Mistakes We Make (23 page)

‘She was one of my first clients. So – fifteen years or so?’

Cash-flow problems ... Agnes saying, ‘It’s only temporary, a loan will tide us through.’

They’d all remortgaged their homes.

‘Is there something wrong?’

Adam cleared his throat. ‘You could say—’

The house sold at once, and Adam made bad decisions. He took most of his books and CDs to a charity shop, then immediately regretted it. The music had been a bank of memories shared with Molly and he felt its absence keenly. Many of the books were old friends, some he’d had since childhood. It wasn’t enough to tell himself he could download them all to his e-reader – his e-reader didn’t have the fatty mark where he’d dripped bacon grease out of his sandwich because he couldn’t bear to put the book aside while he read, or the pages that had curled with damp when he’d taken that book up some mountain to read by torchlight inside his sleeping bag.

He agreed to put a couple of crates filled with Molly’s things into storage alongside his, then wondered why he was doing it when they no longer had any kind of shared life.

He forgot about the garden shed until the day he was due to hand over the keys to the new owners. The shed’s contents had to be divided between the nearest charity shop and the local recycling and landfill facility, and that was that.

As soon as the house was sold, the bank took its share, and before he could think too much about it, he transferred the entire balance to Molly’s account. She called him the next day.

‘Thank you for the money. I thought you said there was going to be a problem with the bank.’

‘They didn’t take as much as I’d thought.’ He didn’t want to explain.

‘But what about your share?’

‘I’ve taken what I need,’ he said.

He no longer cared about the wrongs or the rights of what had happened between them. He’d been neglectful, she’d had an affair, he’d lost his temper, she’d left. How could you put those things on the scales and weigh them against each other? He could only go by what he felt was right.

Weeks of sofa surfing round tolerant friends followed. He tried to develop a nose for a change of atmosphere before he exhausted his welcome.

When Molly moved to London, Lexie called him, catching him at the office on a particularly difficult day.

‘Camp out in my studio,’ she said without preamble.

‘Studio?’

‘It’s at Fleming House. The garden cottage. I couldn’t suggest it while Molly was living across the way in the big house, but now that she’s gone ... Well, anyway, why don’t you come and look at it, see what you think?’

He drove out to Fleming House the next morning. What was a couple of hours off work? However many hours he put in now, it wasn’t going to do the firm any good.

Lexie was waiting for him.

‘Where is it?’ he asked, looking around. He didn’t know Fleming House; he’d never been there. This was where Molly had fled after she’d left him; this had been her retreat.

The big house was behind him, and all he could see in front was a stand of trees and the tall wall of the kitchen garden.

Lexie rubbed her crimson crop and grinned. ‘Behind you. Look.’

She took him by the shoulders and turned him through thirty degrees. He spotted a path of sorts, and under the thick canopy of a chestnut tree, an old wooden door.

Adam had always liked Alexa Gordon. She was thoughtful and loyal, but there was a streak of rebelliousness about her that you couldn’t help but admire. When he heard she’d got together with Patrick Mulgrew he’d been more than a little surprised, unable to envisage the sophisticated, sharp-suited entrepreneur and the eccentrically-dressed artist together. His doubts were proved wrong. Lexie had softened Patrick’s sharper edges, while his unswerving belief in her had freed up her creativity. Her career had taken off, until motherhood had put it on hold again.

She led the way to the door and pulled a heavy key out of her shoulder bag. The door creaked and swung inwards.

On the threshold, Adam hesitated. ‘But you said this is your studio. I can’t—’

‘I’m not working at the moment, because of Keira. I’m not using the studio and I haven’t slept here since Patrick and I got together. Go in. It’s cold right now, but once the stove is lit it gets warms really quickly.’

‘What’s the rent?’

He had to ask because, for the first time since he’d been a student, money was an issue. Blair King was managing to run a skeleton operation and he still had a salary of sorts, but that couldn’t last. The end was in sight, and he knew it.

‘Nothing. Patrick’s paying the rent anyway. It’ll be good to have someone here making sure the pipes don’t burst.’

