Hooked By Love (3 page)

Amber

Before the previous day was over, I had received the official documentation concerning the eviction. We had twenty-eight days to leave the building. How on earth were we supposed to find the right office space and pay peanuts for rent? Because that’s about all we could afford. Finding an affordable property was a heavy yolk on me, especially since I’d received an email this morning from one of the companies I’d applied to for a job. They were pretty impressed with my CV and had asked me to come in for an interview in two weeks. Was this enough time to get my arse in gear? I had two weeks to save the centre, after which time I could attend the interview guilt-free.

This news I was keeping close to my chest. Under normal circumstances, I would have been straight on the phone to Jen to share the good news, and right about now she’d be telling me what not to wear and how I should do my hair—the sort of chat that went on between close friends. But these were not normal circumstances and as much as I wanted to, I wouldn’t be telling Jen anything. If news of me seeking employment elsewhere came out while I was embroiled in this humongous task of saving our tenancy, it would be a catastrophe. My colleagues, volunteer friends and my teens would perceive me as a coward and a traitor who was leaving them in the muddy shit of this predicament, including Jen. It would look as if I were abandoning Young Minds and leaving them to fight a battle when they had the least power to do so.

I couldn’t remember how many times I must have read that order to vacate. Somehow it made me feel better about my secret pursuit of other work, because the more I read it to find loopholes I could use to stop the eviction, the more I realised how tight the contract was. We didn’t stand a chance of winning this battle and I didn’t need to employ a solicitor to tell me that. Yet no matter how I spun it, how I tried to redirect the wording to find a plausible solution, I couldn’t get past the fact they were throwing us out.

I munched on my marmalade toast as I looked through my kitchen window, watching the street below. I scrutinised the people walking briskly down the road, imagining what urged them to commute every day. I gave each one a fake name and guessed their occupation, their home life, and their capacity at work and in the lives of others.

A mother, maybe single with three children, crossed the road. She looked tired and a bit sad. I wondered if she had a house or a flat, if she had money for food and when she last washed her blonde hair with proper shampoo. What was she looking forward to at this juncture in her life and what were her problems?

A beggar, but not the dirty and annoying type, was minding his own business. His clothing was ragged and old, his face showing signs of exposure to the elements. I wondered how he’d got there. What had pushed him beyond a functioning life and into destitute hopelessness? Perhaps he’d been an alcoholic millionaire once but had lost his home and wife and was unable to pick himself up. Maybe he’d had a good life, but got sick and had to neglect his routine. Eventually, he probably gave up. Or perhaps he’d had a home and had been evicted.

Evicted.

Maybe he was thrown out and left with nothing, too poor to keep up and stuck in a job that paid too little for him to survive. No … this was my scenario, my looming homelessness if I didn’t land a decent job, and my looming total loss of work if I didn’t change the minds of the property developers.

My last piece of toast choked me and I gulped down the dregs of my cold tea. On my way to get my shoes by the front door, I looked in the mirror. I didn’t see an attractive woman in her late twenties with the charm of emerald eyes on Celtic features. No sight of beauty or youth, no hint of vibrancy or zeal. Weariness, worry and woe shaded my light green eyes and pulled at the corners of my mouth. I looked tired. I turned away from the mirror, not needing another reminder of my troubles.

Fridays at the centre were usually filled with weekend anticipation and fun cracks at one another about what we guessed the others would be getting up to over the weekend, but I was certain today would be quite different. I pulled my kinky hair back in a ponytail, leaving it to look unkempt as it twirled to my collarbones.

Feeling a bit under the weather and off kilter in mood, I let out a deep breath, ‘Sod it,’ and pulled the tight long-sleeved shirt over my shoulders. My jeans were stylish, taking the attention off my less than glamorous shoes. I didn’t feel like wearing make-up, but I ran my lip gloss over my lips before touching up my eyes with black eyeliner. After months of financial difficulty, the eye pencil was hardly longer than my thumb and I scraped away at what was left of the point.

The eviction notice, folded in three sections, perked up from atop the glass surface of the kitchen table. Among my mobile phone, my handbag and my coat, it stood out in bright white to distinguish itself from all the other items to remind me of the task ahead. I never knew a piece of paper could agitate me so.

Running almost ten minutes late, I finally collected all my stuff and headed out the door. With every step I took towards work, I felt sicker and sicker, unable to steady the rush of adrenaline at the thought of facing and championing my colleagues.

