Interlude I
INTERLUDE I
Xavier
It was close to eleven p.m. by the time I made it to Miss Flanders, a pub just a few streets from my office west of Camden. It was my last meeting of the day, and since it was with Jagger, I insisted on going over the weekend numbers from the opening of Chez Miso with a pint and the best beef Wellington in London. Normally, I preferred to eat cleaner food like I was brought up on, but tonight I just needed a drink and something heavy to calm the knots in my gut that hadn’t loosened since I’d left New York two days earlier.
“Fuck me, that’s it,” I greeted Jagger when I saw he’d already taken the liberty of ordering my drink.
“Cheers,” he replied, accepting a fist bump before we both settled down to our sides of the booth. “Thought you might need that.”
“You’ve no fucking clue.” I polished off about half of it before setting the glass back on the coaster. “Did you order for me too, like I asked?”
“The waitress said they were out of the Wellington, but special tonight is steak and kidney pie, so I got that. Work for you?”
I nodded. I would have eaten grass at this point in the day.
“So.” Jagger leaned back in his seat and stroked the goatee he’d grown after some girl had told him he looked like Tony Stark. He didn’t, and it was ridiculous, but he was still my mate and really good with numbers. At least one of us finished our degree. “You want the good or the bad?”
I finished my ale and waved my hand at the server for another. “The good. The bad is always the longer conversation.”
“Raves from the Guardian, the Mail , the Observer , and ten others. You’re booked out for six months. I think it’s fairly certain you’ve got another hit.”
I nodded. It was what I expected. “And the bad?”
He shrugged. “Just Louise Fernsby.”
I scowled. “That witch? Let me guess—another rant?”
Jagger nodded. “Fucking brutal, man. Wish you hadn’t dumped her after one night, eh?”
I scowled. “A one-night stand by definition is for one night . I thought she was just a girl looking for a good time, not the newest food critic for the Times . Or daughter of its bloody owner. She told me her name was Lulu, for fuck’s sake.”
Jagger just grinned good-naturedly. My mistakes with women—this one in particular—were legendary, but he only ever laughed with me, not at me. This was why I had hired him when I started the Parker Group. As much for his affability, which I lacked, as for his business sense.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’d give you another shot,” he said. “Every time I run into her at a party or what, she’s always asking after you. Calls you ‘that horrible lord,’ like you were a character from Downton Abbey .”
“You’ve watched Downton Abbey ?” I wondered, thinking of Francesca. She’d know exactly what he was talking about.
Jagger just snorted. “’Course I have. Women fucking love it. All I have to do to get laid is invite a girl over to Netflix and chill, put that show on, open a bottle of wine, and my night is made.”
I shook my head. “You’re an idiot.”
“An idiot who gets some anytime he wants. Not that you have that problem.”
I remained quiet as the waitress set down our plates.
“Cheers,” I said to her when she smiled at me, but I didn’t give her more than that.
“Right,” Jagger said. “So the opening was a smash, other than Lulu’s shit review, which means we can focus next on Paris, yeah?”
“Actually, I’m going to be heading back to New York,” I said in between bites of pie.
Jagger frowned. “What? That wasn’t the plan. You said you were there to check out the competition, not to start a new restaurant. We already leased the space in St. Germain, and you’re supposed to be interviewing designers and head chefs next week.”
I shook my head. “Change of plans. New York is the next destination. Paris is too saturated.”
“And New York’s not? There are more restaurants per capita there than any other major city.” Jagger squinted and rubbed his goatee. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I stared at my plate. The pie was delicious, filled with aromatic beef and kidney, the delicate gravy Miss Flanders was known for, the flaky pastry crust that melted in the mouth. Suddenly, though, it tasted like sawdust.
I set down my fork. “Something came up.”
“Something came up? Xav, if I have to cancel all our carefully-laid plans to take over France, you’re going to have to give me more than that.”
I heaved a sigh. “I—you remember that girl I met when I was there looking for my first expansion? Right before Lucy got her diagnosis and Kori finally took off?”
Jagger’s face darkened, both at the memory of Lucy and the difficulty with our first joint venture. He had been friends with her too—mostly through me. “Ah…sort of? Wait, the one from Brooklyn?”
“The Bronx,” I corrected. “She’s Italian. Or her family is.”
“Is? So you saw her again this last trip? You dirty dog.”
“It was a bit more than that.” I pushed my plate forward, unable to eat anymore. My stomach was growling, but every time I thought about what Francesca had done, I wanted to be sick. “Turns out she had a kid just after I left. And, well…it’s mine. I have a daughter, Jag.”
It was the first time I’d said it out loud. Not even at home in the mirror. The words stuck in my throat, choking me one by one.
“Bloody hell,” Jagger said after a few long seconds.
That’s when I knew it was a real mess. Nothing shook my best friend.
“So, what happened?” he asked. “How did you find out?”
With some difficulty, I told him the entire story, beginning to end, when Francesca and I shouted at each other in the middle of the street and I threatened her with the courts. Jagger listened through it all, taking pensive bites of his fish and chips with the occasional forkful of mushy peas. In the end, his response wasn’t exactly what I expected.
“So, how’d she look?”
I glared at him. “After all that, that’s your first question?”
He shrugged. “Well, yeah. If I recall correctly, you wanted to marry this girl. You came home from New York that year looking like a Disney character, all starry-eyed and twitterpated. Like, you actually told me you loved her. And, mate, I know you don’t have a heart of stone, but it’s what everyone else says about you.”
My scowl hardened even more. I was perfectly aware of my reputation. Sometimes I was even proud of it. People don’t fuck with someone they think has no conscience.