‘But—’

‘He can afford it. He says Blair King have been good to him over the years and it’s the least he can do. You’d be doing us a favour.’

‘In that case – what can I say? I’d love to take it.’

His intention was just to camp in the cottage, but the appeal of the place was unexpected. He found himself standing at the windows, cradling a hot mug of tea and staring vacantly into the garden. That was the clue: vacantly. The cottage had a kind of stillness that brought serenity. It didn’t matter how difficult the day had been (and most days were verging on impossible), when he returned here at night, he was able to find peace.

He found himself avoiding Sunita, fobbing her off with poor excuses. Sometimes they met for dinner. On the odd occasion, he found himself staying over at her flat. She was beautiful and affectionate, but because he knew he didn’t love her, he always regretted it the next day.

He didn’t want her at the cottage; he protected it jealously, as if her presence might violate his sanctuary.

It was not a good situation.

––––––––

A
dam had often dreamed of leaving Blair King, but he’d never foreseen anything like this. He looked around the boardroom. The few staff who hadn’t already fled the sinking ship were standing around despondently, heads down, shoulders hunched. The other partners had found posts elsewhere, and today only he and his father remained of what had once been a proud family law firm.

There were thirteen people in the room. He’d known most of them for years. They were decent, loyal employees who didn’t deserve what had happened to them.

‘Everyone got a glass?’ he called. He’d gone out and bought champagne – Moët, nothing cheap – out of his own pocket, because he was determined they would not go down hanging their heads.

James Blair was standing looking out of the window. How often had he stood there over the years? Pondering some difficult case, considering a staffing issue, or maybe just stealing a quiet moment of satisfaction at everything he’d achieved, despite his own father’s divisive will. What must he be feeling now?

Adam put the thought aside and adopted a determinedly cheerful expression. ‘Then let’s raise them in a toast,’ he said, his lips tightening into a smile that he hoped looked more natural than it felt. He glanced around. ‘To each other – you’ve been a terrific team and I can’t thank you enough – and to the future.’

‘To each other, and to the future,’ came a ragged echo. James, a half full glass of bubbly in his hand, did not move. He was still looking out of the window.

‘Now, no looking back. Let’s keep in touch. You all have my personal contact details. I know most of you have already found jobs. If there’s anything I – or my father – can do to help those of you who haven’t, please let us know.’

Deirdre Shaw was in tears. Most of the women, huddled together at the far end of the room, were either crying or nearly so. Caitlyn Murray, standing separately, hadn’t touched her champagne. He watched from across the room as she braced herself against the wall. She’d be feeling guilty because she’d been the one to uncover the fraud. She shouldn’t. He must tell her that. As he crossed the space between them, snippets of conversation drifted his way.

‘Who’d’ve ever thought Agnes would—’

‘I’m still in shock—’

‘My hubby says she’ll get ten years—’

‘—if she’s well enough to stand trial.’

‘Serve her right, I’d say.’

‘Ooh, don’t be so bitchy.’

‘Well, it’s put us all out of work.’

‘And what about Mr Keir? Bet he was the one who—’

‘—and they haven’t even found him yet.’

Caitlyn stood apart from them all in self-imposed isolation.

‘Are you all right?’

Her head swivelled towards him, her eyes blazing. The impact of her gaze was so intense that he instinctively took a half step back.

‘If you must know, I’m bloody furious.’

His eyes rounded. In all his years in this building, he’d never heard a junior member of staff swearing in front of a partner.

‘What right did they have? Their greed has destroyed this firm. It’s robbed people of their jobs. It’s taken away their dreams.’ Her dark eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t you furious? You must be.’

He stared at her. There’d been so much to do. He’d had to stay in control. He and his father had been catapulted into a world of deceit and deception. They’d had to help the investigators to uncover the trail of lies and falsehoods left by Logan and Agnes, while all the time trying to defend their own innocence and keep the business going.

In the end, the last hadn’t been possible, but so far he had not felt anger. Fear, yes, but even that had been subsumed in the day-to-day effort of keeping going.

