Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“We have just been reminiscing about the good old days back home.” Peter’s face was flushed from a mixture of Prosecco and hearty laughter.
“We have indeed!” laughed Sean, a fake laugh that got my back up. I noticed that the American accent had faded somewhat for the benefit of his audience. I’d once joked that Sean kept the accent in his back pocket to put on or take off as he saw fit.
“Good old days?” I smiled. “Sean wouldn’t think of them as the good old days, surely? He’s a full-fledged yank these days. Although the accent seems to have faded somewhat this evening.”
Sean’s smile became even more forced. “Ah, there’s no place like home!”
“God, lads, I miss it. Every minute I spend in the US of A is a minute I wish I could have spent in Ireland, you know?” Peter was wistful, and I wondered how much Prosecco he’d had.
“I do know,” I said, and I meant it.
“We are all just waiting for the day when Keegan finally makes the move back where he belongs,” Sean added.
Peter gestured at his empty glass and made off towards the bar with a friendly slap on each of our backs.
“Why did you have to do that?” Sean hissed at me when Peter was out of earshot.
“Because you’re a fucking phony,” I smiled, raising my glass to acknowledge a group of new arrivals who had just walked into the room.
“I’m keeping him sweet. It’s my job,” he said through gritted teeth.
“And I’m providing some balance. It’s my job,” I replied.
“Like hell it is,” Sean was furious, as I knew he would be. “Maybe if you put more effort into your actual job and less into undermining me, you’d actually get somewhere.”
“Like where?” I turned to him now. “Where is it you think you’re going? You’re already at the top of the ladder. We both are, and we got there because of the family. Don’t act like you built this all up.” I gestured at the crowd, mingling in their finery, laughing, and gossiping, the American dream in Technicolor.
“I have something you lack. Ambition. I’m not going to throw away what we have. You might not care what happens to this company, but I do.”
“Very admirable, Sean. But I have seen how you treat people, and I wouldn’t call that caring. I wouldn’t call it a success either, for that matter.”
“What would you know about success? You are treading water, pissing it all away until you turn thirty-five and get your hands on the money–” He was interrupted by the return of Peter, and I made good my escape.
It was best we left it there. He was right. When I turned thirty-five, the money in trust for me from the business was freed up and I could walk away. Before then, if I put a foot out of place, I forfeited the lot. It was our father’s idea of teaching us responsibility. He gave us positions in the company, but we weren’t getting a free ride. Or a penny of inheritance until we had served out our time. As my younger brother, Sean was desperate to be rid of me, and I understood why. But I didn’t understand why he had to be such a dick at every opportunity. I looked for Lucy, and as if by magic, she appeared by my side, her hand slipping gently around my arm and her head resting for a second on my shoulder. A photographer gestured to us to pose, and while I would usually have directed him to Sean, who was both more photogenic and more willing a public figure, I gave him my best smile and held Lucy close. The flash went, and I considered the evening’s duties complete. I put everything out of my head other than the pressing need to see this silk dress on my bedroom floor.
Chapter 7
FREYA
I’VE NEVER been a fan of Monday mornings, but as I sat on the bus on my way to Clover House I felt sick to my stomach. I had spent the weekend trying to get organized and prepare as best I could for my new life as Effie Hancock, the friendly but unremarkable new intern at Clover House. I repeated the name over and over in my head. I was not Freya Hamilton. I was Effie Hancock.
I would smile and make coffee and gain everyone’s trust, and sooner or later someone would let something slip about the true origins of the new game. Or an opportunity to do some snooping would come along. I tried to silence the rational voice inside my head that told me how unlikely it was that either of these things would happen. What choice did I have?
The pressure was all the more real now that my sister knew what I was up to. While I had planned to keep it all secret for a little longer, she was kind of crucial to my success. To my annoyance, it all came down to style. In that Beatrix had it, and I didn’t. Beatrix had a walk-in wardrobe with color-coordinated outfits for every occasion. I had a jumbled closet packed with clothes that she called ‘bo-ho’ when she was being nice and ‘hand-me-downs’ when she wasn’t. For every sequin-covered ball gown that Beatrix had hung immaculately in dry-clean wrapping, I had five soft T-shirts from fundraising events. She despaired over my corduroy pants and skin-tight denim, and as for my prized collection of band T-shirts, hard-earned by standing in endless lines for merch booths at gigs, well, probably best not to even go there. So, for me to show up on her doorstep and ask to borrow some sensible work-wear was both a dream come true for Beatrix – who harbored a secret love of corny makeover shows – and a bit of a shock.