The Prisoner(17)

“Come on, Amelie!” she called when I remained sitting. But I smiled and shook my head, content to sit and watch everyone enjoying themselves. What must it be like to be able to afford to pay hundreds of pounds, more even, for the privilege of coming to such a glamorous event?

Aware of Ned’s security guard standing somewhere behind me, I turned to him.

“Don’t you want something to eat?” I asked.

He gave me an amused smile. “Not when I’m working, no.”

I flushed. “Oh, of course. Sorry.”

His eyes met mine and for a moment, the world stopped. There were bottles of sparkling water in the middle of the table, so I reached for one to hide my confusion. As I poured myself a glass, I stole a quick glance and found he was still looking at me. Even more flustered, I turned my eyes to where Justine was standing with Matt Algerson, small plates of food in their hands. As I watched, Ned joined them, interrupting their conversation, and positioned himself directly in front of Justine. A flash of annoyance cast a shadow over her pretty face, and I smiled as she pointedly angled her body away from him and toward Matt. I couldn’t work out if she was doing it because she liked Matt Algerson, or if she was trying to annoy Ned.

Whichever it was, Ned soon gave up and came back to the table.

“You don’t work for me, do you?” he asked, sitting down next to me.

I smiled and shook my head. “No, I work for Carolyn, Justine and Lina’s friend.”

“And what line of work is that?”

“Oh, just a kind of a live-in housekeeper. But I’m studying too.”

“What do you want to do in the future?”

“Law.”

He nodded. “Everyone needs a lawyer,” he said approvingly, then looked curiously at me. “Do you enjoy being a housekeeper?”

“I love it. It’s a dream working for Carolyn, she’s so kind to me. But her partner is moving in after Christmas, so I’ll be looking for a new job.”

He smiled. “Why, don’t you like him?”

I laughed. “It’s not that, he’s one of the nicest people I’ve met. They’ve said I can stay, but they don’t need me in their way.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “We’re going to be looking for another assistant at the magazine in the New Year. The job is basically answering calls and emails, and arranging my diary. If you think it’s something you might like to do, give me a call and I’ll arrange an interview with HR. I’ll also arrange for you to meet Vicky, my PA, as you would be working for her.” He paused. “What do you think? Would you like to come and work at Exclusives?”

I thought of Lina and Justine, and his security guard, who I was sure could hear every word.

“Yes, I think I’d like it very much.”

A woman, dressed more casually than most of the other women I’d seen that evening, approached the table.

“Mr. Hawthorpe?”

Ned looked up. “Yes?”

“I’m Sally Webster, from the Mail.”

Ned’s face hardened. “This is a private evening.”

The young woman took no notice. “Can I ask you about the Hawthorpe Foundation? Is it true that your father doesn’t want you to have anything to do with it? Can you confirm that you’re barely on speaking terms?”

But before she’d finished speaking, Ned’s security guard was propelling the journalist toward the door.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


PRESENT

Last night, when the man came with my evening tray, I wanted to ask him when he had removed my spoons. But acknowledging their disappearance would have given away something about me, it would have told him how much it had destabilized me to find them gone, and I preferred to let him think that it hadn’t bothered me at all. But it had bothered me so much that I forgot to listen to whether or not he’d left the key in the door. I need to listen carefully this morning.

At last, he comes. Pulling the blanket around me, I lay my head against the wall and close my eyes, wanting him to think I’m not quite awake when in reality, all my senses are on alert. I hold my breath, my ears desperate for any sound. But it’s difficult to hear if he pulled the key out of the lock before entering the room, or if he left it in.

He puts the new tray down, picks up the old one.

“Thank you,” I say. “Have a nice day.”

Why am I talking? I curse my nervousness, I need to stop, he’s moving toward the door—I’m right, he goes straight through it without pausing. The door closes and is swiftly followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock. I fist-punch the air; it’s what I hoped. When he comes into the room, he leaves the key in the lock.

Today, it’s harder to eat the porridge because of the sameness. But I know what they’re doing. If they brought different food each day, it would give me something to look forward to. A certain kind of hopefulness. And hope is not something kidnappers want to instill in their prisoners.

I’m not sure if my ears are becoming more attuned to picking up sounds, or if Ned is speaking more loudly than he usually does, because I can hear him from where I’m sitting, not the actual words but the rise and fall of his voice. I push my tray out of the way, move my mattress away from the corner, lie on my stomach, and hang my head over the end of it.