Chapter One
September
Amara bounced on the balls of her feet and concentrated on the focus pad being held up by Alek, her personal trainer and friend. He fired out a set of instructions and braced for her next flurry of punches. She stepped forward agilely, gloved hands in defensive position, then hit the pads, each strike producing a whump.
Whump! Whump! Whump-whump-whump!
She executed the moves as instructed, the distraction forcing her mind away from the mental loop which kept replaying scenes from the last few months. During the sixty seconds of rest between each volley of punches, while she caught her breath, she kept telling herself, Just, stay strong. It will pass. It will get better.
Alek, a wall-of-muscle, mixed-martial artist, continued putting her through her tailored training routine. More whumps came micro-seconds after each prompt and Amara executed each combination with speed, without hesitation. Her punches landed perfectly, as though she expected to receive a score for each flawless move.
“Cross!” Whump!
“Hook!” Whump!
“One-two-hook!” Whump-whump-whump!
“Body!” Whump.
They’d been working out for forty minutes and Amara was still fired up.
“More?” Alek asked. Amara firmed her lips and nodded. He duly upped the pace, pushing Amara’s limit.
Slips, rolls, hooks, upper cuts. Amara hit the pad or ducked or pivoted fluidly to dodge Alek’s feints. After another thirty minutes, Alek’s timer beeped that their time was up.
Amara dropped her hands and stepped back, still bouncing on the balls of her feet. She shook her arms out, unknowingly wearing a fierce expression, the one she’d been wearing as she’d pounded the pads.
She was breathing hard and her body glistened with sweat. Her bright blue 9 oz gloves with a white stripe across each knuckle were like clubs at the end of her arms.
The pressure in her head hadn’t eased. It was still an effort to push back the images, the words, the sneers.
Her left shoulder twitched, then she pivoted in the direction of one of the heavy, hanging punch bags and started pummelling, throwing random shots on the spot, her hips twisting with each hit.
The muscles in her calves pulsed with each move. She fired one-twos at speed for several seconds, the sounds heavier and less hollow than when she was hitting the pads. Then she stopped, shaking and gasping.
Each exhalation of breath through her parted lips was like a grunt.
She bent forward, bracing her gloves on her thighs, breathed in, straightened up, threw her head back and roared. Took another deep breath and roared again.
Her head lolled down. Her muscles continued to quiver. She was still breathing heavily, each breath now sounding like a sob as her lungs burned from exertion.
She gave a slight start as Alek curled his arms around her from behind, seeming not to care about the sweat running down her back and chest. He rested a cheek on top of her head, comforting her in silence.
She hadn’t discussed the latest media blow-up with him, but no doubt he’d read them. Seeing as her name was trending online, it would be hard to miss.
She sighed, shifted a shoulder and tapped one of her gloves against his forearms, signalling that she needed her space. He stepped back and gently turned her to face him.
Without speaking or meeting his eyes, she removed and dropped her gloves then begun unwrapping the tapes from her hands.
“Are you going to be OK, Am?” he asked.
She wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Amara?”
After a few seconds, she gave him a single, sharp nod. She continued unwinding the sweaty tapes, willing the muscles in her shoulders and arms to stop quivering.
She tried to sort through her thoughts as her entire body continued sweating. Her workout had done the trick. The pressure had eased. She felt less … volatile. In her head, Nicholas’ voice and her mother’s were quieter, bringing her anger to a more manageable level - for now.
So, she took a breath and met her friend’s worried gaze. As her heart rate slowed to a normal rate, she sought to reassure him.
“Yes.” She pursed her lips and repeated, “Yes, I’ll be alright.”
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Ten months earlier
“How do you want to move this on?”
Nicholas Lewis looked up from where he’d been staring blankly at the screen of his tablet. The question had come from his head of marketing, Darren, who had just finished presenting to him. Nicholas had given marketing a brief to come up with a proposal for how their company, Live in Rooms, could boost their profile and continue to grow their market.
Nicholas had been the owner and CEO of Live in Rooms for a few years. Through his cutting-edge ideas and collaboration with avant-garde designers, the last decade had seen their products move away from stodgy and safe to pieces more akin to works of art than serviceable household items.
His order books currently included commissions from A- and B-list celebrities whose homes were featured in lifestyle magazines. But a plateau was looming. His researchers estimated they had less than two years before profits hit a downturn. Which meant Live in Rooms needed to rethink their marketing strategy.
He answered Darren’s question. “It’s good. But I don’t think just increasing the marketing channels for our new designs is good enough.” Nicholas prepared himself as his executive’s expression morphed into annoyance.
Darren tutted and threw his hands up. “I don’t know what else I can say, Nicholas. This is the third presentation and you’re still not happy!”
OK, so maybe Darren was pissed off rather than annoyed. Annoyed was how he was six weeks before when Nicholas had asked for a rethink. Darren’s team had presented then. Darren turned up to deliver in person this time, no doubt thinking if the message came from him, it would get a more positive response.
