Mr. Smithfield - Louise Bay Page 0,4

“I think.”

He pulled out a single key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. A moment later, he disappeared behind the closed door, shutting the entire world—and me—out.

Three

Gabriel

A crash downstairs drew my attention to the clock on my computer. Shit. Seven thirty. I’d been on this video call for two and a half hours and it was a Sunday morning.

“I’m going to have to go,” I said. I’d mentioned having to ring off before seven when I answered the call at just after five. But as usual, Mike Green, my biggest client, liked to push boundaries.

“We’re just making progress,” Mike said. “I think if we keep going, we can have this deal hammered out by noon your time. You’ll get the rest of the day.”

“I have a four-year-old, Mike. I’ll catch up with you tonight. Just don’t engage those useless environmental analysts. I’ll find someone else.”

“Gabriel, they’re the best in the business.”

“They were four days late with the last report. They can’t be trusted.”

“Can you just give me a few more hours? We can get this done.”

When I didn’t respond, he sighed and gave me a disappointed nod of the head. He’d make me pay for this. People thought that when you made partner at a law firm, you were your own boss, but that was bollocks. Clients ruled my life in a way that other people’s bosses made their lives hell. Mike was a dickhead. But he was a successful dickhead and headed up one of the few private equity houses that was still doing deals in this recession. Probably because he had nothing else to do.

I left the meeting and headed out of my office, toward the sound of the crash. Bethany woke between seven and seven thirty every morning like clockwork, and although she normally just played in her bedroom until I came and got her, she may have wandered downstairs.

I walked into the kitchen and instead of seeing smashed crockery and four-year-old bare feet, I found Autumn at the hob, with Bethany sitting on a bar stool.

“Good morning,” I said, scrubbing my hands through my hair and then kissing my daughter on the head. “Can we turn that music down?” What was it with Autumn and musicals?

“We’re making pancakes,” Bethany announced as she continued to stir the mixture in the mixing bowl in front of her. “And singing.”

God help us all. Autumn sang like she was drowning in a pit of cats and Bethany was four, so naturally sounded like one of the said cats. The two of them together might be handy as a form of defense if we were fighting off the Taliban, but my eardrums wouldn’t survive another chorus of Let it Go.

I glanced at Autumn, wondering if she’d heard my request to turn down the music, and she beamed at me. I’d never known a person so happy all the time. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to impress me or if she was genuinely, thoroughly enjoying herself. Constantly.

“I picked up maple syrup and blueberries this week, so we’re giving it a try. Are you willing to be a guinea pig?” she asked. More smiles. It was seven thirty on a Sunday. What was there to be so happy about?

“Please, Daddy,” Bethany pleaded.

“Okay.” I had no defense against my daughter’s request. I picked up Autumn’s phone and silenced the incessant screeching, hoping to dissuade any amateur participation, and took a seat on the stool next to my daughter. I hoped Autumn’s cooking was a lot better than her vocal ability. “But I don’t expect you to have to cook Bethany breakfast. Or me for that matter. I know it’s a Sunday.”

“I was awake. And I’m cooking us all breakfast. I hope.” She winked. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had winked at me. It might have been the gardener we had when I was a child. These days, I was far too serious for anyone to wink at me.

Except Autumn, apparently.

“Here we go. Are you up for first taste, Bethany?” Autumn slid the first pancake onto a wooden plate. “Not too much syrup and lots of blueberries, please.”

“Hot!” Bethany said, staring at the piece of pancake on her fork and giving it an ineffective blow.

Before Bethany had given her verdict, Autumn slid three pancakes onto my plate and handed me a knife and fork.

“Yummy!” Bethany declared. “Daddy, you eat.” She jabbed her finger at my plate.

“I’m out of objections,” I replied and took a mouthful.

“How are they?” Autumn