Accidents Happen (11 page)

Saskia watched the suave man from the London marketing agency that she had hired for today’s presentation to Dad and his partners fixing his smile firmly on Dad, just as she’d suggested. She’d chosen a marketing agency that specialized in design businesses, and the man certainly knew his stuff. It was important, he reiterated, that an agency such as Richard’s quickly prioritized marketing to head off the effects of the current economic downturn. The Richard Parker Agency needed to concentrate on winning new, younger clients with a viral campaign that relied more on a multifaceted social media campaign.

Saskia tapped her feet under the table, watching her father’s face, waiting for him to react. She’d seen him do this so many times with his own staff, keeping his expression completely impassive as an employee spoke, so that by the end you could almost see the sweat break out on their brow as they waited to see which way his face would break: the beaming grin of approval, or the eyes suddenly darting away, robbing them of eye contact, that told them he was not impressed with their efforts.

This time, however, Richard’s face broke the right way. He clapped loudly, the rest of his staff joining in on cue, relieved. ‘Well done, sir! Impressive stuff,’ he said, then, turning to Saskia. ‘Good job, darling.’

Saskia smiled demurely as Richard’s staff gave her another round of applause, as if they had any choice. She was Richard Parker’s daughter, after all.

‘Well done, Sass,’ Richard repeated, as he picked up his car keys from his desk. ‘Right. I’m off to work at home. Playing golf with Jeremy after lunch, if you’re looking for me. Can you talk to the chap about fees and contract conditions?’

‘No problem,’ replied Saskia, patting his arm, then weaved through tables of computers and design drawing desks into her own office, shutting the door and sitting down.

She had done a good job. She knew she had. Another success to chalk up. As Dad often told his friends and clients, usually loudly and embarrassingly in front of her: ‘Don’t know what we’d do without our Sass. Bloody place would fall apart!’

Saskia sighed as she opened up her laptop. Not exactly true. And, anyway, with the salary her father paid her, there would be nowhere to go to. She must be the best-paid office manager in Britain.

Saskia looked at the screen and saw a note to herself: ‘Snores’.

Right.

Checking that Dad was gone, she summoned Facebook and started the process of creating an account for Jack. Ignoring the age-limit warning, she created an account linked to her own email address under her nephew’s name, adding three years to his age and a photo of him wearing dark glasses, where he could easily have been thirteen.

When the nagging doubts surfaced, she pushed them away. If her sister-in-law was really going to dump poor Jack in a new school, it was the least Saskia could do to help him keep in touch with his old friends. She and Hugo had moved schools enough times as Richard built his bloody business empire to know how it felt.

Her finger hovered over the ‘submit’ button for a second. Saskia exhaled and pushed the button. Jack’s Facebook page went live.

She opened up an email message to the marketing agency to request agreements in writing, her mind still on Jack. He was sensible. He wouldn’t do anything silly, would he?

Saskia started typing, blinking hard.

Oh well. Too late now, anyway.

The minute the Scottish man left the cafe, Kate felt the urge to run straight to Blackwell’s to buy his book.

She went to bite her thumbnail and stopped herself.

No.

She made herself summon Jack’s pale, bloodied face again from this morning.

And now she’d made a fool of herself again, talking to a complete stranger about bloody numbers.

The book was a test of her resolve, and she was going to pass it. Buying it would completely contradict what she’d set out to do this morning. If she didn’t get a grip on her anxiety, she was going to lose Jack. What was more useful was to think about what the Scottish man had said.

‘I just don’t think about it.’

How the hell did you do that? She put David’s proposal in her bag. Well, work was the best way to start.

Waving to the waitress, she left the cafe and headed down Cowley Road, crossing Magdalen Bridge above students and tourists punting in the river below, into central Oxford. The elegant greenhouses of the Botanic Gardens appeared on her left. She swiftly turned into the entrance, before she could change her mind and rush to Blackwell’s on Broad Street.

