Ice Burns Page 4

  Not to sound ungrateful, but where the hell is my other £5mil?

  I start looking through the documents and realise that at some point Mr Anville gave the work part of his offer over to someone else. Jackson Something - I can’t make out the signature.

  All documentation with his signature on refer to the £15,000,000 sale of the farm.

  I grab my phone and Google “Mulberry Fields Farm Sale” and see the sale price in the old listing - £20,000,000. My heart is racing and my brain is trying to compute what’s going on. I know that I already have more money than I’ll ever really need, but something’s not right here, so I find the number on the documents and call this Jackson Something, but it’s Sunday morning and there’s no answer. Scrolling through the numbers on my phone, I find Mr Anville, but that goes straight to voicemail too. I leave a message asking him to call me before ringing on his office phone too. Voicemail again.

  As I’m flicking through the documents I see all the statements I’ve never paid attention to, and I realise that there are itemised bills for the past two years, but none for the year of the sale, so I make another phone call - this time to Mr Anville’s secretary, Jodie. I vaguely recall her sliding her number into my hand during one of the early meetings after the funeral, but I never called her. It was still in the file though.

  Jodie answers the phone with a curt “yes” .

  “Jodie, hi, it’s Aiden Blythe. I’m sorry to call you on the weekend”. I hear a quick intake of breath and her whole tone changes.

  “Mr Blythe, Aiden, hi, that’s fine, of course. What can I do for you?”

  I don’t miss the flirty note in her voice, but I wasn’t interested then, and I’m not now.

  “Jodie, I was wondering if you could send over a document for me as soon as you can. It’s about the sale of Mulberry Fields”.

  “Oh”. Her disappointment is palpable. “Of course. What document do you need? I’ll just switch on my laptop.”

  “It’s the itemised statement from 2015. It should include the sale information, the commission to the estate agent and your firm’s cut and anything else from that time, I suppose?”

  “Sure, yes, it should. I can print that off and run it over to you, if you like. You’re still in Hyde Park, aren’t you? I could be there within the hour? Perhaps we can grab a drink or lunch?”

  I roll my eyes. I didn’t take her up on her offer back then because I never wanted to see another pretty blonde in my life - her timing sucked, and frankly, her eagerness now makes me feel irritable. And a little dirty, but not in a good way. My mind flicks to Amber curled up on my sofa naked under my sweatpants and t-shirt and my dick flicks like a happy dog’s tail.

  “That’s okay, I have plans. If you could just email it over, that would be great.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but I can hear a tap, tap, tap down the phone. Then a ‘huh’. Then some more tapping.

  “What’s going on, Jodie?”

  “Uhm. I’m not really sure, Aiden. There seems to be a file missing here”.

  I don’t know why I say it because I’m not a pretentious person, but in the moment I’m really not in the mood for games and I say “It’s Mr Blythe. What do you mean there’s a file missing.”

  Jodie clears her throat, “Well, Mr Blythe, I’ve logged on to the firm’s file server, and all your documents are there, but the document that should open as your itemised statement for 2015 opens as a duplicate of the rental agreement with the event company. It looks like the 2015 statement has been overwritten on the general access server.”

  “Do you have paper copies?”

  She clears her throat again.

  “No, sir. For security, we only keep electronic copies on an encrypted server.”

  My mind is racing as I start putting the facts together. I still feel like there’s something she’s not telling me.

  “Jodie, can you tell me what the farm sold for?”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Hmmm. That’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “There’s an early contract with the price set at £20 million. That’s on a document from our office. But then the sale document was created by someone else. It’s dated as 15 June 2015, but the datestamp on the document is 3 weeks later - 5 July and the sale price is listed as £15 million.”

  “Is it usual for datestamps to be different to document dates?”

  “Not by weeks, no. A day for it to be uploaded to the server, maybe, but Mr Anville is very particular about records. Anything more? Well, 3 weeks isn’t normal at all. It would only happen if the document was re-uploaded, but normally it would be added as a new update, leaving the original in place. Thing is, I can access records from other offices, but no one else has permission to edit files from Mr Anville’s office, which would explain why the first document still has the initial £20mil price”

  “Jodie, it looks to me like there’s £5 million missing, and there’s no evidence of it ever having existed, or of why the sale went through for £5mil less than the asking price. Would you agree?”

  “I… I wouldn’t like to say… I mean… it’s unusual, but … I think maybe… this is a conversation best had with Mr Anville, perhaps. I… “

  “Yeah. I need to see him. Today.”

  “Uhm, sir. He’s in Greece for two weeks”.

  I can feel my fury building as I try hard to maintain a calm voice.

  “Who is the other person working on my account, Jodie?”

  “It’s Jackson, sir. Jackson Marks.”

  “I need to see him”

  Her voice becomes firmer and I can imagine her jutting her sharp little chin out as she talks through her clenched teeth.

