Astonishingly he said, ‘The last time I saw you, you were seventeen years old, gleaming golden with the gloss that money and confidence and a good school gave you. Your stepfather was the town’s only accountant—and comparatively rich—and you intended to go to university and become a lawyer. You’ve come a long way from there.’
She pressed her lips together.
He said impatiently, ‘You can tell me about it tomorrow morning at eleven in my office.’
‘I can’t come in to your office—’ she began, indignation edging the words.
‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the boy.’
‘His name is Simon, and he won’t wake.’
‘It makes no difference what his name is,’ he returned curtly. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wallet and opened it, removing a card. ‘Eleven tomorrow morning,’ he reiterated, setting it down on the table. ‘Make sure you’re on time. If you don’t turn up, Olivia, the next person on your doorstep will be a policeman with a warrant for attempted extortion. That second letter was not a good move.’
He turned and went down the stairs, moving swiftly and gracefully. Shivering, Olivia switched off the inside light and walked out to the edge of the balcony.
‘His car was parked in the light of a streetlamp. As she watched he opened the door and got in beside a woman clad in some crimson material. Blonde hair gleamed like satin as she turned a smiling face away from Olivia. Then the car door closed behind Drake and the internal light blinked out.
Shaken, Olivia turned and went back inside.
The next day was fine, one of those brilliant days when the sky was a cool, polished blue so deep that it seemed like a lapis-lazuli bowl inverted over the city. After leaving Simon at school, Olivia set off to walk as far as she could into Auckland before exhaustion forced her to catch a bus.
Five minutes early, she presented herself outside Drake’s office in Grafton, her feelings raw with outrage, her head held so high that her shoulders ached. The building was an elegant block guarded by security men and glossy receptionists, all of whom looked at her with variations of the same smug astonishment.
She knew why Drake had insisted she come here. He’d wanted to intimidate her. And after she’d trekked over an acre or so of slippery marble she had to admit that he had succeeded.
‘This way, please,’ murmured his secretary, a rather large but superbly groomed woman of middle age, as she headed off across more expensive flooring, this time a carpet whose close velvet pile made Olivia’s hot, tired feet curl.
Seated behind a huge, dark wooden desk, Drake was checking through a sheaf of papers. He got to his feet and said, “Thank you, Maria.’ After a narrow-eyed scrutiny of Olivia he added, ‘Bring a tray, please, with something to eat.’
When the door had closed with an expensive lack of noise behind the woman, he said, ‘Sit down, you look worn out.’ He waited until she’d obeyed before resuming his seat behind the desk.
‘I am,’ she snapped, furious with him for making her come all the way here.
That unpleasant smile curled his mouth. ‘Bad night, Olivia?’
‘Not particularly,’ she lied, wondering what he’d say if he ever found out that her sleeplessness had been caused more by the glimpse of the woman beside him than by his threats.
He’d probably laugh; he’d certainly use such knowledge against her.
Her letter and the torn cover of the magazine were in front of him, a jarring, tawdry note in that expensive, restrained room. Drake’s lean, tanned forefinger didn’t quite touch the cheap sheet of writing paper. He said, ‘You have nerve, Olivia, but extortion is a serious crime. And I’m starting to get just a bit sick and tired of this harassment. Push me any further, and I’ll see you in gaol.’
He meant it too. Olivia knew that she’d let her anger override common sense, but she couldn’t back down now. She looked at him steadily.
‘If that’s all you wanted me to come in for, you’ve wasted both my time and yours,’ she said, making no attempt to hide her disdain as she got to her feet. ‘I despise men who think they have some macho right to get women pregnant and then abandon them. Simon needs your help now more than he’ll probably ever need it again. If you never do anything else for him, you can do this. You had your chances; you had loving parents who did their best for you. Simon only has me.’
‘Sit down,’ he said without any inflection.
She shook her head.
‘Sit down, Olivia, or I’ll call the police right here and now.’
She looked into eyes so lacking in anything but an inflexible determination that they froze her right through to her soul. With an enormous reluctance—and only, she told herself, because she was so tired—she sank back into the chair.
‘And if I do this for him,’ he said coldly, ‘what will you want the money for next time? Because blackmailers never stop, Olivia. Even when they believe their reasons for extorting the money are impeccably moral.’
Maria came in with a tray, setting it down in front of Olivia.
‘Thank you,’ Drake said, waiting until the older woman had left the room before commanding, ‘Pour yourself a cup of tea. And eat something, for heaven’s sake. You look like death.’
‘I’ll just have milk,’ she said. ‘I don’t drink coffee or tea.’
‘Still?’ His smile was thin and too perceptive. When she had poured a cup of milk he resumed, ‘Go on, have a sandwich. They’re very good.’
‘How do you know?’ They looked delicious, but pride forbade her to eat anything that he’d paid for.
He laughed softly. ‘I quite often have them for lunch.’
Hoping sourly that one day he’d understand how lucky he was to be able to afford them, Olivia drank some milk. The cool liquid slid down her throat, but instead of soothing the rawness it inflamed it. She took a deep breath and had to hold it to stop an incipient cough; when she finally breathed out, her chest wheezed faintly. Hoping that it wasn’t too audible, she took another sip of milk. She didn’t want to betray any weakness at all—not even physically.
‘All right,’ Drake said calmly, ‘exactly how did you come to be looking after Simon? Why didn’t you go on to university as you planned?’
She finished the milk and looked down at her hands. The sandwiches intruded into her line of sight. Firmly ignoring their seductive appeal, she said with enormous reluctance, ‘I couldn’t leave my mother.’
‘Why not?’
‘She—relied on me. She needed me. She was ill.’
It told the relevant details; it hid so much more.
Eyes the wind-driven grey of an arctic sea scanned her face. ‘Your mother told you that I was the boy’s father?’