When I arrived at the building, a group of people stood outside, waiting for me. I had no idea who they were, save for two or three of them, the parents of some of my teens.

‘Miss Cross, what are we going to do about the closure?’ asked a concerned mum with blonde curly hair.

‘I’ll try my best to get us some more time, Mrs. Haig,’ I answered as mildly as I could. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’ll leave undone in this matter.’

My training had tempered me against showing fear or tension. Only now for the first time did I realise the amount of stress this had dealt me. Though it was good to know people looked up to me, it was also strenuous and difficult to keep them all stable and assured.

‘When will you be seeing the new owners?’ another lady asked.

I stopped at the entrance. ‘I’m trying to arrange a meeting with them.’

‘Where will our kids go for help if you aren’t here anymore, Amber? I have no idea how to keep Terry from self-harming without this place, and he was just recovering properly,’ one of the fathers implored in a quivering voice that broke my heart.

‘Don’t worry.’ I tried to smile but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. ‘We’ll work something out. These property moguls are people, just like us. They also have families and I’m sure they have problems we’ve never considered. They’ll understand our point,’ I bolstered, but inside, I felt nothing but apprehension and genuine doubt that these property moguls would give a damn.

Jennifer flicked her eyes up at me as I entered the office—a look that told me to brace myself for a difficult day. Sullen and whispering like funeral attendants, the volunteers waited for me to settle in. I had to start somewhere.

‘Morning everyone,’ I said.

‘Do you have any good news yet?’ Christina asked, her brows ruffled.

All the other volunteers glared at me with static, empty stares, waiting for a spark of hope.

‘Hopefully soon, Chris. Why don’t we meet in the boardroom at ten? We can brainstorm about what we’re aiming to do in the next few days to get the order overturned, all right?’

They dispersed reluctantly to get some refreshments before gathering in the room at the end of the corridor.

‘Wow, I’m impressed at how quickly you managed to come up with the right words,’ Jennifer said, talking under her breath, and winked at me.

‘It’s that obvious?’ I asked, fidgeting with the eviction documents.

She lifted her slender hand to look at her long nails. ‘Not that apparent, but I know your tricks, madam, and I know a spin when I see one.’

‘Well, the only people who have to fall for the spin are the poor souls doomed to be dependent on my aptitude,’ I complained. I hopped up and down like an unhappy child. ‘Can’t you take control of this situation, Jen? You’re younger than me, and you watch
The X Factor
, which means you can represent the youths better. They’ll take the bad news better from you.’

I gave her my most winning grin to persuade her.

‘Ha,’ she cried with amusement. ‘You, missy, are the senior manager … and for a reason. No one will have to tell the kids anything, because I’m absolutely certain you’ll sway the buyers to change their minds.’

She playfully nudged my shoulder and said in a determined tone that I’d never heard her use before, ‘Amber, you’re the only person we can depend on to get us out of this mess.’

‘Great. Nothing like hearing that everyone’s future is on your shoulders.’

In secret, I’d been dreading the kind words Jen had bestowed on me. All they did was fall heavily onto the railroad spikes lodged into my sense of guilt, hammering into my conscience. Once again, my thoughts of leaving the centre jerked me by the heart, reminding me over and over that I was trying to abandon everyone who depended on me.

When I walked into the meeting, I was nervous for the first time in my life. These were my people—friends and colleagues I had known for years—but I was still anxious.

I’m being silly. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not the one throwing them onto the streets without a backwards glance. Get a grip.
My pep talk did nothing to alleviate the heaviness I felt as I sat down at the head of the table and took in all the expectant faces turned towards me.

‘As you all know, the building was sold to Berkley, O’Neil and Associates, a property developing company from central London,’ I started. ‘They have given us a month to vacate the premises.’

‘And that’s the part that gets us,’ Jen filled in for me, looking around the room at the administration staff and volunteers in attendance. ‘They’re not even giving us the opportunity to pay them rent. They just want us out so they can raze this place to the ground and build some bloody flats. As if bricks and mortar are more important than what we’re doing here.’

‘Yes, thank you, Jen.’ I frowned and sounded as calm as I could. ‘The problem is that our tenancy agreement is due for renewal, so our new landlords are within their rights to terminate it. What we have to do is appeal to the Berkley people to let us keep at least one building on the site so we don’t have to move elsewhere. Because we are a non-profit organisation, I’m hoping they’ll understand the difficulties we face and that they’ll at least agree to this one small request.’