  “You’ll have to make an appointment with his assistant.”

  “I need to see him today”

  “It’s Sunday and I’m not his assistant. You’ll have to contact the office tomorrow. I’ve done what I can to help you. Goodbye”

  “Jodie. JODIE.”

  As I hear the click of the line going dead, my frustration boils over and I throw the nearest thing to me against the wall. Except it catches the edge of the open sliding door and bounces onto the balcony, skittering over the icy floor and plummeting eight floors down to the ground below. It’s an unusual show of anger from me and as I lunge uselessly after my phone, in time to watch it hit the ground, I realise a number of things at the same time:

  Someone may have stolen £5,000,000 from me, but more importantly, I’m an hour late for meeting Amber, and the only way I have of contacting her is lying in pieces on the ground.

  *AMBER*

  I’m really trying hard to fight back tears.

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  Curse my luck, curse my heart. Curse love and hope and the whole fucking world. Sorry mummy, I know good girls don’t swear. But fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I can’t remember the last time I woke up happy. It’s not that I’m sad normally, I’m just … normal. Today I woke up happy and actually missed the sun shining into Aiden’s room. I looked forward to waking up like that again in the future. I looked into the wall of the building next to mine and thought of the view from Aiden’s living room, and imagined him putting his arms around me, kissing my neck as he did yesterday. I allowed myself to dream. I am a fool. You’d think I’d learn.

  Aiden’s washed and dried clothes are carefully packed into my handbag. I’m dressed like an Eskimo, but I’m happy that I look pretty cute in snow boots, leggings and a form fitting coat, and I was so looking forward to meeting him, I skipped breakfast. I was at the agreed meeting place at Battersea Park station at 9:45, pretending to read a book but actually skimming the crowd looking for him. By 10:05 he was late, but it’s London and public transport answers to no one. By 10:30 I was anxiously looking around to see if there was another entrance - maybe I was in the wrong place, but no, there wasn’t. By 10:45 I was freezing cold with an ache in my heart. I decided to wait till 11 before I called
him, because I’m not desperate. I’m not desperate. I’m not desperate. I take a few deep breaths to try to ease the ache in my heart.

  As the time crept forward, I checked the news to make sure there’d been no train derailments or major traffic incidents. I checked to make sure it was Sunday and I hadn’t accidentally slept through the day and woken up on Monday. I didn’t want to be clingy, but he was an hour late. Aiden is such a beautiful dream, I’d rather invent a million excuses for his absence than accept he never felt the same about me. As I watched my phone clock tick over from 10:57 to 10:58 I realised how much I’ve already fallen for the idea of him, of me with him, of us.

  10:59. One more minute, then I’ll call him. Or maybe I should take the hint and just leave. Or maybe he’s lying in a full body cast in the hospital and all his fingers are broken so he can’t use his phone. That’s totally possible.

  11:00. I’m calling him. I take a deep breath and try for a cheery voice. Maybe I’ll be all apologetic and tell him I’ve just arrived as I’d overslept? The phone just rings and rings, till eventually there’s a click and it goes to voicemail. I haven’t prepared a message for voicemail, so in a panic I quickly hang up and now I feel like a freak!

  Urgh! Do I call again? Then I look like a stalker, don’t I? No. He can see I called. He can call me back. Or not. Whatever. I don’t care. I’m freezing cold and I’m going home and I don’t care.

  Except I do. I am so sad, I want to cry. I want to mourn for all the hope I’d put into the last 24 hours. I want to kick myself for all the excitement I felt and all the potential that fades like Battersea Powerstation in the distance as the train heads back to South London. Most of all I blame myself for believing for one moment that anyone would show up for me. I allow my tears to drench the tiny flicker of a flame that sparked for the briefest moment in my soul.

  I knew it was too good to be true.

  ~ 6 ~

  *AIDEN*

  As soon as I realised what I’d done yesterday, I rushed into town to buy a replacement phone. I rang the provider and asked if they could transfer the data to my new phone but they told me it could take up to 24 hours. I raced to Battersea but it was almost 12 o’clock by the time I got there and I didn’t really expect her to still be waiting. I phoned the cab company and asked if they could give me the address they’d dropped her off at last night, but they wouldn’t give out that information.

  At a loss, I went home, cracked open a bottle of Jack Daniels and spent the rest of the day restarting my phone and checking to see if the numbers were restored yet. When eventually they were, I discovered that I’d saved Amber’s info to the phone and not the SIM card, and it was lost for good. All I could do was wait and hope she called me.

  By the time this morning came round, I couldn’t take it any more. I decided what I would do: I would contact the event company and ask them to find any and all contact details for Ice Ball tickets sold to anyone called Amber. There couldn’t be that many. And if they refused, they could find themselves a new venue for their events. Contracts be damned. I was going to find Amber.

