Across Enemy Lines Ch. 02

Author's note: apologies for the delay- been on holidays- also for any inaccuracies to those of you who are business experts. I'm certainly not!  Luckily this is a romance and not a how-to of hostile takeovers.

*

Monica pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. Her back was starting to ache and she was exhausted. It was almost eleven o'clock and the office smelt of the stale coffee that had been sitting in the percolator for the last three hours.

"No luck?" Fran's voice was weary.

Monica sipped her tepid coffee and wrinkled her nose. "Whatever we're going to find, the internet's not the way," she said. "Everything about Halpern Industries seems legit. Not a sniff of scandal, financial or otherwise. Any luck on Cross?"

Fran shrugged. "He seems pretty good at keeping in the background. It's always Charles out there in the limelight, and him lurking around in the background. Although here's a fascinating fact... Cross's wife owns some sort of designer cake business, quite near here, actually." She sighed. "I'd murder my gran for something sweet right now."

"You and your sweet tooth." Monica pulled her glasses off her head and out of her hair and thought about Rupert Cross. Pale blonde hair, even paler blue eyes and quivering nostrils that always seemed to be sniffing slightly-sour milk. He had a face that just missed being handsome or interesting; blandness ruled his features and nondescript business suits which he tried- and failed- to brighten up with Paul Smith ties.

A fragment of memory came to her just then, of Charles's birthday all those years ago. His parents had thrown a lavish bash at their country mansion in his honour, and invited journalists from the Tatler for good measure. There was a marquee in the garden, a string quartet of musicians playing in the Victorian bandstand, and the flower beds were in full bloom. Tuxedo-clad staff wandered through the clumps of guests with silver trays of triangular sandwiches- cucumber, cress and Italian ham- and flutes of champagne.

An elderly woman, who'd apparently been Charles's nanny, had taken him by the elbow just a few feet away and was pinching Charles's cheek and commenting on how tall he was. Monica sipped at her champagne and wished she'd worn different shoes. Her stilettos were sinking into the lawn and her ankles were aching with the effort of remaining upright. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun for a moment, and listened to Charles's easy laugh. He was so good at these occasions; she was so awkward.

As she leaned forward to put her empty glass onto the table, her heel caught on the grass and she stumbled. Flushing, she looked around the garden to see if anyone had noticed, but the only eyes that were staring in her direction were the steely ones of Charles's father. He and Rupert Cross had laughed together then, behind their hands, clearly at her. Just one of the many small humiliations from her previous life that she tried so hard to forget. And yet Rupert had seemed to be there for most- if not all- of them.

"Do you remember a couple of women at the retreat?" she asked Fran suddenly. "I didn't actually see them..." She flushed as she remembered that she had been hiding in the toilet at the time, then searched her memory. "Older women, one of them was called...Linda? Lydia?"

Fran frowned. "Could be Lydia Goldman. She's general manager of DIS. I don't remember anyone else of that name. Didn't talk to her though."

"Might be worth getting in touch with her," Monica said. A quick search brought up the contact details for Lydia Goldman, and she dashed off a quick email, a brief outline of the situation and a request for a meeting. Another yawn forced its way out, so huge she thought her jaw would break. "I'm calling it a night."

Fran looked around the office. "Just you and me here," she said. "So much for the "stronger" sex." Her fingers punctuated her sentence with imaginary quotation marks.

Monica smiled. "There was a football match on," she said. " To be honest, we'd have been better off watching it than sitting here all night. Come on, let's get out of here."

"Halpern Industries is having its annual Entrepreneurship Awards at the Hilton next week," Fran said, clicking her browser shut and switching off her computer. The chimes of Microsoft saying goodbye was a welcome sound.

"Great," Monica's voice was flat. She was far too tired to get interested in anything, even an event that Charles would be attending. She stifled a yawn. "See you in the morning."

When she got home, she slid her shoes off and wiggled her toes before easing into her pink fluffy slippers. The light was blinking on her answering machine and she hit play as she went into the kitchen. There wasn't much food. A fridge full of condiments and one lonely cabbage that looked a bit worse for wear. The remains of her homemade chicken soup moldered behind the cabbage, but she closed the door and pretended not to see it. She started to fill the kettle and froze when she heard a familiar voice filling the hallway after the beep of the machine.