“We need to think bigger, Darren.” He held a palm up when Darren started to interrupt. “Let me finish.”
Darren frowned, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“What you presented is good. We can work with it. But it needs more. A stronger angle. I’ve had some thoughts on that in the last day or so.”
“Wish you’d shared them with me,” Darren muttered.
Nicholas’ impatience slipped and he barked out, “Enough.” He sat forward, his expression firm. Darren didn’t take criticism well and tended to be defensive when questioned or challenged. Nicholas needed to squash things before Darren got the idea this was a debate. He also had to concede that Darren had a point.
“I should have said something,” he acknowledged, “but I was still working it through and I needed the research team to check some things out.”
Linking his fingers on the desk, he talked through his idea, which included hiring a new PR firm to help them appeal to a broader demographic. He responded each time Darren fired back questions. Then he wrapped it up.
“Our social media accounts don’t have the following to push the brand into the consciousness of a new class of clients. We need more orders from big businesses – your idea about targeting hotels is a good one. White PR could give the boost I need.”
He sat back and watched as Darren’s eyes flickered while he processed the new possibilities.
“White PR is a big beast,” he said. “Their help could be like rocket fuel. What if we end up with more orders than we can handle?”
Nicholas had thought of that but decided he’d wait until they got to that bridge. He said as much then stood to signal that the meeting was over.
“Let me know when you’ve got a meeting set up with their people.”
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“I love your dress.”
Amara turned towards the woman who appeared at her side and checked her expression for any hint of sarcasm.
“Thank you.” Her dress was on point for the occasion, so Amara opted to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m Sarah,” the woman said, then tried to engage Amara in conversation. As Amara had never met her and therefore didn’t know if Sarah had an agenda, she was her usual guarded self.
Fair play to her, Sarah tried for a solid fifteen minutes before giving up. Amara watched her back as she walked away with more than a little regret. Had Sarah’s friendliness been genuine or perhaps down to curiosity – to find out more about Trinity White’s “weird” daughter?
If the latter, Amara’s monosyllabic answers would have cemented her reputation for being unfriendly – or thick – and given Sarah gossip fodder to last the rest of the evening. If the former, she’d offended someone who meant no harm.
She really wasn’t wired for social interactions. Imagine that; the daughter of a media darling and she couldn’t always string sentences together.
Amara pushed her negative thoughts aside and braced to face down the next hour or so. She realised she was clenching her jaw and took a breath. If she didn’t find a way to relax, she’d end up with a raging headache.
A server with a tray of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres approached. She knew that they were the baked filo knots with a salmon and herb filling. She shook her head at the server when they made eye contact. He acknowledged with a smile and a slight bob of his head and changed his course.
She spotted her mum, Trinity, talking to a group of people which included Rodrigo, her client. Tonight was the relaunch for the venue they were currently in – a business hub with entertainment and meeting space, slap-bang in the middle of St Paul’s in London. Rodrigo was the new manager, and he’d hired Trinity White, ex-supermodel and owner of a world-class PR firm, to ensure his launch was a success.
Amara had made her own contribution to the evening, something that would not be shouted about and was not mentioned anywhere in the media pack, keeping her under the media’s radar. Amara’s behind-the-scenes contribution included the hors d’oeuvres she’d just passed up and others which were being consumed as she watched. The food and drinks choices were her careful designs of complex taste combinations.
Tastes and sensations were Amara’s thing and Trinity had made sure she got the gig to design the night’s menu. Amara knew that what she’d come up with was on point and would have been happy to get a report from the caterers after the event. But her mum wanted her to attend, had in fact pushed hard to get her here tonight.
“Rodrigo is your client too,” she’d said before going on to pepper her with several more solid reasons why Amara couldn’t duck out. “You need to see for yourself how your menu goes down” had been the decider.
In the end, Amara had had to accept that it was in her interest to face the spotlight and a mass of strangers for a few hours. At least, for as long as she could before the urge to run got the better of her. Besides, she had to admit it was gratifying to witness for herself another quiet win to add to her growing portfolio as a taste consultant.
Avoiding eye contact to discourage anyone else from approaching her, she skirted around the chattering guests, taking note of people’s reactions on tasting the small bites which came out at fifteen-minute intervals. She spotted that one of the snacks remained on trays for too long and went off into her own world as she wondered whether one of the flavours had missed the mark. Maybe it was just a case of one tray of goodies too many…
An elbow jolted her arm and she almost dropped her glass.
“Sorry, love.”
The woman who’d bumped into her was already walking away on long tanned legs, the curve of her hips rolling suggestively with each stride. Amara clocked the mini skirt, which barely covered the woman’s bum, and admired her confidence even as she felt a kick of irritation at her insincere sorry love. The woman stopped at a mixed group and Amara turned away, brushing the spilled liquid from the material of her loose, off-white, tulip-shaped dress. Thankfully her glass only contained water and the damp spot was barely visible. She frowned at her now damp palms, wiggling her fingers. She was looking around to spot a server so she could grab a napkin and get a fresh glass when something about a nearby conversation caught her attention. She heard the end of a sentence spoken by a male voice and at first she thought, with dread, that he was talking about her.