I looked around the silent room at the morose faces. They wanted me to say more, so I did. ‘So far, we’ve not heard a peaky boo from them, but I’ll try to contact one of their proprietors ASAP.’

‘I’m not holding out any hope,’ Paul, one of our youngest volunteers at eighteen, told me. ‘These property developers can be right bastards.’

‘I know. But can any of you think of another solution? Can anyone suggest something we could try? God, I’m beginning to think I should have never gone to the press with this.’ I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing my concern to show in the open.

Some of them nodded, but others thought hard on a solution.

‘We can always run a funding campaign to make our benefactors aware of the problem we’re facing. Maybe they can talk to the developers,’ Harry suggested in his usual shrill voice. He was an excellent counsellor and easily appeared a decade younger than he was. He dressed with a casual flair and knew all the trending styles and music, which made him a sure hit with the kids who came in.

‘They know, Harry,’ Jen informed him. ‘And if Amber can’t persuade them to play ball, I doubt anyone else can.’

‘One thing we have to remember is not to panic. There’s no point in worrying ourselves into a stupor before we know how rigid the new owners are concerning these things. Let’s see what they have to say first and from there we can plan our next move,’ I proposed in a serene tone to put them at ease—at least for now. ‘Who knows? Our evictors may be trying to work something out on our behalf as we speak.’

I didn’t believe that for a second, but it brightened the mood of the room.

The faces around the table looked less gloomy, some even somewhat relieved. When I adjourned the meeting, Jen slinked up to me with an impressed expression and nudged me.

‘Well done, Spinner Deluxe. You even made me feel confident about it all.’ She gave me a mocking bow. ‘Impressive, you even look as if you believed it yourself.’

I gave her a wry look and remained silent.

Josh

After I had my personal assistant call several broadcasters, Priscilla Jones at London Morning called me back just as I sat down at my desk, ready to start the day.

‘Mr. O’Neil?’ she asked over the line.

‘Please, call me Josh,’ I replied warmly.

‘Oh, well, uh, Josh. You certainly are more forthcoming than your brother, I must say,’ she noted in a pleasant but firm voice. ‘When my colleague asked him for a quick word yesterday, he insisted they address him with a title. I had no idea there were more accessible gentlemen at your firm.’

She was flirting. I knew flirting and that deliberate put-on husky timbre in her voice was a clear come-on.

Wanting as many people on my side as possible, I went with it and entertained her advances. We arranged for a meeting later that day to conduct a television interview at Mad Hatter’s on Hutchins Street. Being in the property business, I knew that having my interview at an exclusive bar in one of the fastest rising development hotspots would impress her.

Early in the afternoon I arrived at the chosen venue to meet Pricilla, only to be mobbed by a myriad of tabloid representatives. I hadn’t counted on the journalistic grapevine to divulge my whereabouts like wild fire. As they crowded around my car, I made out the weekly tell-all mag reporters that had tried to get an insight into my private life and failed—they can’t get a story on what isn’t there, but that hadn’t stopped them from writing loads of titbits about me in the gossip columns. I also saw writers from the Architecture Journal and LonProp, both prominent publishers of the latest news in London’s estate game.

‘Unbelievable,’ I exclaimed at the sight. ‘How can this closure of the centre be so bloody important?’

I couldn’t believe the attention Amber Cross had garnered with her one humble clip on the local news. Taking care not to hit any of the typewriter vultures shouting out questions, I drove my car into the VIP car park and lost them in my rear-view mirror.

‘Scandal, sir?’ the parking manager joked with me as I hurried for the lift to escape the reporters chasing me.

‘Soon to be, if they can help it, Pat. It’s ludicrous, isn’t it?’ I quipped, wondering if he secretly agreed with Miss Cross and her views.

‘It certainly is, sir. I’ll make sure they stay away from the stairwells too. Sneaky buggers, journalists.’ He chuckled, but he sounded sincere.

‘Thanks, Pat,’ I said quickly and got into the first vacant lift.

The maroon-carpeted cubicle was so peaceful. I closed my eyes for a minute as the lift ascended in silence. Luckily, no annoying elevator music played, which was an absolute boon. I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror. I used the time to give myself a once-over. Having a well-known face and a prominent family name had its drawbacks. I always had to look my best, and even for a man, it took a lot of work.

