the wall behind him as he got to his feet. ‘I think you’d better go,’ he said, the muscles in his jaw jerking furiously. Then he gave a short, mirthless laugh and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You really are priceless, do you know that? You actually thought that coming here and telling me you’d made a mistake—made a mistake, of all things—would be some consolation to me!’
Tom’s chin jutted. ‘I thought it might be,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We all make mistakes, don’t we?’
Oliver shook his head again. ‘Just go, Tom. Before we both say something we’ll regret.’
Tom hunched his shoulders then, but he didn’t move, and Oliver glanced down wearily at the narrow watch on his wrist. It was half past three, he saw, half incredulously. Had it only been fifteen minutes since Tom appeared?
He blew out an impatient breath, regarding his brother’s hunched figure with some ambivalence. What now? he wondered. Was the other man going to make him throw him out? He could, if he wanted to, he knew that. Although Tom was broad and bulky, Oliver was fitter and had at least four inches over him in height.
Yet he baulked at the prospect. The idea of propelling his brother through Mrs Clements’ office and along the corridor that was flanked by other offices on either side was not something he relished. It had been hard enough suffering his colleagues’ sympathy when Sophie left him and his subsequent dependence on alcohol that had ended with his sojourn at Blackstone Abbey. He had no wish to revive those memories, or give anyone the impression that he still cared enough to want to do his brother some harm. He didn’t, he realised incredulously. All he felt was contempt that Tom should imagine he was fool enough to believe his lies.
‘Look, I’ve got an appointment shortly,’ he said, realising that getting angry wasn’t going to do him any good. For some reason, Tom was determined to stick it out until he’d said what he wanted to say. And Oliver had the uneasy suspicion that the worst was yet to come.
‘I know,’ said Tom now. ‘I heard what old Clements said.’
‘Then you’ll realise that you can’t stay here,’ declared Oliver crisply. ‘I suggest you go before you make a complete ass of yourself.’
Tom looked up at him with accusing eyes. ‘You don’t care about me at all, do you? You don’t care what happens to me?’
‘What happens to you ?’ Oliver stared at him. ‘Is that what this is all about? You expect me to somehow put things right between us?’
Tom gave a shrug. ‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
Tom scowled. ‘You’re so smug. Why did I never realise it before? You don’t care about anybody, do you, Oliver? God, no wonder Sophie was desperate for affection. She never got it from a cold bastard like you!’
Oliver was around the desk, with his hand fisted in a handful of the other man’s shirt, hauling him up out of the chair before he could stop himself. ‘You—misbegotten sonofabitch,’ he growled, his fist drawing back to deliver the punch his brother so rightfully deserved. But when, instead of trying to defend himself, Tom merely closed his eyes and prepared to take his punishment, Oliver found he couldn’t do it. With a stifled oath, he flung him back again and strode across to the windows, struggling to regain his composure.
There was silence in the room for several minutes after that. Oliver took the time to regulate his breathing, raking his fingers across his scalp, rumpling the thick mass of dark hair that brushed his collar at the back. He straightened the jacket of his light grey suit, checked that his tie fell smoothly against the pearl buttons of his white shirt. And did his best to remember that he was the victim here, not the apparently humbled man who still sat, unspeaking, in his chair.
Finally, he was forced to turn round again. It was almost twenty minutes to four and he had to get Tom out of there before Sidney Adler arrived. Adler was a local politician who had been instrumental in Faulkner’s being given the contract to design the new shopping complex. He was also a close friend of Oliver’s partner, Andrew Faulkner, and unlikely to be impressed by Oliver bringing his personal problems into the office.
Expelling another heavy sigh, he walked back to his desk and stood for a few moments looking down on Tom’s bent head. Then he said wearily, ‘What do you want, Tom? I can’t give you absolution. And I doubt if Sophie will appreciate hearing that you’ve been here, talking to me.’
‘She won’t care,’ said Tom, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and making a great play of blowing his nose. ‘I’ve probably beaten her to it, actually. She wanted out of our relationship just as much as me.’
Oliver’s jaw almost dropped. ‘What?’ he exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘Did you come here to tell me you and Sophie have split up?’
‘What else?’ muttered Tom, with an indifferent gesture. ‘At present, she’s staying with her mother. Like I said before, it was all a terrible mistake.’
It was almost six o’clock when Oliver left the office.
Adler, he’d found, behaved like an old woman, and he’d spent at least half the time they were together gossiping about other local bureaucrats. There’d been little discussion of a useful nature and Oliver suspected he shouldn’t have shown the old man the bottle of Scotch he kept for visitors. Adler had accepted more than one glass to lubricate his ramblings, and Oliver felt significantly hyper now with the amount of Diet Coke he’d had to consume for courtesy’s sake.
His car was parked in the basement garage. A twelve-year-old Porsche, it had been Oliver’s gift to himself when he’d first gone to work for Faulkner Engineering. It had also been the only luxury he’d refused to sell when Sophie left him. The house they’d shared had gone and most of his possessions. A necessity, in any case, as the loft apartment he’d moved into just didn’t have room for most of them.
Before the divorce, he and Sophie had lived in an exclusive housing development north of Newcastle. It hadn’t been far from the garden centre, which was also situated in a village north of the city, and they had seen quite a lot of his parents and brother then. However, since his father’s retirement, his parents spent at least half the year abroad. They’d bought a villa in southern Spain, where his father’s ancestors had originated, and the old man always boasted he was returning to his roots.
Now, reminiscing about his parents inevitably brought Oliver’s thoughts back to his brother. It hadn’t been easy persuading him to leave quietly, and even now Oliver wasn’t entirely clear what his visit had been about. What had Tom anticipated? he wondered. That he’d be so delighted that Tom and Sophie had parted, all would be forgiven? It was the most naïve kind of reasoning and Tom wasn’t that stupid.
So why had he come? What motive had he had for making the trip? Oliver doubted they could ever be friends again. Not after all that had happened. And if Tom was expecting a different reaction, he was going to be disappointed.
It briefly crossed his mind that Sophie might have sent him. If they’d separated, as he’d said, perhaps she had some idea of resurrecting their relationship. Which was equally ludicrous. Besides, he was flattering himself if he imagined she was hedging her bets.
In any case, he had no desire to rekindle his relationship with his ex -wife. Whatever she thought, whatever interpretation she’d put on the emotional trauma he’d suffered when she left him, he was over it now. And it had never been wholly about Sophie. His brother’s betrayal had
