Lucky Scars Read online

  “Here, sorry,” I offered it to him. Now that I had him in the building, it was safe to give it back.

  “Thanks,” he took it carefully and held it to his chest. The lift chimed our destination, and the doors opened. I had to take a deep breath before I walked out.

  “Oh good, you’re back,” Melanie barked from behind the desk in the foyer. She handed some paperwork to the new guy, whose name was going to stick any day now. The clue was in his dark Latin complexion and irresistible accent. P-P-P…ugh, what was it?

  “Thanks, Ricardo, I’ll be back shortly,” Melanie told him.

  Ricardo! That’s the one.

  “They’re here early!” she hissed to me. “I tried to call y— Oh sweet lord, what happened to your dress?”

  “I had a bit of an accident,” I dismissed her, anxiety kicking in because they were here already and I hadn’t even had caffeine. I wasn’t ready for this; I’d never be ready. “Where are they?”

  “Don’t panic,” she reassured me. “I have Matt giving them the ‘long’ tour, and I have Sarah setting up for them in the conference room.”

  “You’re a star, Mel,” I breathed with relief.

  “No,” she said, grabbing the lapels of my jacket. “You’re the star, and you are going to rock this meeting.” Then she looked down the front of my dress. “But first we have a situation to deal with,” she grimaced. “Get upstairs and change. What else do you have?”

  “Nothing suitable,” I sighed. “I’m just going to have to be me.”

  “No, no, no!” Melanie scrambled, seeing all her hard work slipping through her fingers. “You must have something else you can slip into quickly.” She looked hopeful, but she and I both knew the reality. This was a façade, and there was nothing whatsoever to back it up.

  I shook my head and shrugged. “They’ll have to like it or lump it.”

  “I’m sure they will love it,” he, my coffee victim, said quietly from behind me. For a moment, I’d forgotten he was there.

  Melanie seemed to also notice him for the first time and seemed irritated by his compliance in my giving up.

  “No, they will not love it. You are the face of this company. You are what they are buying.”

  “You don’t have the rest of the team out there in dickie bows, so why do I have to pretend? And besides,” I scowled, “I might not be for sale.”

  For the umpteenth time, she rolled her eyes at me. If I frustrated her much more, they were going to roll clean out of her head. She was the best assistant I could have ever hoped for, she had my best interests at heart, and she was a good friend. But when it came to money, there was only one answer for her. SELL. I could see the pound signs scrolling past her eyes even as she was looking at me. Not for her, though, for me. She wanted me to do well and be happy. We just had very different ideas of what could bring happiness.

  I was tired of being on the back foot in this scenario. I wasn’t looking to sell; they wanted to buy. Why was I trying to impress them? It was on them to impress me…right? They needed to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  “Right, you,” I jabbed my finger as playfully as I could at her, suddenly feeling like I had to take control back. “Coffee, now,” I paused and thought about it. “Better make it two, while I’m pulling rank.” I turned to my victim, “You drink coffee, right?”

  “I was hoping to be drinking one right now,” he smirked. “Instead, I’m wearing one.”

  “Okay, come on, let’s get out of these wet clothes.” I glanced at the doors to the main floor where I knew Matt was conducting a tour of our studio. I couldn’t go through there looking like this. “We can take the front stairs.”

  I kicked off my heels with a grateful sigh and picked them up before setting off up the stairs from the reception to my flat with him in tow. I rarely used the front stairs since the back stairs went up from behind my office. The lift didn’t go up there at all. It was too cramped in the roof pitch to have the mechanism, so instead, the architect had designed a mezzanine level over the lift shaft in the huge double-height studio on the top floor and left the original access to the small flat above in place. It was tiny, but I was a workaholic. What did I care? It used to be storage rooms, but when Dad redeveloped the building, I managed to convince him it was liveable and perfect for his best girl. Easy access to work, no commute, safe with the twenty-four-hour door man he would duly employ for the building. Of course, he had the plans adjusted so that it was more than just liveable for his baby girl.

