The Wish List Addiction Page 2

  She depressed the call accept button. “Hello, Bradley.”

  “Rebecca, I wanted to know the outcome of your disciplinary hearing.” No niceties, straight to the point.

  “As expected. Struck off. The Tribunal had no other options.” She paused for his response. Nothing. “Thanks for asking. Yes, I’m devastated. I’m soaked to the skin, I’ve a sprained my ankle, and I’m freezing my butt off waiting for the tube.”

  She slouched lower, hugging her satchel closer to her body for its non-existent warmth.

  “No sympathy from me, Rebecca. You’ve only yourself to blame. It was a ludicrous decision to buy a tumbling down old wreck of a cottage in the back of beyond. Who in their right mind would consider relocating from the bright lights of London to the wilderness of Northumberland? I still cannot fathom out what possessed you to do it!”

  “We’ve been through this, Bradley. I am under no illusion whatsoever regarding what you think of my decision-making abilities.” She lifted her dark auburn curls from her pale face, running her frozen fingers through to the ends.

  “If only you had discussed the matter with me first, Rebecca, you could have avoided this whole fiasco. It was an outrageous presumption on your part. Did you honestly envisage me living amongst the country folk? Tweeds and wellies? You’re even more insane than I gave you credit for! That I would trade in my Porsche for a Range Rover and take up grouse shooting? Crazy, delusional woman.

  “And the fact you even contemplated I would give up my fantastic career. I am close to making partner at Studley Smith, which will mean mega-bucks, and will get me a new, more spacious apartment, maybe overlooking the Thames this time. I’m thinking minimalist, clean lines, flooded with natural light, no clutter or any of those garish soft furnishings you are so fond of! Onwards and upwards, Rebecca. Work hard, play hardball. Enjoy the success—don’t let anyone or anything get in your way, that’s the motto I live by. It’s worked for me, and I’m just about there.

  “But look at you. ‘Think of others’, ‘be caring’—that mentality sucks. It’s weakness and look where it’s got you. You’re a spectacular failure, you know that!”

  Rebecca had endured his soliloquies before. She screwed up her eyes and braced herself for his next barbed attack, which always inflicted the most pain.

  “If only you hadn’t gone behind my back and got pregnant, we could have been living the dream together. Great careers, fantastic opportunities, fancy cars, the X-factor lifestyle, exotic holidays, like Jonathan, and Scott, and their partners. We’re all off to Bali in June. But, oh no, Miss ‘Happily Ever After’ family girl wanted to rush off and build her cosy home. I’ll never forgive you, Rebecca. Never. I didn’t factor a family into my lifestyle and you knew that.

  “Well, you’ve made your nest, as they say. Now you have to live in it. And if you dare have the audacity to ask for child support again, now that you have purposely sabotaged your career—firstly by having an unwanted child, then by the outrageous stupidity of purchasing a dilapidated cottage thereby causing your own bankruptcy, and secondly getting yourself struck off the solicitors’ roll—then you are even more idiotic than I initially thought.”

  Rebecca tucked a coil of auburn hair behind her ear. She had never been able to fight her corner when facing an onslaught from Bradley, but even peering out of her pit of darkest despair, she could not allow him to get away with that disgusting insult.

  “Max is not an unwanted child. He has a mother and a grandfather who love him with all their heart and soul. Not having either of the latter, Bradley Mathews, you are totally unable to appreciate that.”

  Bradley was more the type to work on his external attributes. Immaculately groomed, clean-shaven, short dark brown hair clipped every Saturday morning, golden tan, professionally applied, well-cut, dark charcoal suit, and the obligatory crisp, white cotton Jermyn Street shirt, double-cuffed to display his huge collection of whimsical cufflinks. Only highly shined, Italian leather shoes were acceptable for his baby-smooth, pedicured feet. He even had a signature scent, Chanel’s ‘Pour Monsieur,’ liberally applied.

  “Well, just don’t expect me to come to your rescue with any cash. Cheryl and I will be forking out for completely new wardrobes for this trip to Bali. We’ll need a couple of treatments as well, so we are buffed and bronzed before we hit the beaches.