"Hello Monica." She could almost hear him smiling. "Finally, I wormed your home number off one of your underlings. You're a hard woman to track down. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner tomorrow. We've got a lot to talk about." He cleared his throat. "I quite fancied catching up properly, in fact." The message ended with the digits of his personal mobile.

"Yes, we have a lot to discuss," she said to the kettle. "Like why you're trying to ruin my life, again. God!" She ran her hands through her hair. The tiredness she'd felt was gone. She didn't want to do dinner with Charles, no matter how much he quite fancied it. But still, she found herself replaying the message and saving the phone number into her mobile. It might be useful, she told herself. For business reasons. Or just to know who was calling, so she'd have the option not to answer. Even though- the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became- he'd been using her at the retreat, probably hoping for some inside information to help with his takeover plans. And like a silly schoolgirl, she'd fallen for his charms all over again. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

She poured herself a cup of tea and padded up to her bedroom, her pride and joy. It took up the whole top storey of the apartment block, with sliding doors that led out onto the balcony which she'd adorned with potted plants and creepers and wicker chairs. Her king-sized bed was wonderful to lounge in. The cream walls were bright and yet soothing; the different browns of her duvet covers made her think of chocolate layer cake. Yet she had not shared it at all since she'd had the place renovated. Too many late nights at the office, not enough free time. She adored her home, but suddenly something seemed missing. Maybe she should get a cat. But she had no garden. Keeping an animal trapped inside would be cruel.

She peeled her suit off and slipped out of her underwear, naked against the coolness of the silk sheets. Setting her tea on the bedside table, she took out her book, but her eyes drifted over the words and fixed upon the empty wall ahead, where they played like a projector all the memories that Charles' voice had triggered. Their last day as a couple, before he had walked out of her life. She'd long since stopped wondering why, but now... she couldn't help doing it again.

=====

After she'd handed him the ultimatum that had been simmering in her mind for so long, she'd stormed home, hands shaking with anger and frustration. She ran a bath and sat looking into the water. There was no point getting in. She was too angry to sit still for long. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she dragged her jogging shorts out of the laundry basket and got dressed again. When she stepped outside, the air was cold against her burning cheeks and she took deep breaths, watching the moon break free from the trees and light up the street ahead.

Feet pounding against the pavement, the Walkman in her ears just a distraction. As she sweated the anger out of her system, she felt despair start to cloud her head. How could she possibly win against Charles's parents? And even if he did stand up to them and marry her, as he'd told her countless times he was building up to do, did she really want that life? She imagined the weekends down at their country home, soaking up the insults and forcing her mouth into a polite smile. The dinner parties with the Halperns' aristocratic friends, the silent sneers. You can take the girl out of the council house, but...

She remembered the peeling wallpaper of her childhood bedroom, her father slumped in front of the TV. The clank of hidden whiskey bottles behind the sofa when she sat down. Of course she wanted to be wealthy, to have a life far from the one she grew up with. But not like that, nothing more than a rich man's wife, the decoration on the cake.

When she'd got home that night, she found a message from Charles on her answering machine. "I have to catch the train tomorrow, to Edinburgh. It's business, but...." His voice, strange and hoarse. "Please, let's talk about this. Meet me at the station at ten. Let me at least buy you a breakfast and explain."

The next morning she got up with the sunrise and took a long bath, jasmine-scented candles flickering on the corners of the enamel tub. She tried not to feel too excited. But she was so sure everything was going to work itself out, she took time over her makeup and hair, putting on the floaty summer dress Charles liked, the one with the tiny tear at the back that no one noticed because of the pattern. She slipped her feet into sparkly sandals and tried not to sprint to the train station. It was a beautiful day.

The station was crowded and she stood near a stand selling fresh coffee, breathing in the aroma, holding herself back from buying one because Charles would be there soon and they would share it, just as they would share it for the rest of their lives. Her hope was so powerful that it turned every man into Charles that morning. It just took the hint of a smile, or a pin-stripe business suit on a hard body, the passing scent of expensive aftershave... and she'd spin around, only to be disappointed.