  “So, you actually live in your office?” he interrupted my thoughts.

  “Yeah,” I replied over my shoulder as I put my key in the door. “My dad owns the building. I rent the office space, and these storage rooms weren’t much use, so we converted them.” I pushed the door open and walked down the hallway towards the living area of my small flat.

  Chapter Three

  Behind me, he whistled his approval. Or maybe it was disapproval. I didn’t know the guy. I didn’t even know his name…but I’d let him into my flat. Smart Bea, real smart. “I’m Bea, by the way.” I stuck out my hand for my second introduction of the day. “Bea Lawson.”

  “Bea,” he mused for a second, lingering over my name a little longer than I thought necessary. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ziggy Jones.”

  I pursed my lips, sizing him up. He was clearly around my age, in the broad sense, probably mid-thirties, I’d guess. Given the period he was born, I could take a stab at the inspiration behind his name. “Ziggy? After Stardust or Marley?”

  “Stardust,” he hesitated and then grinned. “I mean, I can’t be sure my mum didn’t sleep with Marley too, but I can be certain he isn’t my dad.” He laughed, clearly having amused himself.

  I almost choked. “Wait, David Bowie was your dad?”

  “I wish,” he chuckled.

  “But you just said…” I frowned, trying to work him out.

  “My mum was a career groupie in the 70’s and 80’s. She wasn’t fussy, although Bowie was her favourite. Who knows what she really got up to, but her stories were legendary.”

  “So, Bowie isn’t…wasn’t your dad?”

  “Never say never, but unfortunately, I bear a striking resemblance to the useless layabout she married, so I never held out much hope.”

  “Damn, that would have been cool.”

  “Mmmm,” he replied, distracted. “You know you’re supposed to take your Christmas tree down by today; it’s bad luck. The twelve days of Christmas and all that…”

  “I hate taking it down,” I whined as if I’d known him forever. “It looks so sad in here once it’s gone. I miss all the glitter, and it’s a pain in the arse to put it all away.”

  “Okay, then,” his tone a teasing warning, “it’s your call, but you’re gonna get all the bad luck.”

  “Ugh,” I threw off my jacket and looked down at my ruined dress. “What else is new?”

  “So, what are you supposed to be all dressed up for today?”

  I huffed. “A big company wants to buy my small company and consume it.”

  “And you aren’t keen?”

  “That obvious, huh?” I walked towards my bedroom and was surprised to hear him follow me.

  “A little.”

  “Why don’t you just say no” he continued, “if it’s not what you want.”

  “It’s complicated,” I sighed. “We’ve come a long way on our own, but we’re a small fry in a big pond, and this would put us where we dreamed of being.”

  “But under someone else’s control?”

  “Right.” I opened my wardrobe and stared blankly inside. Melanie was going to have kittens whatever I wore, but I was past caring.

  “Can’t you get there on your own?”

  “We could.” I slid hangers along the rail as I replied absent-mindedly. “I had a plan, but it didn’t work out. We need a unique selling point, and without it I’m afraid we will eventually get washed away by the sea of big boys.”

  “So, if yo
u can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em?”

  “Something like that.” I shoved the only other dress I owned, a summer maxi-dress thingy I bought once for a friend’s kid’s christening, back onto the rail and sighed. “I have nothing to wear.”

  He peered over my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of him close to me. It was weird to have somebody up here, but not weird, I noted, to have him standing so close. There was this strange feeling of safety surrounding him which I couldn’t explain.

  “What would you wear if it wasn’t today?” he asked in the calm tone he seemed to use constantly.

  I leant forward into the bottom of the wardrobe and pulled out my soft, well worn, oxblood Dr Martens. “These.” I held them up and looked over my shoulder at him for a reaction. “And black jeans,” I added, “with one of my tops, none of which are suitable for a business meeting.” I stepped aside and walked over to my chest of drawers to pull out the newest in a long line of jeans, which were my standard. When I turned back, he was skimming through the tops hanging on the rail.