After Craig’s apparent misbehaviour towards Priscilla, I thought it good to make an impact on her and her viewers. At thirty-two, I could afford the best attire, the best accessories and even the best grooming services to embellish my looks. But none of this ever went to my head, as much as it vexed my brother that I was naturally good looking—if you believed the gossip columns—and quite a catch.

I chuckled inwardly at the silliness of it all. I had never asked to be in the London Top 10 Hottest Bachelors. The face in the mirror was the same one that had been staring back at me for three decades, just a little taller and bigger. It irked Craig—and even angered him unreasonably—that I had inherited my looks from our mother’s side of the family, whilst he had inherited our father’s thickset genes.

Perhaps his anger was because all his girlfriends ended up chasing after me when he brought them home; this happened so often that he stopped inviting me to his ‘love me I’m rich’ parties. Unlike Craig, I stayed away from too much alcohol. I’d made martial arts about more than just defence training, turning it into a weekly fitness regime that kept me fit and healthy.

In the elevator mirror, I made sure my straight, dark brown hair was tucked behind my ears, as I always did when I had to look presentable.

Just as the doors clicked to open, I tucked in the last ear of shirt that came undone from my belt when I’d raced from my car to catch the lift up, away from the mob. I shook my head as I remembered being listed as one of London’s Rebel Rich.

‘Young up-and-coming men who live life by their own rules’ was the tag line in the article, which had run in the business section of The London Times the year before.
Well, rebel rich boy, time to use your charm
.

I trotted along the carpeted corridor. I loathed being late for anything, even for something as mundane as a dentist appointment, let alone a television interview.

‘Mr. O’Neil,’ Priscilla crooned from my left as I scanned Mad Hatter’s for the tall blonde with the sexy voice. ‘Over here. Jessy, get Mr. O’Neil a bottle of Fillico water, please.’

I gestured to the girl Priscilla had given the order to, and she stopped and returned my gaze. I didn’t need to be impressed by a bottle of water that cost over a hundred pounds.

‘Jessy, I’d appreciate an espresso and a vodka and lime … in that order please.’

Astonished, the crew gawked at my blatant disregard for what was considered
in
with the more wealthy cretins of London. I had never been one to fall for trends, so perhaps the Rebel Rich was a fitting adage for me after all. The very fact I
had
money gave me the freedom to do as I pleased. I sat down with my most charming smile plastered on my face.

‘Thank you so much for meeting us here, Mr. O—Josh,’ Priscilla sang like an overzealous coquette. That would usually have me running for the hills, but I had to redeem our company’s reputation and this vixen was one of the most read and listened to voices in the media, so I accepted her gratitude graciously.

‘Oh, the pleasure is mine, Priscilla. Thank you for inviting me,’ I replied.

‘He’s so suave. I could just melt,’ I heard a young star-struck waitress whisper to her colleague a few feet behind me and knew I’d got the ball rolling to my advantage.

Next to Priscilla, a young man sat staring daggers at me. He struck me as the standoffish nerd sort who was too smart for his own good and therefore alienated people with his hostility. Personally, I enjoyed shooting down insufferable know-it-alls, but this was neither the place nor the time to bother.

‘So, when do we start?’ I asked, claiming my drinks from the waitress. ‘Thanks, Jessy.’

The young waitresses moaned behind me. The room was reacting to me just the way I liked it. Jessy joined them out of my sight, but I could discern her excitement that I’d remembered her name.

‘We can start as soon as Henry is ready. He’s formulating his questions.’ Priscilla winked. She leant forward and whispered, ‘Trainee apprentice.’

Oh great.
I thought.
It’s the staring nerd.

‘You won’t be interviewing me?’ I asked the horny blonde newscaster who was trying desperately for me to notice her cleavage, or lack thereof.

‘No, sorry. I would have loved to’—she grinned suggestively—‘explore your world with my own questions, but alas, Henry needs the practice.’

‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’

I sounded jovial, but truthfully, I felt defeated by the circumstances. Unless this bloke was gay, I had no chance of playing my charm card.
Damn.

With him, I would have to give valid answers and that hadn’t really been my intention. I wanted to respond to Amber and give off my best allure, for the company’s sake as well as my personal gain.

‘Mr. O’Neil,’ the brat whined from behind his oversized glasses, ‘Henry George, London Morning. Good to meet you.’