As she entered the cool walled garden, a welcome element of calm descended on her again, as she knew it would. As Helen had once said, it was like a private park in here. No dog poo or footballs flying around. Just a lush lawn among the thick boughs of centuries-old exotic trees. Unless there was some rare disease communicated by a mulberry white or a honey locust tree that she didn’t know about, the odds of something bad happening were instantly slashed. The numbers rarely followed her in here.

Kate settled on the grass between fallen pine cones, under the thick, gnarled branches of the 200-year-old
pinus nigra
that had been J.R.R. Tolkien’s favourite, and pulled out her proposal. Her bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, she made herself concentrate on the various cost breakdowns and lists of planning submissions they’d require because the Islington house was in a conservation area. It was difficult to do without her laptop and the internet, but she managed, enjoying the change of pace of working outside with a pen.

After she’d done that, she pulled out a list of teenage applicants for work placements through the charitable foundation she and David had set up in his name after his death. Only David, Hugo’s former partner, knew how much doing this had helped her, being able to carry out Hugo’s dream, to give financial assistance and support to young adults who shared his passion for historical architecture, yet might not have the means to study or find work.

The first girl caught her eye immediately. Aged sixteen, close to the end of a difficult childhood in and out of foster care, she had been nominated by an eagle-eyed art teacher who’d spotted the girl sitting quietly on a day trip to the Tate Modern, doing beautifully detailed drawings of St Paul’s Cathedral across the Millennium Bridge while her schoolfriends ate their packed lunches and messed around by the river. Kate smiled. Hugo would have loved this girl. Her words were unconfident on the application, despite the teacher’s obvious help, but her interest in historic architecture shone through clearly, with some of her exquisitely detailed drawings included.

Kate marked her application for David to consider. Perhaps a summer work placement at the Islington property would be a good start.

She smiled mischievously, thinking of Richard and how much he hated her helping what he termed ‘bloody no-hopers’ with Hugo’s money. And how much Hugo would have loved her for it. Their own little rebellion against Richard’s conservative, money-obsessed ways.

A pang of hunger made Kate look up at ten to four. Her eyes settled on the bone of her ankle, which stuck out like a round white knob. She shifted weight, and placed one ankle over the other till she couldn’t see it any more.

It was only a second, but the break allowed the Scottish man’s book to infiltrate her mind again. It slipped in as if it had been by the door all afternoon, waiting for the opportunity.

She checked her watch again.

Jack had cricket practice until five, then had said something as she left him this morning, white-faced and quiet, about going to Gabe’s after school. She hadn’t even bothered to argue. How could she?

She put down her proposal and laid back on the lawn. A plane breezed across the summer sky.

The chapter on airline safety moved into her thoughts. David had offered her and Jack his house in Mallorca this summer. It had been the third year he’d offered, and the third year she’d turned him down. But, with that book, she could find out the safety records of the airlines who flew there. Make a calculated decision about the risk of flying.

Would it really matter if she bought the book? Just to help her do that? Three weeks away in Mallorca, without Richard and Helen’s constant interference, might just be what she and Jack needed to find their way back to each other.

Kate’s mind flicked through the other chapter headings she had spotted.

Hang on.

She tore at the grass.

If she had the book, with all its research on statistics, all the facts she’d need to feel in control of her and Jack’s safety would at least be in one place. If she proved too weak to keep her addiction at bay completely, the book would at least stop her endlessly scouring newspaper websites and insurance sites for figures. It would help her break the habit. Like a smoker using nicotine patches.

She sat up abruptly.

Perhaps it wasn’t realistic to try to stop this by herself immediately.

She could just cut down.

Yes. The book would help her cut down, and at the same time concentrate more on fixing things with Jack.

At the thought, Kate’s limbs twitched with excitement at what was about to happen. Before she could stop herself, she jumped up, rubbing away the grass that was ingrained in dark red ridges in her calves, packed up her proposal and ran out of the Botanic Gardens. At the traffic lights, she marched right up Longwall Street, then left along Holywell Street towards Blackwell’s bookshop on Broad Street.

She could have that book in her hands in
ten minutes
.