  “What are we trying to say with this outfit?” he asked.

  We? Why did I feel soothed by the togetherness of that concept? I’d protected my solitude so fiercely, it was unnerving to respond that way to Ziggy. “We’re trying to say, ‘Keep your hands off my company.’” I told him trying for humour to cover my confusion and doubt.

  Ziggy frowned and studied me. “What I don’t get is why you aren’t actually saying that. Use your words, not your outfit.”

  “Because,” I sighed, “we’ve come so far, and the staff have all worked so hard. This would make a huge difference to the future of the business. We might have been able to advance more on our own, but…”

  “But something is missing,” he finished for me.

  “Not something, someone,” I corrected.

  “Oh.” He turned back and looked at my clothes in the wardrobe thoughtfully. “Everything in here is black,” he remarked.

  “Like my heart,” I half joked. Not that I’m evil, just that things die and rot from lack of use.

  “This one,” he said, pointedly ignoring my comment and holding up a long, loose fitting, but quite elegant, light knitted sweater. So light, in fact, that I’d have to wear something under it, or you could see my bra. But I always felt quite sophisticated wearing it. It was a pretty good choice. “It says, ‘This is my house, and I’m comfortable and certain of myself here.’ Got anything you can glam it up with?” he asked, handing it to me.

  “Those are my only heels,” I pointed to where I’d dropped the damn things by the door. “They’ll be okay, right?”

  “No, wear the DMs. I like them,” he smiled. “I meant like jewellery or something.”

  “In the top drawer.” I nodded to the dressing table and took the sweater, grabbing a black camisole off a shelf and heading for my bathroom.

  “This is insane,” I muttered to myself as I stripped off the ruined dress and tossed it on the floor. Not only was Melanie going to kill me for rocking up to the meeting looking like I didn’t care, but I’d let a perfect stranger into my flat and left him looking through my jewellery drawer while I changed into the outfit he’d picked out for me. Maybe it was time to check into the funny farm. “What am I doing?” I asked myself in the mirror, knowing deep down exactly what I was doing. I was stalling. By that point, I would rather take my chances with the potential psycho in my bedroom going through my valuables than go to work, even if I could go in clothes that let me feel like myself.

  I eyed myself in the reflection. I was obviously having some kind of breakdown. None of this was normal, but at least I looked okay, if a little freaked. My naturally pale complexion was a little flushed, but it had already been one hell of a morning, so I could accept that. My minimal makeup had held so far, and it only needed to serve me maybe an hour longer, as long as I didn’t sweat it off from stress. I was tempted to finish my look by scooping my long dark wavy hair up into the messy top knot I usually sported, but it looked nice down for once, so I just ran my fingers through it and decided I was ready.

  Coming back out into the bedroom, I remembered guiltily that he, Ziggy, had come up here because I’d soaked him with coffee, and because of my problems, he was still wet.

  “I’m so sorry. I promised you a T-shirt.” I winced looking at the caramel coloured stain on his white T-shirt. And I could kind of tell from the well-worn jeans and boots, that it was probably as dressy as he got. I recognised a kindred spirit, shall we say? The rolled-back sleeves of his checked shirt, I could see now that he had stripped off his jacket, revealed frayed and faded friendship bracelets on one wrist and some greyscale inking on the other forearm. He felt familiar.

  I felt drawn to him.

  What was it about this guy?

  What was it about this day?

  First Jonathan and his smooth moves in Starbucks, now Ziggy and his familiarity, I guess. No one had had my attention in years, and I’m not even talking sexually. Just my attention. I was very content in my bubble.

  I searched his face, looking for any sign that he reminded me of Lewis, but there was nothing there. He was nothing like Lewis in looks or mannerisms. He reminded me of myself, if anything.

  Maybe that was it.

  “What’s what?”

  “Huh?” I realised I’d been staring.

  “You said, ‘Maybe that’s it,’” he said, confused.

  “Did I?” I felt the flush of my cheeks. Great, first I stared, then I thought aloud, now I was bloody blushing. “Let me get that Pearl Jam T-shirt for you.”