  “I had no hand in the embarrassing predicament you find yourself in. I am ashamed to admit to my friends and colleagues what has happened. I hope this doesn’t filter down the legal grapevine!

  “Why don’t you sell that God-forsaken place in Northumberland anyway? Soon as you do, you’ll be able to reimburse your father and settle the ill-advised loan which caused this nightmare. Your bankruptcy would be discharged and you could then apply to be reinstated on the Roll.”

  “Rosemary Cottage is on the market, and you already know that! It’s been on the market for the last seven months. But the roof needs patching up, the gable end caved in during the February snow, and the recession is biting hard in the northeast. If I could sell the place I would!”

  Rebecca watched as a tube train slid into the station. Commuters swarmed on, but she let it pass, not wanting to continue the discussion in front of an audience. She swapped hands, plunging her frozen fingers into her pocket.

  “Just proves my point, don’t you think? Who in their right mind wants to live up North? Do they even have theatres in Northumberland? Art galleries? Celebrity chef restaurants? Designer clothing boutiques? Isn’t it all racing whippets and peeing on leeks for the men and the Women’s Institute and knitting tea cosies for the women?”

  Rebecca had heard all the insults before. Even when they’d been together, before Max had arrived on the scene, as a glittering, high-living young professional couple with the legal world their oyster, Bradley had insisted on deprecating her northern roots. She no longer rose to the bait—if it wasn’t for Max, she’d relocate back north in the blink of an eye.

  Twirling a thick strand of her now-dry amber hair around her index finger, she doggedly pursued her futile goal. “Will you come and visit Max this weekend? He’d love to spend some time with you.”

  “Can’t. Me and Scott are off to Brighton for a stag weekend. Marti’s getting hitched at the end of April, the mug. There’re twenty of us dedicated to giving him a riotous send off. Look, Rebecca, I’m going to be busy for the next few weekends. Got an invite to the company’s corporate box at Stamford Bridge. Fantastic opportunity to network. Need to bag a couple more high-profile clients. So I won’t have much spare time. Anyway, why are you eternally hassling me about this? Am I one of your ‘to do’ items on that infuriating bucket list of yours? What is it? Persuade Bad Bradley to step up as a father?”

  “But you haven’t seen him since Christmas. Come with Cheryl, take him to the park for an hour or so. Surely you can manage that? Please, Bradley. He needs to know you’re around.”

  Every conversation they’d conducted, some more cordial than others, over the last two years, had culminated in a plea from Rebecca for Bradley to spend time with his son. Each time Bradley produced an elaborate excuse or a blank, unexplained refusal. He had no interest in anything beyond expanding his materialist empire and experiencing as many exciting moments as he could cram into his luxurious lifestyle. In his view, Max was her son, not his. But, for Max’s sake, Rebecca had to keep on trying and it was for this reason she remained in her tiny, dingy flat above a flower shop in Hammersmith.

  “Maybe I’ll have some time free in May before we fly off to Bali. I’ll ask Sonya to check my diary and get back to you—see what I can fit in.”

  Rebecca’s heart ached for Max. She found it increasingly difficult to stomach these familiar arguments with Bradley about maintaining contact with his son. No more arrows remained in her quiver of persuasion. Every ounce of her energy had drizzled away leaving an exhausted, empty shell.

  “Bye, Bradley.”

  Rebecca contemplated the filthy black rail track
s below her, her body trembling from the temperature and the conversation. If it wasn’t for Max…

  From the moment he had burst into her life, she’d loved him with an intensity she’d never experienced before. Bradley had refused to attend the birth, so her best friend, Claudia, had travelled to London to perform the role of birthing partner, bringing with her a wealth of experience and her wicked sense of humour, having produced three delightful children of her own.

  When Max had been handed to her in the operating theatre, his green eyes—precise replicas of her own and his grandmother’s—his spiky tufts of hair identical in colour, not ginger but the colour of a fox’s coat, she knew she would fight to her last breath to protect him and make him happy.

  What a failure she’d been in that department. Since Bradley had abruptly informed her that he could no longer endure the chaos, surrounded by the paraphernalia of an inquisitive toddler, Rebecca had striven to perform the dual role of mother and father whilst holding down a full-time job as a family litigation lawyer at Harvey & Co.