Behind him, someone laughed. He sidestepped her question.

‘How’s the job hunt going?’

She shrugged. ‘I’d like to find something in Hailesbank if I can, but I don’t want to go back to stacking supermarket shelves. There’s been nothing.’

‘Well, keep looking. I always believe that when one door closes, another opens,’ said Adam, who did not believe any such thing. His marriage, to the only woman he had ever loved, was all but over, and his relationship with Sunita Ghosh was doomed. All he needed was the courage to tell her so.

It didn’t take courage, as it turned out. It was more a matter of cowardice.

When he set the alarm and pulled the front door of the Blair King office shut behind him for the last time, he knew exactly what he wanted to do for the rest of the evening – light a fire in the stove in Lexie Gordon’s studio cottage and crash out in the magical healing space. Alone.

Forty minutes after he left the office for the last time, he steered his car round the side of the big house and past the windows that had been Molly’s apartment. He didn’t look up. Thinking about Molly still saddened him. He left the gravel drive and pulled on to the grass under the trees. It would be the last time he’d use the car for a while. Now that he was going to have time on his hands, he would cycle everywhere – even to the station in Hailesbank, if he landed an interview in Edinburgh. It was time he got some air into his lungs.

The cottage was freezing – there was no heating, only the wood-burning stove in the studio room and a couple of portable fan heaters. Adam changed quickly into jeans and a sweater and hung his suit on the back of the bedroom door. Maybe he’d take it to the cleaner’s. Now would be a good time because he had every intention of having a break before he started looking for another job.

Adam liked the cold. He liked its unforgivingness. You couldn’t argue with cold; it bit into skin and turned blood to ice. The only way to ward it off was with fire, and fire was a life-giving force. There hadn’t been an open fire in the Trinity house, and since he’d moved in to the studio he’d taken a particular pleasure in the ritual of laying the fire and of tending it – scrunching newspaper into tight sausages, laying on kindling, watching it catch light. The stove was old, but efficient. Within minutes, the fire was alight; in less than ten, it was sending its comforting heat out into the room.

He stood over it until it felt established, then crossed to pull the heavy curtains across the tall French windows. He guessed they were probably cast-offs from the big house, because although they were shabby and worn, they were clearly good quality. He fumbled for the switch in the neck of the table lamp that nestled on the bookshelf by the television (his sole import into the cottage), and soft light flooded the space. He pressed a button on a floor switch and the standard lamp behind the sofa glowed. To his left, the rest of the room – Lexie’s studio – remained in darkness. He hadn’t touched her space. He didn’t need it, and one day soon, she probably would.

He didn’t want to think about Lexie coming back here, because that would mean he’d have to move out, and he loved this place. He loved being alone in it. So far, he’d successfully defended it against Sunita’s hints.

‘It’s too basic,’ he told her, ‘you’d hate it.’ Or, ‘You couldn’t stand the cold. I promise you, it’s Baltic.’

He didn’t feel like eating. What he felt like was getting grandly drunk.

There was a bottle of whisky on the bookshelves. Macallan – The Macallan – his favourite. He found a glass and filled a small jug with water, then switched on the television. Some drama was on, dark and confusing, but watchable. He poured himself a glass of whisky, shoved another couple of logs into the stove and stretched out on the sofa.

What better end to a difficult few months? Dark drama and drunkenness. He smiled at the empty room, and at his thought.

Some time later, he awoke to the heavy thump of the iron knocker on the front door.

‘Wha’? What the—?’

He sat up abruptly. The half-empty glass of whisky that had been resting on his stomach, cradled in his loose grasp, went flying across the rug and there was the sound of glass shattering.

‘Shit!’

The stove was almost out and the room had grown chilly.

Again, there was a battering at the front of the cottage.

Half asleep, he stumbled along the corridor and hauled open the heavy door, which scraped over the flagstones.

‘What is it?’ he grunted, peering into the darkness outside.

‘That’s not much of a greeting,’ said Sunita, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek.

‘What the—?’

‘Can I come in?’

Adam reached out for the switch and light flooded across Sunita’s face.