Forty 2 Days

Georgia Le Carre

 

Forty 2 Days

(Book 2 of the Billionaire Banker series)

Published by Georgia LeCarre

Copyright © 2014 by Georgia LeCarre

The right of Georgia LeCarre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9928249-1-4

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“I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel.

I focus on the pain

The only thing that’s real.”

—Hurt, Johnny Cash’s version

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SmVAWKfJ4Go

 

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

About the Author

One

I edge up to the counter, my hands clammy, my stomach in a tight knot.  The woman manning it smiles efficiently.  She is wearing the bank’s uniform; a striped shirt, a navy blazer and matching skirt.  Her black name-tag has Susan Bradley printed in white.

‘Thank you for waiting.’ Her voice is iceberg lettuce crisp.  ‘What can I help you with today?’

I run my hands down the skirt of my gray suit.  ‘I have an appointment to see an officer about a loan.  The name is Lana Bloom.’

She consults her computer screen.  ‘Ah!  Miss Bloom.’  Her eyes move upwards.  Meet mine.  No smile there.  Just avid curiosity.  ‘Take a seat, and I’ll let someone know you are here.’

‘Thank you.’  I walk towards the nest of gray-blue chairs she indicates.  I perch on the edge of one and watch her.

‘She’s here,’ she announces into the phone, and returns it to its cradle.  Then she does an odd thing—without turning her face in my direction, sneaks a look at me from the corners of her eyes, catches me watching, and looks away quickly, almost guiltily.

I feel the knot in my stomach grow tighter.  Something is wrong.  Perhaps the manager has looked at my business plan and decided against the loan.  It shouldn’t be too surprising.  I have no experience and no collateral and, as my mother used to say, banks will only lend you an umbrella when it is not raining outside.

I clutch my bag in sweat-slicked hands, take a deep breath and very firmly urge myself to be calm.  There is always Plan B—Billie and I will simply start small and build the business brick by brick.  Our progress will be very slow, but we will survive, and perhaps if we work extra hard, one day we will thrive.  With or without their money we will get by.  My chin goes up a notch.

An Asian lady in a dark suit comes out of a closed door.  She looks at me, eases into another smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and asks, ‘Miss Bloom?’

I stand nervously and smooth down my skirt.  Here goes nothing.  I touch my hair self-consciously.  Hope the wind outside has not wrecked it too much.  In an attempt to look older and more professional Billie scraped my hair back into a severe bun and colored my lips a dark plum.  She said it has the effect of making me look like a sophisticated flamenco dancer, but I think it has simply made me look pale and gaunt.

‘This way please.’  The woman waves her hand in the direction of the stairs and starts walking towards them.  I frown deeply.  All the other people waiting with me have been shown into one of the cubicles downstairs.  Upstairs, I have not seen anyone go.  Why am I going upstairs?  The woman’s clunky heels make a hollow sound on the uncarpeted stairs.  The sound reverberates in my chest.  The feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach increases.

We go through a door that requires a code, and I realize that we have entered the area that only staff members are allowed into.  Another employee passes us and glances at me curiously.  We walk down a corridor of offices.  Near the end of it the woman turns around and faces me.  There is an oddly speculative expression on her face.

‘Ready?’ she asks.  It seems a strange thing to ask.

Bemused, I nod.

She knocks once, pulls open the door, and holds it ajar for me.

I enter, a sunny smile plastered all over my face, and freeze.  My jaw drops, my stomach lurches in my body.  I am in a nightmare.  Ah, but haven’t you waited for this for a long time?  Always my heart knew it was not over.  One day I would see him again.  I didn’t know how or when or why—just that I would.

And I have rehearsed this scenario in my mind countless times but in different circumstances.  Where I am dressed seductively and have run into him in a nightclub or while I am accidentally, purposely loitering outside One Hyde Park where he once told me he lives.  But never, never here at my local bank.  Not in a million years.  I am so shocked my mind actually goes blank.  I blink.

Oh! But to be caught this unprepared!

‘Wait,’ I want to scream to the Asian lady, ‘there has been some mistake,’ but my mouth is frozen open, and even my slow-moving brain knows there is no mistake.  I have not been shown to this room by accident.  I am here because this man wants me here.