I SHOULD BE HAPPIER, Jeremy thought as he leant back in his office chair and put his feet up on his large leather-topped desk. My life is pretty well perfect. I’m as healthy as a horse, filthy rich and blessedly single. On top of that, I’m no longer Chief Investment Consultant at the London branch of the Barker-Whittle banking empire. What a relief!
Working for his over-achieving father had not been Jeremy’s idea of a fun occupation. Unfortunately, he’d been darned good at his job. Despite the accolades and the generous bonuses he’d earned over the years, he much preferred being his own boss. Jeremy had used some of his recently acquired wealth to buy an ailing publishing firm, which he was turning into a rather surprising success. Perverse, considering it was an accidental purchase.
Jeremy’s initial aim when launching out on his own had been to go into the property development business, his first purchase last year a town house in one of Mayfair’s best streets. But the publishing company leasing the building had proved difficult to deal with, the owner stubbornly insisting on staying put till his lease ran out. So Jeremy had made an offer that he couldn’t refuse, thereby solving the problem, his intention having been to relocate his new business to cheaper premises whilst he renovated and converted the slightly run-down property into three luxury apartments.
But things hadn’t worked out that way. He’d found himself liking the people who worked at Mayfair Books, all of whom were naturally worried about losing their jobs. He also liked the rooms the way they were. Slightly shabby, yes, but full of character and charm, with lots of wood-panelled walls and antique furniture. It had been clear from talking to the employees and looking at their sales figures, however, that the business itself had desperately needed updating. Whilst Jeremy had known next to nothing about the modern publishing industry, he was an intelligent and well-connected man, with loads of business contacts, one of which headed the marketing division of a rather famous London publisher.
So here he was, almost a year later, heading Barker Books, having changed the name along with the company’s fortunes. They’d actually made a profit during the last quarter. He even got up every morning and happily went into his office these days, unlike his time at the bank when he’d conducted most of his business over the phone.
So work wasn’t the reason for this odd feeling of discontent.
Jeremy knew it wasn’t his love life, either. That was sailing along as usual, though, since buying the book business, his focus had been more on work than women.
Not that he felt sexually frustrated. He didn’t. Jeremy had no trouble finding willing ladies to accompany him to the many social occasions he was constantly invited to. A man of his status and wealth was a prized guest. His partner du jour invariably accompanied him back to his bed for the night, despite Jeremy always making it clear that dating him was never going to lead to a ring on her finger. He didn’t do love or, God forbid, marriage. Thankfully, most of them were good with that, because he didn’t do broken hearts, either.
When the reason for his discontent continued to elude Jeremy, he was forced to give the matter deeper thought, something he usually tried to avoid at all costs. He’d never seen the benefit of self-analysis, or counselling. It had never done his older brothers any good. Jeremy knew exactly why he was the way he was. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him that his aversion to love and marriage stemmed from his parents’ constant divorcing and remarrying. That, plus their abandoning him to boarding school when he was just eight, where he’d been bullied endlessly.
He hated thinking about those years, so he didn’t, his mind swiftly moving on to happier times. He’d thoroughly enjoyed his years at University in London, finally using his excellent brain to its full capacity. His results had thrilled his maternal grandmother, who’d promptly made him her heir, on the condition he went on to study at Oxford. Which he had, his generous private income—Gran had passed away shortly after he enrolled—providing him with the kind of lifestyle to which he’d quickly become addicted. He’d done sufficient study to easily pass his exams but, generally speaking, fun had been the order of the day, Jeremy carousing to a level that might have become a problem if he hadn’t acquired two slightly more sensible friends.
Thinking of Sergio and Alex sent Jeremy’s gaze to the photo of the three of them that was sitting on his desk. Harriet had taken it on the day Sergio had married his one-time stepsister in July last year, Sergio having asked both Alex and himself to be his best men. The wedding had taken place on the shores of Lake Como, in the grounds of a magnificent villa. Whilst no longer worried that Bella might be a chip off her fortune-hunting mother’s block, Jeremy wasn’t convinced the marriage would last. Love never lasted, did it? Still, there was nothing he could do about that. It was a shame, though, how little he saw of his best friend these days. Of both his best friends. He had seen them at Alex’s wedding to Harriet in Australia back in February, but only briefly. Jeremy really missed the days when they’d all lived in London and got together regularly, back when they’d still all been bachelors and hadn’t become billionaires.
Hadn’t been thirty-five, either. That had been the kiss of death, their all turning thirty-five last year. That, and the super sale of their WOW wine bar franchise to an American equity company. Suddenly, everything had changed, with the Bachelor Club they’d formed back at Oxford no longer relevant. Maybe their friendship was no longer relevant, either.
With a sigh, Jeremy scraped his feet off his desk. They hit the floor with a thud, the sound echoing the hollow feeling inside his heart. Leaning forward, he picked up the photo, frowning as he studied the three faces smiling back at him.
Jeremy didn’t envy his friends and their marriages, but he hated the thought that he would hardly ever see them from now on. Their priorities would be their wives and their families, not him. He would become old news, someone whom they recalled with vague fondness when they glanced through their photo albums every decade or so.
‘Who’s that man, Dad?’ he imagined Alex’s son asking. Harriet was expecting a boy.
‘Oh, that’s Jeremy. A chap I knew once. We went to Oxford together. He was the best man at our wedding. Gosh. Haven’t seen him for years.’
Jeremy scowled as he slammed the photo face down on the desk and snatched up his phone.
‘Damn it all, I’m not going to let that happen,’ he ground out as he retrieved Alex’s number.
Realising it would be the middle of the night in Australia—not nice to call at such an hour—Jeremy sent an email volunteering himself for godfather duty when the time came. That done, he righted the photo, placed it back in its pride of place and settled down to have a look at their current sales figures. Finding the file on his laptop, he clicked it open but didn’t get far before there was a rapid tap-tap-tap on his door.
‘Come in, Madge,’ he said.
Madge entered as briskly as she did everything. In her mid-fifties, Madge was a thin, plain woman with cropped grey hair, piercing blue eyes and a schoolmarm manner. Jeremy had hired her soon after buying the business, the