Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Chapter 12

Richard

Sitting by me at the conference table, James runs a finger along the outline of a plan for D-Site. “So, if we complete the groundworks on sectors three and four here… by next week, we can move the heavy machinery on to sector five here and start laying the infrastructure for…”

Outside the office, Francis’ phone rings but neither of us takes much notice. James continues speaking… “… the electricity and the water supply…”

Francis taps in perfunctory manner on the door then pokes her head round. “James…” She flicks a warning glance to me…

Worried?

James looks up. “Yes, Francis?”

“Kirstie is on the line. She says you have a visitor downstairs.”

Not his ex again..?

It upset him enough the first time…

James’ straightens up in his chair, his chin tilting. “Who is it?”

“She says she's called Georgie and that you would know who she is.”

James rises from his seat as though he is on strings. “Tell her I'm on my way down.”

He looks as close to flustered as I have ever seen him. “Richard, my apologies. Can we put this on hold for a few minutes… Georgie is my daughter. I’ve not seen her for…”

“James, I know who Georgie is. And of course, you must attend to her.”

“Thank you, Richard. Francis, would you make a pot of tea please and um, are there any of those malted biscuits? They were always her favourites.”

“Of course, James.” Her voice is brisk and professional, but her back turning to him, Francis breaks into a delighted grin, winking at me as she heads for the coffee machine.

James moves from one foot to the other as he waits for the elevator, then steps smartly inside as the doors swish open.

*****

James

Georgie is there, waiting in the lobby, chatting with Kirstie. The two are laughing, Kirstie nodding her head as though at some joke. The pearl on that velvet choker she wears bobs with the movement.

And my daughter... My beautiful daughter…

She’s dressed smart-casual, in well-cut pants and a long-line leather jacket that enhances her height. Her long dark hair is tied back and up, and her make-up is just enough to do its work; mascara to enhance her dark eyes and a touch of colour on the lips…

You look great…

Taking care of yourself…

“Georgie! It's wonderful to see you...”

Do I hug her?

“Hi Dad.” She smiles but seems uncertain.

No hugs then…

It’s been so long…

Does she think I'll be angry with her?

“Come on up. You must be cold. Let's go upstairs. Get a warm drink inside you.”

In the lift she doesn't say much, but then, lifts are always awkward places to talk. As the doors open to the directors’ floor, Francis is spooning tea into a pot, filling a milk jug. I gesture Georgie to my office.

She wanders around inside then stands, arms folded, looking out over the panorama. “Nice view,” she comments. “Nice office.”

“Director’s privileges.” Something coils inside me. “Sit down, Georgie. Make yourself comfortable. Let me take your coat.” She sits but doesn’t remove her jacket.

Her eye wanders my office again then settles on my desk. “You have my photo.”

“Did you think I wouldn't?”

“It's a bit old.”

“It's the only one I have. Your mother kept all the family memorabilia.”

Francis knocks then bustles in with a tray. “Malted milk as you asked, James.”

“Thank you, Francis.” I bustle, stirring the tea, pouring a little milk into the cups, then push the plate of biscuits to Georgie.

She pushes the plate back. “I don’t eat biscuits, Dad. Empty calories…” She pats a lean hip.

“Wouldn’t do you any harm. You inherited my shape.”

She nods at that, but the movement is awkward.

“So…” I hand her cup and saucer… “PhD now. Congratulations.”

She shifts in her seat. “Sorry I didn't invite you to the graduation. You know how it is. Having you and Mom in the same room.”

“I believe I could have coped. I would have liked to come. To see my little girl all grown up, ready to take on the world.”

She shoots me a look like a blade. “I meant Mom. She didn’t cope well when you left her the way you did.”

Christ...

Here we go again.

“Why don't we talk about something else than your mother.”

“You don't want to know how she is?”

“I saw her recently. She came here.”

“To see you?”

“To ask for money. You didn't know?”

Georgie doesn’t meet my eye. “She's in trouble, Dad.”

“Georgie, whatever your mother told you, I left her with plenty of money. And she was the one who wanted out of the marriage. Not me. At least not until I realised she had a lov… Someone else.”

Her eye drops to my left hand. Heat in her eyes, “You're married now? But you didn't invite me to the wedding? What's the difference?”

“I couldn't invite you. It's... complicated.”

“Is that right?” She takes a sip of the tea then puts the cup down. “Mom tells me you're doing well. Big important job.” She waves a hand over the room.” Big important office.”

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“It's good work and I enjoy it.”

“And you're well paid too. Richard Haswell's co-director.”

My gut churns. “Yes, it's well paid.”

“But you can't help Mom? Or you won't help her?” Her eyes narrow, accusing me.

“That's why you're here isn't it? Not to see me. You’ve come to ask for money for your mother.”

“I don't see why you can't help her, Dad. You have plenty.”

“Georgie, your mother took every penny I had...”

“You walked out!”

“She had the house, the car, the money. She had a lover.”

“She told me you left her with nothing.”

“Georgie, she lied…”

Her voice drops to a hiss. “Don't you talk about her like that.” She picks up her cup, takes another mouthful of the tea.

I follow suit, then, “How much are we talking about?”

Silently, she reaches into a pocket, pulls out an envelope and passes it to me.

A bailiff's notice.

Quickly I scan the text, halting at the bold red total at the bottom of the sheet.

How the fuck has she got herself in for that kind of cash?

Spendthrift...

Georgie says nothing, watching me with accusation in her eyes.

Equally silently, I reach for my desk drawer, take out a cheque book. Rounding the total up, I sign and date it, then pass it to my daughter.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

And the silence drags out.

“I'd better be going,” she mutters, standing.

I stand with her. “I'll see you downstairs.”

“There's no need.” She turns and exits. I follow her out to the elevator.

“Bye, Dad.”

“Goodbye, Georgie.”

And sweeping past Richard and Francis, returning to my office, I close the door behind me.

*****