if he’d taken your fucking advice about the choppers—’
‘Anyway, what happened, happened,’ Ben interrupted quickly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it now. Just one thing I need to do, and this whole nightmare will be over.’
‘What do you need to do, Ben?’ Brooke asked quietly.
‘The only thing I can. Pay Shannon off.’
Even in the dim light of the screen, Jeff’s face went distinctly pale. ‘Pay Shannon off?’ he echoed.
Ben nodded. ‘Every penny.’
‘That’s one point two million,’ Jeff exploded.
‘I know how much it is.’
Jeff gaped. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I messed up,’ Ben said. ‘Now I have to pay the price.’
‘We’ll take this to court,’ Jeff protested. ‘Unfair dismissal. Steiner’s put us in this position.’
‘It can’t get to court,’ Ben said. ‘Even if we won, we’d never survive the bad publicity. And if we lost, we’d end up paying legal costs on top of everything else. There’s no other choice.’
‘This is nuts,’ Jeff muttered. ‘Absolutely nuts.’
Brooke was watching Ben anxiously. Her drink sat cooling on the table in front of her.
‘You’re talking about an awful lot of money, Ben.’
‘More than the business can afford,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll have to take out a mortgage on Le Val, or go to the bank and beg for a loan. Scrape it together, somehow. Then we hand it over to Shannon, and we move on.’ He tried to smile and look optimistic. He knew it wasn’t a convincing act.
‘What if you can’t raise that much?’ Brooke asked.
Ben shrugged. The answer was obvious, and the look on Brooke’s face told him that she’d known it even before she’d finished asking the question.
‘Then we’ll have to sell up,’ he said quietly. Hearing the words out loud was almost more than he could bear.
The three of them sat there in silence. Jeff looked thunderstruck, and Ben knew what he was thinking. Le Val was just as much home to Jeff now as it was to him. If it had to go on the market, all the work they’d both put into it would be lost. And all just to pay off shit like Rupert Shannon.
Jeff stood up. His face was tight.
‘I’m sorry, Jeff.’
‘It’s not your doing, mate,’ Jeff said. There was emotion in his voice. He turned to leave the room. ‘See you in the morning,’ he muttered.
Then he was gone, and Ben and Brooke were left alone.
‘I think I’ll turn in too,’ she said, getting up. ‘Though I doubt if I’ll get any sleep tonight. Not now.’
‘I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to get pissed out of my mind.’
She smiled. ‘Come to think of it, that sounds like a very good idea. Mind if I join you?’
‘Be my guest. There’s enough wine on the rack to kill both of us.’
It was cold up in Ben’s quarters, and he arranged kindling sticks and a couple of dry logs in the fireplace while Brooke filled a couple of glasses of wine. She sat cross-legged on the big soft rug next to the hearth, watching him. ‘You’re a pretty good firelighter,’ she commented.
‘I ought to be.’ In a minute or so the blaze was crackling up the chimney, and he settled next to her on the rug. She handed him a glass.
‘What can you drink to on a night like this?’ she said.
‘Here’s to good old Saint Genevieve,’ Ben said, raising his glass.
‘Who’s Saint Genevieve?’
‘The patron saint of complete and utter disasters and fuck-ups. An old friend of mine.’ He downed his wine. Reached for the bottle and refilled the glass.
They drank in silence as the rain lashed against the windows, and watched the flames curl and lick around the logs in the fireplace. Ben knocked the wine back hard and fast.
‘We need another bottle,’ he said. ‘Or two.’
‘So soon?’
‘I mean business.’ He started clambering to his feet. ‘I’ll go down for it,’ she said, putting her hand on his shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve just had an idea.’
‘What idea?’
‘A brilliant one.’
He tossed a couple more logs on the fire while she was gone, poked them around so that orange sparks flew up the chimney, and felt the heat on his face. After a few minutes Brooke returned, balancing two more bottles on a tray along with a plate and a covered platter.
‘So this is your brilliant idea,’ he said.
She took the lid from the platter. ‘Marie-Claire’s famous chocolate gateau.’ She sat down beside him, laid the tray on the rug in front of them. He quickly opened the second bottle. As he poured their glasses, she dipped a fork into the cake and ate some. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight.
‘God, this is good.’ She loaded up another forkful and carried it towards his mouth.
He clamped his lips shut, shook his head. ‘I don’t like sweets much. You eat it.’
‘Help you soak up all this booze.’
‘I don’t want to soak it up. Defeats the object. What I want is for it to get into my bloodstream and circulate round to my brain, as quickly and efficiently as possible. What’s the point otherwise?’
‘Come on, Ben. You really must eat some of this. It’s a secret family recipe. People round here have gone to war for it. To have it offered to you and not eat it is a sacrilege. An insult to the gods.’
He smiled and put down his glass. ‘OK, you persuaded me. It wouldn’t do to offend the gods.’
‘Definitely not.’ She held the fork up to his mouth. He opened it, and she fed the cake to him. He drew away, sliding the piece off the fork with his teeth. Chewed once, paused, chewed again and swallowed. It tasted rich and creamy. Cognac and almonds and home-churned butter. A hint of coffee in there somewhere, and traces of flavours he could only guess at.
‘You’re right. It is pretty damn good.’
‘Have another bit,’ she said. ‘It’s the ultimate in comfort eating.’
‘In that case, maybe just another bit.’
‘Let’s just chocolate ourselves to death,’ she said. ‘Right here, right now.’
He threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘Fuck it. Why not?’
She fed him another forkful, and then had another herself.
‘You were right,’ he said. ‘This was a brilliant idea.’
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames. Then Brooke turned towards him to say something.
‘Hold on,’ he said, interrupting her. Raised his finger and moved it towards her face. ‘You’ve got a bit of cream right there.’ He gently wiped it from the corner of her mouth, then carried it back towards his own mouth and licked his finger. ‘You were about to say something,’ he said.
She looked blank. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Getting there.’
But it didn’t matter that they didn’t say much. Ben was thankful for the companionship. Brooke was someone he felt relaxed around and could comfortably share a silence with. Her presence made him feel better. He could smell her subtle perfume, and the fresh apple scent of shampoo when her hair brushed near his face. It made him think of sunshine, summer meadows, nice things that seemed to belong in some inaccessible parallel world.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said eventually. The chocolate cake was finished now, the empty plate and the fork between them on the rug.
‘What don’t you get?’
‘You and Rupert Shannon.’
Brooke sighed.
‘What do you see in the guy?’