He reached out a hand and I obliged with a hearty handshake, making sure I squeezed his hand just harder than was polite. He had the good grace not to wince. The red light on the camera reflected in his large glasses and I knew we were officially recording. I had to stay at the top of my game and come across as eloquent and considerate as possible. For the life of me, I couldn’t stop sweating under my shirt and wondered whether it was because I knew I was here to do damage control, not to tell the truth.

‘Tell me, Mr. O’Neil …’

‘Please, call me Josh,’ I offered amicably.

‘Uh, yes. Right. Why the Young Mind’s building?’ he asked, clutching his paper that was scribbled on with illegible symbols he must have construed as lettering.

‘Why the Young Mind’s?’ I asked calmly, folding my hands on the table. I repeated his question because I needed time to formulate an answer the public would accept. Honestly, I had no idea why we’d bought the building until Craig had told me loosely the night before to brag about his acquisitions. He’d been ecstatic that he’d been able to get the property for such a good price.

‘The owner regrettably passed on and left the building to his son, who approached us for a possible sale. After inspection, we found the location of the site to be ideal, which, to astute businessmen like us, proved to be a sound investment.’

‘Well done, Josh,’
I heard my inner voice cheer.

Priscilla’s static smile and strategically crossed knees remained frozen in time for the camera. I almost laughed at the ersatz manner of television celebrities.

‘And what will Berkley-O’Neil do with the building?’ Henry asked politely, almost appearing to thaw in my presence. Either he was nervous or he was into blokes. Maybe I had a chance of winning him over after all. ‘I mean, why demolish an entire building when you have four others with far better prospects?’

‘What we at Berkley-O’Neil strive to do with these developments is create jobs and prosperity for the local communities of the properties we procure,’ I replied smoothly.

‘And in doing so, Mr. O’Neil, you intend to take away a valuable service that Young Minds is providing for vulnerable people,’ he retorted instantly. The bite in his tone felt almost personal.

‘That is not what we are doing, mister…?’ I decided to whip him with condescension. ‘Sorry, I neglected to recall your name.’

‘Henry George.’

‘Oh yes, Mr. George. Admittedly, it is difficult for people not in the business world to understand how we operate, so let me explain it for you and the viewers.’ The feeling of watching him recoil exhilarated me. My brother was not the only O’Neil who could put people in their places, except I didn’t have to resort to rudeness to achieve my aim. ‘There are people who need to find jobs, qualified people who worked hard for their accreditations and are now left unemployed because unproductive institutions are occupying buildings like these. How is that fair to hardworking students and professionals?’

‘But did you ever consider those who lose their livelihoods through your buyouts?’ he persisted.

I changed the subject.

‘Once the building has been demolished, we will establish exciting new ventures like restaurants and coffee bars to make this part of London more thrilling,’ I informed them, trying not to sound like a game show host. ‘This amazing transformation will be complete within the next two years, vastly improving the status of Camden and helping local businesses attract a more high-end clientele.’

‘Progress, then,’ Henry reiterated.

‘That’s correct, Henry,’ I replied affably. ‘Berkley-O’Neil sees the potential Camden holds and the new life it can attract once the neighbourhood is put to better use.’

‘Like pushing up property prices, ultimately, as well as rental rates?’ he came at me. ‘Eventually, all the working-class people and students who now call Camden home would have to leave their beloved kicking grounds because they’d be evicted. The very people who make Camden what it is—a cosmopolitan area—wouldn’t be able to afford to live there anymore.’

‘I disagree. As with all new builds in this area, a proportion of the apartments we build will be affordable homes.’

‘I think our ideas of “affordable homes” are probably worlds apart, Mr. O’Neil.’

Priscilla chipped in with her frozen smile and a cheerful tone.

‘So, Josh, tell us what you think of leaving the hardworking people at the Young Minds Centre destitute and unemployed?’ Priscilla asked, shedding her flirtations to confront me properly.

Henry chewed on his tongue through the torment of his superior denying him.

‘Is your company aware of the good work they do there?’ she continued. ‘We recently spoke to their manager, Amber Cross, who also issued a public plea for the charity’s survival. Do share with us your thoughts on the situation.’

I had to say something that would appease them, as they clearly weren’t falling for my evasion tactics.

‘No, Priscilla, I don’t know what they accomplish there, but I intend to find out. In fact, I postponed all of my engagements for tomorrow to allocate enough time to pay them a well-deserved visit,’ I replied swiftly.

Of course I hadn’t really, but I was losing ground.

That was it. I would finally meet Amber Cross.