  “As long as it’s not that avocado album.” He screwed up his nose in disgust, and I laughed. “Way too experimental, if you ask me.”

  I liked that he knew his Pearl Jam.

  “No, you’re safe. Binaural, Wembley Arena, 2000. Will that be okay for you, Mr. Fussy? Or would you rather stay wet?”

  “Binaural is very satisfactory, thank you.” He delivered a very cute smile that definitely got my attention. No, not that kind of attention, but it made me kind of want to nudge him with my elbow or something.

  I turned away, flustered, and rummaged for the T-shirt in a drawer. I knew it was in there somewhere. It narrowly escaped my last cull, and I had deliberately buried it. “Aha!” I exclaimed, wrestling it out from under a pile. I stared at it for a second, wondering if I should really give this to a stranger? It wasn’t even a consideration when I’d thought of it outside, but holding it in my hands was a different story. I wouldn’t ever see it again…was that okay?

  “I’ll bring it back,” he offered quietly. It must have been obvious I was battling with something, standing here in silence staring at an old T-shirt like a loon.

  I snapped out of my darkness. “It’s fine, really. It’s not even mine.” I handed it over and waved it away like it was nothing.

  “Thanks.” He took it and did nothing. Just stared.

  “So jewellery, you think?” I clicked into life because it was just too overwhelming. All at once, it flooded back to me: I had to be somewhere, and a strange man was in my bedroom looking at me like he gets me on some deep level.

  He didn’t get me. Nobody did.

  Get back in the bubble, Bea.

  “I picked something sparkly,” he said, again using that it’s-the-most-natural-thing tone.

  “Everything in there is sparkly,” I scoffed.

  “I noticed that. Is that a representation of your eyes or your personality?”

  Hold-the-fuck-on! I swivelled around and frowned, only to recoil when I was met with him slipping his shirt off his shoulders.

  Shit.

  I spun back around, not flustered, per se, just you know…it was perplexing, which seemed to be the theme of the day, and I still hadn’t even had my morning coffee.

  “If your clothes are black like your heart,” he clarified, “what do the sparkles represent?” There was no weight in his tone, no suggestion of sarcasm. He was genuinely asking.

  “I just
like sparkly things,” I murmured, looking at the necklace laid out on my dressing table. It was the perfect choice. A long silver chain with a sparkly star that fell somewhere around my midriff. Simple but exactly right. I slipped it over my head and untucked my hair from the chain.

  “Perfect,” he said when I dared to turn back round. “You look ready.” I watched as he pulled Lewis’ T-shirt down the last inch. It was a little big; Ziggy was lean where Lewis was muscular. Why was I comparing them? It was the T-shirt, that was the only reason, I told myself. I think deep down I was happy to see it go. This was better than throwing it out or giving it to charity. This was helping someone out. It felt right. I had kept it long enough.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “It’s no problem,” I said brightly. “You’re doing me a favour, really. I need to have a clear out.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He looked like he understood the significance, but there was no way he could. I was just messed up in the head about today and still reeling from the sex-fog assault and the coffee incident.

  Flushing, for goodness knows what reason, I decided enough was enough. I had to go downstairs and face this thing.

  Knowing, he picked up his jacket. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” I forced a smile.

  He picked up his messenger bag from the hallway floor, and I lead him the opposite way from where we came in to the door that led down to the studio.

  As soon as I opened the door and the mezzanine gaming level came into view, I heard him suck in a breath. It sounded like excitement. I had to agree; this was no ordinary work place, and I was pretty proud of it. Half the team were up there on the sofas, individually and in pairs, playing on consoles or testing something or other. We made mostly apps, but being fully up to date with gaming as a whole was an essential part of staying ahead, so I provided this as a valuable resource and a great excuse to do what I love at work. Play.

  “Looks like fun,” he said as we neared the bottom of the staircase. “What is it you do?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him when I saw Melanie barrelling towards us.

  Oh shit.