“…someone needs to have a word with that chunky cow.” But then he continued. “Just ‘cause she’s shagging a billionaire, she thinks she’s untouchable.”
Amara’s shoulders twitched in reaction to the spiteful comment, even as she realised it wasn’t directed at her. She turned slightly towards the voices, checking to see who it was that she definitely needed to steer clear of. There were five people standing together. There were no clues as to who had made the comment. A man with his back to her, lean, wearing well-tailored, pale grey trousers and a black fitted shirt spoke.
“Sounds like you know her well, Pav was it?” His voice was deep and something about his intonation put Amara on alert. She turned away from the five, stared into the empty glass she held clutched to her stomach and continued to eavesdrop.
The man, now identified as Pav, responded. “Not really. I just know what I’ve read, what they’re saying.” There were a couple of supporting uh-huhs.
“They?”
Amara didn’t dare turn around again to see Pav’s physical reaction to what sounded to her like a challenge.
Pav chuckled, “Come on, you know what I mean.” The others laughed along. Seconds later she heard muted footsteps followed by a new voice. “What’s his problem?
“Fuck knows,” Pav replied with a huff.
Shifting her head slightly, Amara tried to see where Pav’s challenger had gone but couldn’t see much without actually turning around and risking calling attention to herself. She remained where she was for a few moments and thought about the stranger who had defended another stranger. It hadn’t changed anything but that didn’t matter. The fact he hadn’t joined in tearing someone down did. She wondered who he was.
Then she looked down at her empty glass and grimaced at her still-damp hands. She needed a napkin – and a top-up so she wasn’t standing around empty-handed.
She spotted a server and walked towards him, looking around the room for her mum at the same time. It was time to let Trinity know that she’d be leaving within the hour. She was approaching her limit and her mum preferred to have notice when Amara needed to retreat.
She reached for a glass from the server’s tray at the same time as a black-sleeved arm. She gave a quick side glance up and down and noted a lean jaw line and tailored, pale grey trousers.
It was The Challenger.
Her heart leapt as she watched his long-fingered hand scoop a glass of red wine from the tray then put an empty glass in its place. He said a gruff thanks, which triggered a sensation like butterflies taking off in her stomach, before walking off. That partial glimpse of his features caused her curiosity to ratchet up a couple of notches.
Unsure why he had unsettled her, she gripped her glass of sparkling water, thanked the server and looked around for a new spot away from the constant movement of bodies. She went and stood with her back to a wall, held her glass with both hands and settled in to wait until she could signal for her mum to come over.
Across the room, Amara saw her laughing along with two other women. Joining them would mean having to make small talk, so she remained against the wall, alternating between waiting for a chance to signal to her and covertly watching The Challenger.
He was talking with a tall woman with a fabulous Afro, who had a hand on his forearm. She wondered if they were a couple but then a woman with long, dark blue braids joined them and curved an arm around the first woman’s waist. The three carried on talking for a few moments before he and both women walked over to her mum’s group.
Her mum chose that moment to look over at Amara. Trinity said something to the group then headed over.
“Twenty minutes, Mum,” she said when Trinity arrived at her side.
“How’s Sarah?” Trinty asked. “I saw you and her having a chat. I thought you two might get on.”
Amara tried not to sigh in frustration at her mum’s unwanted intervention. She knew that her mum knew that Amara making small talk with a stranger was as likely as snow in July, and her pointed look at Trinity said as much.
Realising she’d given herself away, Trinity sighed and repeated, “I thought you’d get on.”
Amara stared silently at her mum, waiting for her to acknowledge what she said about being ready to leave.
Trinity gave in. “OK honey. Do you want the car?”
“I’ll Uber or something,”
“Honey…”
“Stop,” she said, cutting through her mum’s insistence, before she gestured with her head in the direction Trinity had come from. “It’s fine. Go on, you get back.”
Sighing, Trinity gave up and leaned in to give Amara a hug. As soon as she left to get back to her PR duties, Amara placed her glass on a nearby table, fished her phone from the pocket of her dress and tapped to bring up one of her ride apps. Waiting for the ding to warn her that her cab was about to arrive she alternated between watching The Challenger, whose face she could see at last, and staring at her phone. The two women had moved on and he was talking to Rodrigo, who was nodding along to whatever he was hearing. Amara watched his face and body language as he spoke.
He was gorgeous. Lean-figured – bordering on skinny, sculpted features with a soft vertical groove in each cheek, wavy dark brown hair, possibly in his late thirties. She was trying to guess the colour of his eyes when her phone dinged.
She expelled an audible breath and looked down at the alert.
Time to go.