In the end she bought a coffee and sipped at it, tucking her hair behind her ears, staring at the Victorian clock on the wall of the station, losing count of how many trains had gone by, not noticing when the coffee had gone cold. Just watching the clock and waiting for Charles, while the commuters buzzed past, everyone going somewhere, except Monica. Waiting and watching while announcements were made about the latest delays, leaves on the line, the wrong weather, errant sheep. Watching and waiting until her gaze dropped to the ground, her eyes starting to prick with tears. She did not look at the clock again.

= = = = =

Monica woke early and showered quickly, digging her fingers into her soapy scalp to try and shake the beginnings of a headache. The sky outside was dark with clouds, the over-cheery weather forecaster promising thunderstorms as if that was something to be excited about. A message had appeared on her Blackberry sometime while she'd been showering; Lydia Goldman had replied to her email and was suggesting a "chat" over coffee in her office at ten.

That meant going the whole way across London, and her car was still at the garage. Monica felt her mood sink even further. Why was she letting everything get to her so much? Normally she relished a challenge. But when the challenge involved Charles... She pulled on a raincoat over her navy suit and stepped outside. The first spatters of rain hit her face and she squared her shoulders against the whirling wind and turned in the direction of the nearest station, thinking hard.

She barely felt the jostling of the other commuters as she boarded the tube, staring beyond the bland gaze of her reflection at the dark walls of the tunnel rushing past. What would Mr Scott say if he heard she'd fallen into Charles's bed? She was sure that only Fran knew for sure, possibly Nick. They wouldn't say anything, or would they? Well, there was no point worrying about it. What was done was done, and all she could do now was move on, and if Mr Scott needed any proof where her loyalties lay, she would do what was necessary.

Lydia Goldman's office was bright and full of yukka plants, and smelt of new carpet. Just as she sank into the soft leather chair, she felt her Blackberry vibrate. A senior staff meeting at 2pm to discuss strategies for fending off the possible takeover from Halpern Industries. Lydia Goldman herself was not what Monica had expected. She'd sounded quite young, from Monica's vantage point in the toilets at the retreat, but she was at least fifty. Her silver grey hair was short and she wore no makeup save for a bit of gloss and a hint of blush. She smiled at Monica and buzzed her secretary to bring in some coffees.

"So," she said, when the drinks were served, and they'd made some small talk about the weather and the retreat and the stupid paintballing exercise. "I hear we have something in common. I have a proposal for you that could help us both. Would you like to hear it?"

Monica sipped at the hot, bitter liquid and smiled back. "Definitely."

= = = = =

That afternoon at the senior staff meeting, Monica felt as if she was on fire. The meeting with Lydia Goldman had been a treasure that had dropped into her lap; she could scarcely believe her luck. Charles wouldn't get his way now, not if she could help it.

"As you can see from the figures," she said, fixing her glasses firmly on her nose and gesturing to the PowerPoint slide on the screen, "DIS has run into some serious debt, and they're looking for a white knight, so to speak. I've done some introductory calculations and..." she shuffled her hastily-printed notes, " the level of debt- which would eventually drive them into administration- can be absorbed in the long term. According to these figures, we can take the hit, sell off the underperforming shops and concentrate on the online sales, an area which you, Mr Scott, have previously expressed an interest in. They do of course have some stipulations regarding staff, and there's a lot of thrashing out to do. Bottom line, my proposal is this; with this merger and the acquisition of debt on this scale, we'll look a lot less attractive to Mr Cross and Halpern Industries, and may save ourselves in the process."

She sat down, her hands shaking.

Mr Scott leafed through the figures. "Excellent proposal, Monica, and in such a short time too I'll certainly look into it in greater detail, it'll just take a bit of time. All of you bear in mind, we are by no means out of the woods, so keep the ideas coming. Cross just needs another shareholder to buy into his scheme, and then..." He frowned, then gathered the papers together and flicked on the light. "We'll meet again on Monday. Same time, if that's ok for everyone."

Fran followed Monica out of the room and slapped her on the back. "See!" she said, grinning. "That retreat was worth it, paintballing or not."

