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“It’s good. I’m on target and hoping to win a few more clients to beef up my portfolio.” Opportunities for partnership are rare, and this one was quite unexpectedandcame up much sooner than I anticipated after one of the senior partners was taken ill and decided not to return to work after doctors diagnosed a ministroke. I just need to accelerate my momentum and prove I’ve got what it takes. That means hitting targets. Actually, it means smashing them, and I’m on track. It’s a good thing, since the end of the financial year is looming.
“If I was stinking rich, I’d give you all my money,” Charley says, and I smile. “But I’m not, so I can’t.”
“It’s the thought that counts.”
“Is that slimy prick still ruffling your feathers?” Abbie asks. “What’s his name?”
“Leighton Steers.” I grimace at the mere mention of him. “He’s my only competition to make partner, but he’s solid competition.” And ruthless. “I just need to stay one step ahead of him.”
“You’ve got this.” Abbie slaps my wet knee and slips back into the water. “Another few laps?”
“I’m in.” Charley pushes off the side of the pool.
“I might go in a steam room,” I say as they swim away, a nice, peaceful, steady breaststroke. I watch them disappear under the glass wall into the outside area. The pre-spring sunshine is strong. Mum always says March was historically dull before I was born. The sun today is backing her up, reflecting off the rippling water, casting arrows of light up every glass wall surrounding me. It’s unusually mild for this time of year.
I look up to the vaulted glass roof, where climbing plants twine around the steel beams that support the glass structure. A modern twist on a classic, I think, as I brush my wet hair back. It seems to bea theme around Arlington Hall. I plant my hands on the tile either side of my thighs and glance around. It screams tranquillity. The entire place.
Breathing out, I get to my feet, collecting a white Egyptian cotton towel from the wicker basket by the white glass door that leads into the ladies’ changing rooms, wiping my face as I push my way through and wrapping the towel around my waist before retrieving my mobile. Two missed calls from Nick. I wince.Delete.One text.
Amelia, please answer my calls. Nick xxx
Another wince.Delete.I load my inbox, chewing the inside of my cheek as I do, scanning down the dozens of emails that have come in while I’ve been unplugged. My heart hammers a little bit faster. I’m going to be up all night clearing these down. I spot one from my boss, Gary, and the subject line catches my attention. I open it.
To: Amelia Lazenby
From: Gary Panter
Re: I wouldn’t usually disturb you on your day off, but ...
I just heard a rumour that Tilda Spector is winding down.
I bite down on my bottom lip, not wanting to get ahead of myself. It’s just a rumour, after all. Tilda Spector is a renowned independent adviser, massively respected in the industry. She’s a force, andifshe’s thinking of winding down, that might mean she’s looking for someone she can trust to take on some of her clients. This could push my portfolio from impressive toreallyimpressive. The first time I met TildaSpector was about a year ago at the FSA Annual Finance Conference; this year’s event is coming up next week. We hit it off immediately, and she’s kept in touch ever since, dropping me an email every few months or so to say hi and to see how I’m getting on at LB&B. Gary joked he was worried she was looking to poach me. I just smiled. That would be a massive compliment, if it were true.
My mobile rings in my hand, startling me, my ex’s name flashing on the screen. “Damn.” I throw it back into the locker and slam the door, the guilt borderline unbearable, then walk away, the ringing getting quieter until it’s gone when I’m out of the changing rooms. It’s been a few weeks since I walked out. We clearly want different things, and I don’t know how else to remind him of that.
So I stopped taking his calls.
A Turkish bath greets me when I push through some double doors, and around the white tiled room are a dozen or so doors leading to various steam rooms and saunas.
I unravel the towel and hang it on a hook outside a steam room, then open the door. Steam billows out, knocking me back a bit as I step in and check the digital dial on the wall, pulling the glass door closed behind me. “Jesus,” I whisper, feeling the burn on my face immediately. I quickly knock the gauge down from fifty degrees Celsius to forty-five and move through the cloud of steam, lowering to the built-in bench and propping my feet up on the one opposite, stretching my legs, feeling the tug of my muscles.
Exhaling loudly, I let my body loosen and my breathing fall into a steady, deep pace. My head drops back, my eyes close, and I take a moment in the quiet to just ... be.
Just ten minutes. Sweat out the impurities, cleanse my skin.
Get rid of the stress.
The guilt.
Quiet.
Breathe.
Relax.
Bliss.
I hum, wondering if I should reach out to Tilda Spector, let it bemechecking in with her for once. It’s got to be two months since I last heard from her. I make a mental note to check. Or would it be too obvious if I contacted her now, given the rumours? I hum again. Only if the rumours are true. Are they?