  Max attended Tumble Teds nursery, conveniently located in a huge Victorian terrace house at the end of their street, run like clockwork by Barbara Babcock, a matronly woman Rebecca struggled to like.

  Max hated it.

  It broke her heart every morning when she dropped him off on her way to work, seeing him standing there at the bay window, waving goodbye, his cherubic little face clouded with sadness at seeing his mummy walk away, a weak but brave smile fixed like glue on his pinched lips.

  He was always the last child to be collected at the end of the day. Mrs Babcock often scolded Rebecca for arriving beyond their closing time, a privilege for which she received a monthly invoice. Bradley had never once dropped him off nor collected him, even when they had been together.

  Rebecca had queried with Max’s keyworker—for that was what his allocated nursery nurse was labeled—why his sleeve ends were always soaked when she eventually did collect him. She was informed Max spent the whole day chewing the ends of his sleeves despite being gently persuaded not to do so.

  It tore Rebecca’s heart out, but she had no other choice whilst they lived in London, initially because their mortgage had been so huge it required two incomes to service, then later to allow Rebecca to pay the hefty rent on the drab flat in Hammersmith. She spent every weekend making up for Max’s week at nursery—swimming together in the local pool, going wild at soft play, attending Sunday school at the local church, and scampering around the local park until Max spotted a dog. Energetic or lethargic, toy-size or extra-large, he was equally terrified of them all.

  Rebecca was aware of the solution to a more balanced, carefree life, but things hadn’t materialised as she had intended. She’d dreamed every day during her filthy, skin-crawling commute to work of relocating to Northumberland where she’d grown up, running wild in the fresh, clean, crisp air, swinging from trees, paddling in the steams, building dams. But it was this ‘pie in the sky’ dream which had led to the destruction of life as she knew it.

  When Bradley had persuaded her to sell the matrimonial home, having his own clandestine agenda for doing so, Rebecca had made the most outrageously ridiculous decision of her calm and ordered life—to purchase a gorgeous, stone cottage in the pretty village of Matfen in Northumberland.

  Rosemary Cottage, complete with ivory roses climbing high around the front porch, was the precise embodiment of her intricately woven childhood fantasy. She’d fallen in love with its symmetrical proportions as soon as she’d laid eyes on the place, taking leave of her senses—again. She’d decided to buy it on the spot, and the complicated scheme she’d dreamt up in order to keep the transaction a secret from Bradley until she could unveil it in all its splendour as the answer to their failing marriage had exploded spectacularly in her face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Monday, April first. Rebecca’s first day at Baringer & Co. She’d taken extra care to tame her fiery curls into an elegant up-twist secured with her favourite tortoiseshell clip. She’s chosen to line her striking eyes with a swipe of jade eyeliner, and a slick of pale peach lip gloss completed her beauty routine. She’d mined her closet for her plainest black trouser suit and flat pumps, hoping to be able to blend into the background. A spray of Chanel No 19 behind her lobes gave her neglected self-esteem a nudge.

  Predictably, April had opened with one of its renowned showers as Rebecca and Max scuttled down the street huddled together under her flimsy, old orange umbrella.

  Max had been more clingy than usual that morning when she’d dropped him at Tumble Teds. The previous evening, as they snuggled together under his Thomas the Tank Engine duvet, his soft, smooth body emitting her favourite aroma of baby shampoo, Max had confessed to her that a boy at nursery, Stanley, was mean to him. He’d followed this night time disclosure up the next morning with a query as to why he still had to go to nursery when Rebecca knew Stanley would be horrid to him that day.

  The guilt! The self-awarded badge of ‘dreadful mother’ worn today next to the shiny new one proclaiming ‘new girl’ sealed her trepidation for the day ahead. She’d be Rebecca Mathews, nee Phillips, neglectful mother, lowly paralegal at Baringer & Co, as opposed to Ms Mathews, senior litigation solicitor at the prestigious Harvey & Co.

