A Chance Encounter by Rae Shaw (e manga reader TXT) 📗

Hettie's eyelids drooped. The baby lay in her arms, satiated and placid. The group decamped for coffee in the sitting room and Jackson retrieved his sleeping daughter from the exhausted Hettie and returned her upstairs. The atmosphere changed when Jackson returned. She curled up with her head on his lap. The conversation then meandered around the room, never anchoring itself to one person or theme. From Jackson's personal accountant, Edmund, to the shrill-voiced art dealer, whose name Mark cared to forget, then back to the retired police inspector, Graham, who fiddled with his wedding ring and never mentioned his absent wife. Of the dozen people surrounding the Hayneses, only Mark worked for Haynes Financial.

The eclectic group had nothing in common, no obvious connections. Drawn together by one man, they possessed the wit to maintain polite discourse without ever touching on personal matters. Their words danced and weaved, never revealing why they were friends of Jackson. Hettie slept. If anyone found it rude, they all had the decency to keep quiet. Mark struggled to stay focused. From the outside looking in, he wanted to belong, but they weren't his crowd. He had no crowd.

Graham, the policeman, wasn’t comfortable either.

‘First time here?’ Mark asked him while the others chatted.

‘What? No, no.’ Graham drained his wine glass. ‘A few times now. I help out with Opportunitas; bit of liaising with my former colleagues. Missing persons stuff, mostly. Jackson has his circle of friends. I’m like you, just one of them; pop up now and again. He has excellent caterers.’ He patted his portly stomach.

Following the Fasleigh party, Mark slipped off Jackson’s radar; Mark wasn’t worthy after all. Consequently he hadn’t expected an invitation to the Winter Ball, especially one hand-delivered to his desk by Jackson's PA.

~ * ~

Handing the embossed invitation to the doorman of the grand hotel, Mark entered the function suite and, catching his reflection in a mirror, adjusted his bowtie. The air hummed with voices, laughter and distant music. Waiters drifted through the throng with champagne and canapés on platters. The buffet, which was laid out on a golden cloth, was a work of art: spirals of carrots, twirls of greenery impregnated with pink salmon, and beads of caviar. The centre piece, an ice sculpture of a swan, was melting under the lights. People were snapping selfies with their phones. Jackson had paid for the food out of his own pocket. Eating it seemed calamitous, an insult; nobody wanted to ruin the culinary backdrop. Mark popped a cherry tomato in his mouth.

Straightening himself up, he circulated, building repartee using executive style soundbites. The invitation was for two – but he hadn't brought Ellen along. Although they had rekindled a functional relationship, they were different creatures when it came to social occasions. Mark closed in on himself; Ellen unfolded. She also drank a lot.

During a meal out, she had consumed a whole bottle of red wine, quaffed it like cordial. He had picked up the bill. The next time he had picked a cheaper vintage. She didn't notice.

For four weeks, he had entertained her and as long as they steered away from the elephant in the room, they got on fine. The elephant stomped about in Mark's head most days, but Ellen was adamant it wasn't for discussion. Her glibness riled him. Ellen brushed her mother under the rug and, for good measure, threw her entire childhood under it too – not for discussion – and boyfriends, who needed them? She had talked about Nicky, work and digging and had a way of making frivolity seem important; a foil for his tendency to be sombre and serious.

Instead of bringing her to the ball, he had insisted she attended a wedding somewhere in Oxfordshire. A friend of a friend from work. She wasn't keen. He had coaxed her into going with a bribe: money for a dress.

‘You might meet somebody,’ he had said.

It had prompted the usual defence. ‘Why would I want to meet a somebody?’ Good point. It was the sort of thing he might say. Why tie your life to someone else?

Ellen had gone in the end with this friend. She would thank him afterwards.

His first tour of the ballroom confirmed that Jackson relied on an eclectic web of friends and contacts to support his charity. Mark shook hands with Jackson’s property developer, a lazy-eyed man who spoke at length about the cost of running women’s refuges in the heart of a major city. Then Jackson’s personal accountant, the elegant Edmund, whom Mark had met at Jackson’s dinner party sauntered over to greet Mark, who was smiling from the nose down. Thankfully, Edmund didn’t want to talk shop. The other party guest was the police inspector, Saddler, who had brought along his narrow-hipped wife. Her nose twitched like a playful rabbit and she giggled over an empty glass of bubbly. The sequin-festooned dress, which hung off her shoulders, was as limp as her nervous handshake. She opened her mouth to say something but the policeman scowled and reeled her off in a different direction.

After a second circuit, Mark spied a familiar face standing by the wall. She was dressed no differently to an invitee but she wasn't a guest; a coil of wire trailed down from behind one ear and she had no drink in her hand. She scanned the room, eyes roving, never dwelling on one person for more than a second, except for him. Whether she was doing it deliberately, Mark couldn't tell, but her pattern of observations definitely included looking at him. Curiosity got the better of him and he sauntered over to her to lean his shoulder against the wall. He folded his arms and cocked his head to one side.

‘Hi, Mark.’ Her attempt at nonchalance failed. She fidgeted with her earpiece.

‘Julianna. Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks. What have you