Page 60 of Every Silent Lie
Ah, the wife and son. The Board. Perfect. “Actually, this concerns you two as well,” I say, helping myself to a seat.
“Oh.” Thomas retakes his chair, showing the ceiling his palms when his wife gives him a sharp look. Of course, Barbara is bejewelled in red sequins. She looks like an angry zit, and Anthony looks like he wants to launch me into outer space, as usual.
“There are a few things on here I need more information on.” I flick to the second page. “Like this transaction for ten thousand five hundred pounds on November first to Royal Caribbean.”
“How much?” Thomas blurts, as Anthony starts squirming in his seat, diverting his eyes from mine.
“Ten thousand five hundred,” I confirm, my pen poised and ready, my expectant look pointed at Thomas, making him look across to his son and wife.
“Any offers?” he asks.
Anthony clears his throat. “That was me,” he says quietly.
“Pardon?” I turn my ear toward them.
“It was me,” he says, louder this time, doing a terrible job of hiding his scowl. “I have a meeting in Miami in January.”
“Yes, I can see the return flights here,” I say, pointing down at my lap where the statement covers my knees. “Fifteen thousand to British Airways. Oh, and of course the seven and a half thousand for four nights at a beach front villa in Miami.”
Thomas’s eyes look they’re about to pop out of his head, the glutaral sound that rises sounding scarily like he’s choking. “How much?”
“That’s for two people first class,” I say, wondering if I need to get him a drink of water.
“Two people?” He looks back to Anthony, as do I, waiting.
Poor guy looks like he could sink into the creases on the leather couch. “Me and Leah.”
“You paid for Leah’s ticket on your company card?”
“And for their accommodation and cruise,” I remind him. “All in all, give or take a few quid, twenty-five thousand.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I dump the papers on the desk, acutely aware that Thomas’s wife is remaining very still and exceedingly quiet where she is. I won’t hit Thomas with the transaction mid-November for a doctor on Harley Street. “Thomas, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I cannot make your company accounts pretty if money is being spent with zero regard. No investor will gloss over the fact that the business cards are being abused and used for personal gain, not to mention the fact that Inland Revenue will deem this tax evasion.”
“So fucking dramatic,” Anthony mumbles.
“Thomas, there’s over eighty-five thousand that shouldn’t be claimed as business expenses on these statements.” Anthony has the gall to roll his eyes. Arsehole. “I can’t work with this,” I say straight, not biting to Anthony, or he’ll likely have no head. I really don’t feel like I can be taken seriously when I’m sitting here in a fucking Christmas jumper, but here I am. In a Christmas jumper. It’s bad enough dealing with my boss’s desire to reward subpar performances with bonuses, but at least his intentions are admirable—even if he shouldn’t be so frivolous at such a crucial time.
Thomas shakes his head, as my phone vibrates on my lap. I look down and see a preview of a message from Dec, and my skin becomes all tingly. “I’ll leave it with you,” I say, handing over the statements with all the highlighted transactions, making my escape before any more bombs go off.
“Nice jumper,” Anthony calls with spite as I close the door behind me.
“Oh fuck off,” I mutter.
Crystal looks up, eyes wide.
“Not you.” I force a smile, breathe out, and open Dec’s message.
My world shows some semblance of rightness once again.
Bar. Half hour.
My teeth sink into my lip, restricting my smile, as I send a thumbs up.
“Nice jumper,” Crystal says as I pass her desk.
“Thanks.” I stop dead in my tracks when I hear Thomas’s voice rise, followed by Anthony’s. Crystal immediately loses all interest in my jumper, her eyes darting to Thomas’s door. “Family politics,” I say. “I’d go get yourself a coffee.”