  Keep to the newly drafted ‘to do list for failed solicitors’, Rebecca. Keep your head down, your record impressive and any remaining ambitions out of sight. You need to keep this job, and the alterative would be dire, she told herself. She was determined to repay Lucinda Fleming’s generosity with hard work and gratitude, never pushing beyond her perch on the lowest rung of the legal ladder.

  All spare time had to be spent in the office, repaying her debt of appreciation, or at home making it up to Max for the enforced nursery attendance. Focus only on your goal to pay down your huge debt, repay Dad, and the bank and get back on the solicitors’ roll. A Herculean task for someone as prone to failure as she! But she had to achieve this, to provide a future for Max.

  There would be no socialising with her colleagues. No dissecting the day, gossiping about difficult and ungrateful clients over a relaxing spritzer in the wine bar after a hard day’s slog.

  As she approached the impressive offices of Baringer & Co, she reconsidered her internal arguments. Who would want to befriend her anyway? A failed, struck off, disgraced solicitor. Shame spread through her veins, heating her pale skin to the roots of her already escaping curls. For what she had put herself, Max, and her father through, how could she ever atone for their disastrous misplacement of trust?

  She rode the elevator to the twelfth floor and gave her name to the glamorous receptionist—Victoria Munro, her name badge announced in the corporate colours of Baringer. Then she plunked down on the black leather sofa and prepared to meet her doom.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lucinda Fleming strode toward her. Rebecca had met her before as a fellow court advocate, but never on her own territory. She was tall, slender, and exuded elegance. Her perfect, honey-coloured bob swung smooth and glossy, ending at a sharp right angle to her chin. Her long fringe skimmed her precisely defined eyebrows, not a single strand out of place. Involuntarily, Rebecca smoothed her tumbling curls behind her neck and drew herself up a little straighter.

  “Rebecca, come this way, please. I’ll direct you to where you will be working.” No pleasantries offered, no acknowledgement they had previously been acquainted, frequented the same court corridors, and even knew some of the same people. Rebecca’s spirits sank further into her sensible ballet flats. Why hadn’t she selected her favourite designer nude stilettos? They would have increased her height and confidence.

  She trailed in Lucinda’s wake down a long glass corridor in the slipstream of her rich exotic perfume. What perfume was it, Rebecca wondered, preferring a lighter fragrance herself, one that incorporated the clean, tangy aroma of citrus and fresh cut grass.

  Lucinda’s rear view was as sharp and sophisticated as her front. Four-inch, black
stilettos. Wow! Were they Jimmy Choos? Shapely stockinged calves, well-toned buttocks clad in a thigh-hugging, black pencil skirt skimming her knee, no shorter. A beautifully cut, matching black jacket nipped in her narrow waist. Her shoulders held erect, head high, oozing confidence and self-knowledge. Whilst Rebecca couldn’t hope to compete with Lucinda in the style stakes, she did regret not making more of an effort.

  “This will be your work station. We operate a clear desk policy at Baringer & Co. An inspection takes place every evening. Please, do not place items of personal adornment on the desk. You will ensure your computer is switched on by eight forty-five at the latest each morning and that it is not closed down until five thirty p.m. at the earliest. Baringer & Co demands a high level of commitment from all its employees, from the mail girl to Mr John Baringer himself.

  “Training sessions take place on Wednesday evenings or Saturday mornings, which you will attend with your team. You will also be expected to represent Baringer & Co at all networking events. The terms and conditions of your employment with us as a paralegal are contained in this arch lever file. Study it. If you have any questions relating to the contents, e-mail me. Please, sign and date the acceptance document at the front and return it to me by Friday.

  “Now, here’s your headset. Deborah Bell”—she gestured to a harassed-looking young woman in the next booth without meeting her eye—“will assist in getting you up and running on the computer. Your performance will be reviewed on a monthly basis, in addition to your adherence to the conditions laid down by the SDT.” Her tongue sharpened around the diatribe of the issued instructions.

  Leaving Rebecca cringing at the public announcement of her disciplinary shame, Lucinda strode away, her impeccably chic figure disappearing into her prestigious corner office, no backward glance, not even a departing smile to crack her severe expression.