  Following a big event, I discovered, the event company staff all have Monday off, so I am going to pour all this frustration into figuring out what the hell is going on with the farm. At 9 am I’ll be walking into the offices of Anville and Associates, and I’ll be getting some answers.

  *AMBER*

  Mr Marks likes to start the day with an espresso with three sugars, on his desk by 8:45. Even though I technically don’t start work till 9am, I’m always in by 8:30 so that I can get his coffee and emails ready for him. It makes my day easier if his wishes are followed.

  At 8:43 I’m in his office leaving the messages from the voicemail on his desk. There’s only one today from Jodie, warning us to expect an irate client - Mr Blythe - sometime this morning, but there’s not much more detail than that.

  I put the message on his desk along with his coffee when the door swings open, slamming against the wall. I’ve asked maintenance a dozen times for a stopper for that door, as one of of these days someone’s going to knock a hole through the plasterboard wall. Mr Marks saunters into the office as the door swings back again, almost shut.

  “Amber! Good morning!”

  “Morning Mr Marks.”

  “Good weekend?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  He drops his briefcase next to the desk, and hits the on button for his computer. I make my way around his desk, hoping to escape any further conversation. I’m just holding myself together right now and I don’t have the energy for his advances and innuendos, and even less for small talk.

  “Good looking bloke, your friend.”

  My heart sinks. I’d forgotten about Jamie and Mr Marks meeting. The last thing I want to talk about is Friday night.

  “He’s just a friend, did you have a good time with Elizabeth?” I’ve found that deflection is a good way to stop him taunting me. He likes any opportunity to disclose his conquests, and seems to get a particular pleasure out of making me uncomfortable.

  “Really... “ he draws it out, and comes closer towards me. I take a step away, backing towards the desk. It seems deflection isn't going to cut it today, and my heart begins to hammer painfully in my chest.

  I have so many emotions running through me. I’m so sad, and lonely, and disappointed, but I’m also feeling angry, and as much as the attention from Mr Marks makes my pulse quicken, everything about him repulses me even more now that I’ve had beautiful moments with Aiden. He takes a step closer to me, backing me up against the desk. “Back in your sensible office wear, I see.”

  He touches the neckline of my dress, tracing it along the curves of my breasts, and I am shaking with nervous energy, which I think he mistakes for pleasure.

  “Please, Mr Marks, just leave me alone”, I croak out softly, turning my face away from him.

  “I don’t think that’s what you really want, Amber, is it?” He has me pushed up against the desk and is gently forcing a knee between mine, moving my legs apart and causing my pencil skirt to ride up my thighs. “Did you fuck him, Amber? Your ‘friend’. Did he make you cum?”

  “It’s not like that”. I hate myself right now because yes, I hate him but I don’t want to upset him. I need this job. I don’t want to be doing this with him and I don’t want him, but my treacherous body isn’t listening to my heart or my brain. My nipples are peaks, pointing through my bra, and I begin to shiver.

  I put both my hands up against his chest and at the same moment I shove him away from me, the office door flings open again, slamming against the wall with a loud thud. Mr Marks swings around as he is pushed off balance and comes to a stumbling stop in front of a bulky, gorgeous man. My eyes fly to the door and I can’t understand what’s going on, because Aiden has just marched into my boss’s office.

  *AIDEN*

  I’m caught entirely off guard. I heard voices coming from the office with the name Jackson Marks engraved in ridiculously flouncy silver lettering on the door. I intended to knock loudly, firmly, but the door swung open and slammed against the wall. On the desk, in what’s clearly not an office approved pose, sits Amber - my Amber? - but the man I’m assuming to be Mr Marks is almost falling towards the door, and he’s not looking happy about it.

  “Amber?”

  “Aiden? What… “

  “Who the hell are you?!”

  The man glares between Amber and me before asking her what the hell is going on here, and Amber has stood up from the desk and is straightening her skirt. There’s a storybook full of facial expressions crossing Amber’s face right now, and while I’d like a lifetime to study each one, I don’t need a translator to tell me that she’s run a range of emotions in the space of seconds.

  She pushes past her boss who is still glaring between us and walks up to me.

  “How did you know where I work?”

  “I wasn’t looking for you, I’m here to see Jackson Marks. Actually I was looking for you, but not here...
what I mean is... “

  Her frown disappears as she clears all expression from her face and turns back to the man behind us, saying, “Right, of course you were,” with a sarcasm so drippy I could spread it on toast. It’s not funny, but the fact that she cares enough to be angry at me makes me want to smile. I suppress it though. “Mr Jackson Marks, there’s a client here for you. Aiden… “ she looks back towards me, “Blythe, I presume?”

  I nod. I don’t know how she knew that, and for a moment a fear flickers through me that maybe she knew after all, but I can sort this out with her later, now that I know where she is. I try to take her hand but she pulls away from me and shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone in the office with Jackson Marks.