Monica thought of Charles, the roughness of his hands, the heat of his kisses. "Maybe."

Over the next few days, Monica threw herself into work. With the rumours going around of a potential hostile takeover, the share prices had dipped slightly, and she still had some work on the quarterly budget to finish. It helped her to focus, to forget Charles and the irritating Rupert Cross, all the scheming and dealing that went on behind the scenes. Now that Mr Scott was involved, she had little further contact with Lydia Goldman. It was out of her hands, but she was proud of herself for making such an impression at the meeting, and grateful to Lydia Goldman for her proposal.

To thank her, Monica popped in to a cake shop on her way home that Friday, to order a gift for Lydia. Nothing too fancy, just a gesture of thanks. She remembered the biscuits the older woman had scoffed throughout their meeting and settled on a neat red box full of big gooey chocolate chunk cookies, decorated with gold leaf, destined to melt in the mouth over a fair-trade coffee, which the shop- it looked more like a boutique- also provided in a "Pick-Me-Up" hamper.

She stood in the corner of the shop, looking over the display cabinet while the assistant prepared the gift. Handmade sweets- so delicate that it seemed almost a shame to eat them- lined the display; gingerbread men, frosted candy flowers and little characters from children's stories. It looked like a forest of delights, and she was thinking of buying something for herself when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Why, Monica Stewart!" Rupert Cross said. "Fancy seeing you here in my wife's shop."

Her heart pounding, she forced a smile. "Just getting some cookies," she said. "How are you doing?"

Rupert's thin lips pressed together in something resembling a smirk and he rubbed his hands. "Oh, very well indeed," he said. "You've been a busy little bee, I hear. Nice work with Goldman. I guess the retreat turned out very well for all of us."

She looked at him, keeping her expression bland. "Yes, it was very productive."

"Productive, yes." He was still smiling, and it sent a shiver through her stomach.

The sales assistant cleared her throat and pushed a gift box onto the counter. "Your cookies are ready, Miss Stewart."

Glad of the excuse to look away from Rupert's icy smile, she fished in her purse for her credit card. "Thank you."

Rupert was standing so close behind her that she could feel his breath on her ear. "Enjoy your cookies," he whispered. "That old fool you work for, he can't see a good deal when he's got one. This is business, not personal. He'd do well to remember that."

"Oh please," Monica scoffed. "This isn't the Godfather."

"Because," he went on, as if she hadn't spoken, "if you want it personal, then I can make it personal. Charles has this idea that you two can work together, that he can be your boss. I'd hate to see him disillusioned...again."

She spun around, suddenly furious. "What do you mean, again? Are you threatening me?"

But he just kept on smiling and tipped a wave to the assistant. "See you next week, Laura." Then he walked out into the wind, leaving Monica staring after him, puzzled and half-ready to run after him and tear the smirk off his face with her fingernails. She thought about what he'd said, and shivered. He knew a lot more than he should. Maybe someone at DIS had been talking, or worse still, someone from her own company. Or maybe he was just bluffing. Whatever the case, a bad feeling stirred deep in her gut. It seemed that Charles wanted back in her life, whatever the cost. She only wished she knew why. Tucking the gift box under her arm, she went out into the street. Rupert Cross's blue Jaguar was rounding the corner ahead. She stared after it, feeling the wind on her face, wondering what on earth he- and Charles- were going to do next.

= = = = =

She found out on Monday morning.

Sitting at the kitchen table, she took a bagel and sawed it in half, ready for toasting. The sky was sunny, and hazy cloud made the sun blur and darken. Her muscles were pleasantly tired by her morning run, and she was looking forward to a hot shower when she noticed a message on her Blackberry.

There was an email in her work inbox. A large group of names at the top; a mailshot to all staff from "John Smith" on a Hotmail account. With a photo attachment, a small, grainy picture shot off a mobile phone. The title of the email was Conflict of interest? Her hands leapt to her mouth as the attachment opened, and she saw herself on the screen, pressed against the wall, eyes half closed. Charles pressing against her, his fingers playing with the strap on her dress. Lips inches apart. The look on her face, as if she was drowning in something very pleasant.