Kate’s strides quickened. She half ran into the grand double-width of Broad Street, then, when she reached the circular grandeur of the Sheldonian Theatre, crossed over the road to Blackwell’s. So fixated was she on wondering whether the book would be in stock or if she’d have to order it and suffer an agonizing wait, that everything in front of her became a blur of faces, of pastel summer dresses and bare calves and rucksacks and sunglasses and . . .

. . . Then one close-cropped head came into focus.

Kate stopped.

The man.

The Scottish man from the cafe.

Jago Martin.

Right in front of her.

He was crouched down outside the gates of Trinity College further up Broad Street, talking to a young male student.

Kate stopped at the window of Blackwell’s and pretended to look at a display of science books, keeping him in her peripheral vision.

The Scottish man and the student were looking at the tyre of his bike. He was using his finger and thumb to wiggle it. He stood up and looked at his watch, with a slight shake of his head, and said something. The student took back the pump from Jago Martin that he had clearly offered. They waved at each other as the student climbed onto his own bike and set off down Broad Street. As Kate watched, Jago looked back at the tyre.

From here she could see it was completely flat. Burst.

Without warning, Jago stood up and looked around him.

Kate gulped.

His eyes were scanning the street. Kate stood still. She felt his eyes pass over her, and willed herself to be invisible. His eyes kept going – then something seemed to register in his head. They stopped mid-track and returned to her. He gave her a long look and then nodded.

‘Hello again.’ She waved nervously, walking towards him.

‘Oh, hello. What are the chances of this, eh?’ He grinned.

Kate smiled. ‘Have you got a flat?’

He surveyed the tyre. ‘Hmm. I have. I’m wondering if it’s the little bastard whose paper I just failed.’

‘Seriously?’ Kate said, aghast.

‘Nah. Hope not, anyway. Think I went over some glass on Cowley Road.’

‘Oh.’

‘I don’t suppose you know any bike shops around here?’

‘Oh.’ Kate looked round her. ‘I don’t. I know there’s one back on Iffley Road, the one parallel to Cowley Road. That’s the one me and my son use, anyway.’

Kate kicked herself. My son – why did she say that?

The man turned through 180 degrees and pointed towards the High Street with a questioning look on his face.

‘Ah. No. Actually, it’s quicker this way. Through the back streets,’ she replied, pointing in the opposite direction.

‘Seriously?’ he exclaimed, banging his forehead with the flat of his hand. ‘I’ve been going that way all term.’

‘Well, I’m going back to Iffley Road in a minute, if you like – I can show you the short cut.’

Immediately she bit her tongue. Oh God. He’d think she was flirting with him.

She froze.

Or worse, that she’d followed him from the cafe.

What was happening to her today?

‘I mean, you don’t have to, I just . . .’ she stuttered.

‘No. That would be great,’ the man said, standing up and hoisting his bag on his back. Self-consciously, she pushed her hair behind her ears.

‘So, where are you off to?’ he asked.

Kate pointed at Blackwell’s.

‘I was just going to . . .’ She blushed, trying to think of a lie and failing. ‘Actually, I was just about to go and buy your book.’

‘Were you?’ The Scottish man looked incredulous. He rubbed a hand over his close-cropped head, revealing a tanned bicep. ‘God, well, that’s nice of you, but I’m afraid it’s only out in the States at the moment – the British version’s not out till August. But, hang on . . .’ He put his hand into his bag and pulled out the copy from the cafe. ‘Here you go. Have this one.’

Kate gawped, as he held it out. ‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. I got some free ones from my American publisher that I lend to my students. This one was for the little bastard who may or may not have slashed my tyre. But, as his family apparently owns half of Wiltshire, you’re very welcome. Let him get his own.’

He frowned. ‘Hang on. Your family don’t own the other half, do they?’

Kate laughed and shook her head.

‘Good.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I tell you what: I’m going to get myself into trouble round here. My prole roots coming out. Anyway, here you go. Call it a thanks for stopping me going in the wrong direction for the rest of the summer.’

Kate took the book from his hands gratefully. Just feeling its pages sent a thrill through her. It was all she could do not to rip it open and consume the figures in great gulps.