Gold Digger

Ollie

“Mrs H, I really don’t have time for this,” I snapped. “I’m sure there’ll be ample opportunity to insult me over my lifestyle choices and berate me for the recycling later.” Mrs H did not approve of the bottles that accumulated when you lived like I did. I knew she was right – I was hitting it too hard in order to block out the dreams of her .

I had no idea what was wrong with me, but the bone-deep yearning was getting ridiculous. I’d only seen her a handful of times since the pub three months ago, but that didn’t seem to make any difference. To try and forget, I went out nearly every night, accepted every invitation, put up with the paparazzi and let women drape themselves over me in bars and clubs, hoping to feel something … something other than the ache I felt for her. But it never ended with me taking any of those women home. No, I invariably either stumbled home alone, or with some mates in tow to work our way through the pile of now empty bottles that Mrs H objected to so strongly. But still, her face, her eyes, the way she tripped over her own feet, the way her head tilted to the side when she was listening – everything about her was replaying in my brain obsessively.

It was exhausting. I wasn’t sleeping properly. When I closed my eyes all I saw was her, then when I finally did sleep it was littered with fevered dreams of her. I’d wake up sweating and rock hard with my arms empty and the ache of loss in my chest. I could not carry on like this, but I had no idea how to break the cycle.

It was getting to the stage where I was having trouble remembering why I cared that she’d accepted the bribe. What right did I have to judge her? And it was also painfully clear to me that I knew next to nothing about her. The desperate quality of her voice when she spoke about needing the money was haunting me. What did I know about needing money? All my energy was directed at protecting my legacy, and it had been drilled into me that meant maintaining and, in my case, accumulating more wealth. That’s the terrible fear that drives us heirs in the aristocracy – the worry that after hundreds of years, we’ll be the ones to fuck up the dynasty, to lose it all. The weight of our ancestors’ expectations seems massive. But honestly, just like Lottie once said, those guys are dead – they don’t care if I’ve added another billion to the empire they built. Is that really what I want my legacy to be? How is that benefiting anyone other than me and my family?

I’d also been thinking about Cordelia, who I still saw at events now. And it struck me how even five years ago, just after she’d sold me out to the Daily Mail and I broke off the engagement, I’d never felt half the level of betrayal that I did when Lottie took my mother’s payoff. And I certainly never picked a fight with Cordelia. Why did I continue to berate Lottie when the payout she’d received was a fraction of Cordelia’s and did far less damage to my reputation?Original from NôvelDrama.Org.

Mrs H put her hands on her hips and blocked my way in the corridor. “We have a problem,” she said in a firm tone. “And it’s nothing to do with your bad habits, although rest assured your mother will be hearing about the recycling later.” I looked up at the ceiling to seek patience, my hand on the back of my neck.

“What problem? Honestly, Mrs H, I don’t have time to?—”

“There’s someone in the house,” her voice had dropped to a whisper, and my eyes snapped back to hers as I frowned.

“Christ,” I bit out. “Where? Have you called the police?”

Mrs H pointed to the library door behind her as she shook her head. I moved quickly to position myself between her and the door. I’d had crazy stalkers in the past, but none had ever actually managed to break in. The last thing I wanted was for one of them to hurt Mrs H.

“Go to the kitchen and call the police. Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

Luckily my golf clubs were in the hallway. I took out a five-iron as I moved to the library door but stopped when Mrs H grabbed my arm. She was still shaking her head.

“Put that down,” she snapped as if I was still a naughty little boy she needed to rein in. “I’m not calling the police. And you’re not to go in half-cocked with a bloody golf club. You’ll scare her half to death, the poor thing.”

My eyebrows went up. “Mrs H, these people can be dangerous. Do as I say and go to the kitchen. Call the police.”

“Oliver Harding!” she shouted after me as I stalked to the library, golf club still in hand. But when I threw open the door and stormed in, it was empty. I frowned as I slowly lowered the golf club. Mrs H, as always not following orders, was right behind me and tapped my shoulder. “Up there,” she whispered, pointing at the mezzanine. I squinted up in the direction she’d indicated. At first, I couldn’t see anything, then I blinked as a small shoe came into focus, which was quickly pulled back into the shadows.

“What the fuck?” I whispered as I started to walk towards the spiral staircase.

“Don’t scare her,” Mrs H whispered, still on my heels as I made my way up the steps. I waved her away, still not sure if it was safe, but she just tutted in my wake. Once I was at the top and my eyes adjusted to the shadows up there, I saw her. She was huddled in the corner, her arms wrapped around her knees, her big brown eyes staring up at me under her mop of caramel hair. Those eyes flicked to the golf club I realised I was still holding. She looked terrified.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, lowering the golf club to the floor and then holding my hands up to show I meant no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I stepped towards her, but she shrank back from me, her eyes widening with more fear. Realising that our size difference was freaking her out, I lowered down to a crouch, with my arms resting on my bent legs and my hands dangling between. I tilted my head to the side. “Want to tell me what you’re doing in my library, sweetheart?”

She shook her head in a rapid, jerky movement, her caramel curls spilling all over her shoulders. Looking into those eyes, I felt a jolt of recognition and I frowned.

“Do I know you?” I asked, and she shook her head again. I smiled at her, hoping to put her at ease, but it just seemed to scare her more. “How did you get in?” Her eyes flicked over, past my shoulder to where Mrs H was standing, which wasn’t a surprise. The woman was the least security-conscious employee I’d ever had. I’d frequently come home to the front door left wide open whilst she was on the job. “Well, that was very clever of you.”

She focused back on me again, a little curiosity cutting through the fear in her expression as her head lifted slightly. She was wearing pink and white trainers, a thick winter coat and mittens. There was a book open next to her. She flinched slightly when I moved to pick it up.