“Francesca looked good,” I admitted, then bent to my food.
Jagger’s brows rose about an inch.
“Really good,” I conceded.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” When he waited even longer, I elaborated. “All right. She’s a fucking snack.”
Jagger chuckled. My friend knew me well enough to understand that I barely gave compliments to anyone. And when I compared Francesca to food, what I was really saying was that she was a five-star, ten-course meal at the best restaurant in the world.
Shit. Did I really think that?
“It can’t be all that bad, then,” he said. “Don’t you worry about Paris. I’ll delay the frogs, and you go back to New York, win back your girl and your daughter, then bring them home when you’re ready.” For some reason I couldn’t fathom, he grinned like he wanted to break open a couple of cigars or some shit like that. “Congratulations, Xav. You deserve a bit of happiness.”
At that, I just shoved my head in my hands and groaned. “Happy isn’t really the word for it. She lied to me. About my own kid. There’s no coming back from that.”
“Right, but?—”
“You don’t understand. I found out about Sofia, and I swear to God, I’ve never gone from wanting to fuck someone to wanting to kill them so fast in my entire life.”
Jagger munched a bit of fish meditatively while he examined me. “Well, this is you we’re talking about.”
I scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’m sure you know the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off.”
He shrugged, like I’d suggested he have some more black pepper. “If it’s really as bad as all that, maybe it is for the best you keep things platonic. If this girl brings out Hyde in you that fast, you don’t want anything to do with her. Best let her go, for her sake as well as yours. Just focus on the kid.”
He was right. I knew he was right. But I didn’t like the churning in my gut when he said, “let her go.”
“What’d you say her name was again?”
“Francesca,” I said immediately.
He shook his head. “You already said that. I meant your kid.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Sofia.”
Again, that feeling like my stomach was turning inside out. I’d only seen her for a few seconds, really. Long enough for the blue eyes that matched mine to laser straight through me. Long enough for every cell in my body to register some odd kind of belonging. Kinship.
“So, what’d the lawyer say? I assume you saw one.”
“Three, actually, and they all said the same thing. Most I can expect right now is joint custody.”
Jagger cocked his head. “You actually want custody. You ?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?
“I mean, it’s not like you have a lot of experience with kids. Do you even like them?”
I frowned. “I could like kids.”
Jagger just gave me a long look.
“I could like my own kid,” I amended.
His expression didn’t move.
I finished my ale and sighed. “Anyway, it’s a long shot, and that’s only after I sue for a paternity test and spend the earth proving Francesca’s a poor parent.”
“Well, you can afford it. And she wouldn’t be the first you conquered to get what you want.”
Another stomach flip. When it came to my business, if there was something I wanted, whether it was a particular chef or a property, I’d bulldoze through any obstacle until I got it. But this was different. Jagger was right. I could take Francesca to court for years if I wanted. Bury her in legal this and motion that. Play really dirty and twist her life around.
But then what? I’d have a little girl who didn’t know me from Adam wanting to know what the fuck happened to the mother she loved. And for some reason, I didn’t doubt for one second that Francesca was loved by our kid. Something told me she was an excellent mum. Maybe even the best.
And who knew what kind of dad I’d be?
As much as I hated it, Jagger was right about that too.
Fuck.
“Speaking of estranged fathers, have you heard from yours lately?”
I frowned and looked up. Jagger might have been my best friend, but he wasn’t given to asking after the man he knew I hated most. “Henry Parker is not my dad.”
“Well, since yours passed, your uncle’s the next best thing, no?”
I grimaced and forked a big bite of pie to avoid answering. Jagger knew exactly how I felt about my uncle and steward of my father’s estate. Henry Parker had moved right in after his brother’s untimely death. At first, I’d been happy to let him do it. I didn’t belong there, no matter how hard my father tried in the end. And the rest of the estate’s denizens always let me know it.
“Anyway, there’s news from Kendal, my friend.”
I rolled my eyes. “How much do they want now?”
“Didn’t say. Just that he’s been trying to reach you, and you’re giving him the cold shoulder.”
“My uncle actually called? Not his secretary or that idiot who wants to be his fourth wife?”
Jagger just shook his head. “The man himself. Didn’t say what about, but I can see you know.”
I huffed and swirled my pint glass around, watching the amber liquid slip down the sides. “He’s been trying to bring me in for a while.”
At that, Jagger nearly fell out of his seat. “In? As in back to Kendal and parliament and?—”
“I don’t know,” I cut him off. “And honestly, I don’t give a fuck. Just like I didn’t give a fuck four years ago. Maybe he’s getting old and wants to make up for being a complete arse when Dad died. I don’t really care anymore.”
“Yeah, but…” Jagger trailed off, like he was trying to figure things out. “He’s still family, yeah?”
I swallowed guiltily. Jagger was an orphan, raised in a series of group homes in Croydon. We’d met when he was staying with a couple living across the street from Mum and had kept in touch even after he’d been moved again.
I wouldn’t have wished my friend’s life on anyone, but I wasn’t sure having a bloodsucking uncle constantly after you was any better. My dad’s people had proven time and time again they weren’t better than the end of a cigarette butt. Whatever soul-searching Henry Parker was doing these days, I wasn’t interested. He wanted a blessing before he died? He could visit a minister. I had more important things to do.
“He calls again, you tell him to fuck off,” I said. “Just like that.”
“Errrr…” Jagger looked like that was the very last thing he wanted to do, especially to someone like Henry Parker.
“Just do it,” I said. “I’m unavailable for the next six months, at least. I’ve got a new restaurant to open. And a daughter to meet.”