all with the same fucking man.
“Scott?” he calls as I’m walking out. My face comes back to him. “Back to Paris?” I nod. He knows me better than I thought. “Good. You always were better over there.” I smile a little and turn away again. He’s right. I was, will be again one way or another, with Seffi or not. That’s her choice now. Either way, once this conversation is dealt with, the flat’s going on the market, and I’m gone.
My phone starts vibrating in my pocket as I leave the building, emails coming through at pace. Assuming they’re my information from Ricky, I huddle under the canopy and get it out of my pocket. The opening email details some of last year’s news, all of it pertaining to underground clubs, gambling, casinos and highly dubious deals—all of which seem speculative. The second shows shots of Jackson Reed coming out of a club in the US, women draped over him, as he smokes and throws a load of money in the air. And the third shows him coming out of a courtroom some years back, head down as he tries to avoid the paparazzi. A quick scan shows he hasn’t seen the inside of a courtroom since. Maybe he’s got a better lawyer these days. And isn't that coincidental?
I laugh—Jackson Reed. Not the kind of man someone like Landon Broderick will ever want to be associated with, unless he already is. Shame I’ve got several shots of him standing in one of his clubs in my messenger bag then, two of which have a barely dressed woman linking arms with him. Wanker. A stupid wanker if he thought he could hide this from a Foxton on a mission.
Hailing a taxi when I get to the rank, I slide in and direct him to Earlwood house. It’ll be better there. Much as I’d like to shout the odds at their headquarters, that’s a threat for another day, if needed. Besides, I don’t need security stopping me again before I even manage to get through the door and this becoming another fight. This is a time for discussions, no matter how underhanded they might be.
London traffic moves as slowly as it always does, and it gives me time to think about Seffi on the drive over. There's been nothing from her since I left her on the street. And so, I still don’t really know where we’re at, but I do know I can’t do this with her while we’re in this country. Perhaps asking her to come with me was my way of us finding new people inside us—not just a Broderick and a Foxton. We won’t be at war in Paris. We’ll just be us, with nothing getting in our way and no reminders to forge a negative memory.
Sighing at the thought, I frown and gaze out at passing cars. I can’t even say it’ll work when we get there. I’m not easy, and there are no guarantees for either of us. She knows that. I’ve been honest. The only guarantee is that I’ll be happier away from here, and with that should come a peace I’ve lost since I came back to London. Add in how she makes me feel, what she gives me in my art, and life should be good. In fact, it should be great.
If she agrees.
She asked for time to consider it all. I’ve given her it.
I’m not giving anything of the sort to her brother.
The taxi eventually pulls up in front of the house, and I ask the cabbie to wait as I get out to stare up at it. Grand, but cold. White walls. Hard iron gates. Imposing, I suppose.It’s not surprising Landon grew into what he has. What is surprising is that Seffi managed to retain any element of softness about her. It’s not all she is, as her little temper proves, but this isn’t the home of any artist. It’s too rigid in its outlook, too emotionless. No character. No charm either.
My hand pushes the gate, and I wander the drive slowly this time, eyes looking around at the manicured lawns and shrubbery. No flowers, not even in spring. Nothing to unstiffen any of it. It’s almost reminiscent of an eighteenth-century asylum in some ways—attractive in architecture but lost in clinical precision.
Pressing the doorbell, I wait. Not a minute passes by before a young woman opens the door, perfected red hair pulled up in a bun, and a neat, white maid’s apron around her waist.
“Can I help you, Sir?” she questions.
“I’m here to see Landon. Scott Foxton.” She frowns for a brief second but nods and welcomes me into the foyer. It’s as large as the place suggests it would be and as precise in decoration.
“Please wait here, Sir.”
She scurries away quietly, leaving me looking at the stucco ceiling and the ornate carvings and mouldings. A large, wide staircase leads upwards from the middle of the room, deep burgundy carpet covering the expanse of them. It’s all so unlike the Seffi I know. Landon and his father, yes, but Seffi—no. Maybe it is Persephone Broderick, though. Someone I suppose I’ve never really known. Or maybe, I do.
The hard sound of shoes echoes through the hallways on route to me, and my head turns in the general direction of them. Landon eventually comes around a corner from a room, a scowl in place and his mouth open, ready to deliver more threats, I assume.
“Before you start, I’ve got something to share with you,” I say, holding firm. “We can discuss it, or I can go public with it without any discussion at all. Your choice.”
He frowns and looks at the messenger bag over my shoulder as if he’s already worked out this might involve a threat of my own this time. What feels like a full two minutes passes before he spins on his heel slowly and waves a hand at me to follow, nothing other than that. Good. I don’t need him to speak; I need him to listen, learn, and back the fuck off my family as much as my father’s position in the company is worth.
I’m eventually led into a dark study, oak panelling lining the walls and little to no frills decorating it either. It’s as limited in flavour as he is, and as bloody uninspiring. He sits and leans back in his desk chair, waving a hand at me as if I should sit opposite him. How gallant of him.
Wanker.
“What do you want, Foxton?”
“My father’s position secure until he’s ready to leave, and the deal you drew down honoured in its original format. That includes all current staff employed for the foreseeable, as stipulated.”
He smirks. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen the corners of his lips even move from his usual pissed off glare. “It isn’t my fault your lawyers are inadequate.”
“No, but I can guarantee itisyour fault the clauses were even put into the contract in the first place. Just like itwasyour fault the deal was way below what it should have been." No answer. Nothing but a half-smiling face, as his elbows move to the arm of the chair and he clasps his hands. “I want those clauses gone, Landon.”
“And I should make that happen, why?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m about to make your life seem a lot less legitimate than you’re pretending it is.” His brow twitches, barely any other movement than that. “The Priory is an interesting place for a respected, soon to be CEO to frequent.”
Still no expression to give away how that just made him feel.