“ The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe ,” I said as I examined the cover. “You must be good at reading if you’re halfway through this at age… six?” I hid my smile as she scowled at me. She looked closer to Florrie’s age, but I knew this would get a rise out of her. “Hmm, not six then. Five?”

Her head came right off her knees at that, and I could finally see her whole face. That jolt of recognition hit me again as her brown eyes flashed with indignation.

“I’m just kidding, sweetheart,” I said placatingly. “But even for your age, this is pretty good reading. Is that why you hid up here?”

She bit her lip and looked to the side, her nose scrunching in her pretty face.

“Listen, why don’t you come down from here and Mrs H will get you some cookies.”

She shook her head again, but as if on cue, her stomach rumbled.

“Come on,” I said in a soft, cajoling voice. “I know you must be hungry. I promise you’re not in trouble, but we can’t leave you up here.”

“It’s okay, lovie,” Mrs H put in, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it before. “He’s an alright sort really, the big lout.” The lack of respect for me in my own house was staggering but I didn’t care when I saw the little girl’s face break into a small smile. She uncurled herself and pushed up to her feet as I straightened from my crouch. There was a touch of fear back in her expression once I was at my full height again, but I smiled down at her, and her small shoulders relaxed just a little. She held on tightly to the bannister as she made her way down the staircase, then Mrs H bustled her through to the kitchen, coaxing her out of her bulky coat with dire warnings about how she “wouldn’t feel the benefit” if she stayed bundled up in it.

She looked tiny in my massive kitchen. On instinct, I lifted her up onto one of the stools, just as I would with Florrie. She weighed nothing and I frowned in concern as I set her down. Mrs H slid a plate of cookies and a glass of milk in front of her and she began nibbling one of them, her eyes flicking nervously between me and Mrs H.

“Your mum’s got to be frantic with worry, lovie,” Mrs H said. The little girl shook her head, and I frowned.

“She won’t be worried?” I asked, and she looked away and to the side. “Right, okay, so not your mum then. Is there someone who will be worried?” She bit her lip and shrugged, but her discomfort was telling. Clearly, someone would be desperately worried about this girl’s whereabouts. I sighed. “You’re not very chatty, are you?” She shook her head again. “Listen, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if you don’t tell us who to contact, we’ll have to phone social services to see if?—”

My words cut off as she leapt off her stool towards me, grabbed my arm and shook her head furiously. Her face had drained of all colour now, and there was real fear in her eyes. The hand she was gripping my arm with was shaking. What in the world?

“Okay, okay. Calm down,” I said softly, crouching again so that I was eye-level with her. “No social services, I promise. But you’re going to have to?—”

I broke off again as the doorbell started sounding repeatedly, accompanied by loud banging on the front door.

“What on earth?” I muttered, turning to look over my shoulder towards the source of the commotion. When I looked back at the girl, she was also looking over my shoulder towards the front door with a guilty expression. I had a feeling that whoever did care about this child’s whereabouts had somehow found themselves at my house. “Wait here with Mrs H,” I told her as I turned and strode to the front door.

The banging and the doorbell ringing was becoming frenzied, and when I finally pulled open the door a woman practically fell into my arms, clearly being mid-door pound. The familiar lavender smell filled my nostrils as I lifted the small woman back up onto her feet and then I was staring into the same brown eyes I’d been looking at moments before. This was why I recognised that little girl.

“Is she here?” Lottie’s voice was frantic, her eyes wild as she gripped onto my suit jacket, balling the material in her fists and shaking. “Did she come here? Please, Ollie, please, please, please tell me she’s here?”

I heard small footsteps behind me, and then Lottie wrenched herself out of my arms to tear around me. She skidded onto her knees on the polished wood of the corridor and flung her arms around the little girl who’d emerged from the kitchen.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re okay,” she chanted over and over again, her words shaking with tears. The little girl was gripping Lottie so tight around her neck that her knuckles were white. I walked to them slowly as Lottie pulled back and took the little girl by both shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “You can’t do that to me, Hayley,” she said, relief, frustration and anger lacing her words. “We’re a team, remember? You can’t just bail on the team.” Her face crumpled then as two tears tracked down her cheeks. “What would I have done if something happened to you, lovebug?” she said in a broken voice and the puzzle pieces of the phone call I’d overheard months ago fell into place. “You’re my world. I’d have nothing without you.” Hayley looked at her feet as a fat tear rolled down her face too. “I know things are tough,” Lottie went on, her tone softer now. “But we can do tough, can’t we? As long as we’ve got each other we can do anything. ”

Hayley looked up at Lottie then and frowned.

“I know, hun. But you have to go to school. Everybody has to go to school.”

Hayley bit her lip and looked to the side, clearly not in agreement with Lottie there.

I cleared my throat, and both caramel-hair-coloured, brown-eyed girls flinched as their gazes shot to me. Lottie’s eyes went wide as if she was just now becoming aware of her surroundings again. She straightened and stood with Hayley’s hand in hers, glancing nervously between me and Mrs H.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her pale, tear-streaked face filled with mortification. “Hayley shouldn’t have come here. She’s having a tough time at school, and she just—” she broke off and shook her head once. “Jeepers, you don’t want to hear about all that. We’ve wasted enough of your time.” She took a step away, towards the front door, but I moved to block her path, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Neither of you are going anywhere until you explain,” I told her, and her eyes widened. “Now, Hayley was halfway through her plate of cookies. I suggest we go back to the kitchen and have a long overdue chat about what the fu…” I broke off and cleared my throat – so this was why Lottie never swore, “…fudge is going on.”

“Ollie, I’m sorry, but?—”

“Your Grace?” We all turned to look back at the still-open front door and the two police officers now filling it.