Page 2 of Love and Loathing

“Executive flats,” Zig said glumly. “You know what that means.‘A prestigious development of exclusive, luxury apartments.’Unaffordable. Inaccessible. Especially now.”

“Now what?”

“They just got bought out by Actuaris. Domnall White is expanding into property development. Probably a tax dodge, the same way all those Russian oligarchs put their blood money into London townhouses they never live in.”

“Shit,” Evie breathed.

Domnall White and Actuaris were the worst of the worst. They used sweatshop factories to supply their high street fashion chains. They swindled their employees’ pension funds. They were constantly in the papers for one thing or another, and they always managed to get away with it.

“He’s buying up land everywhere,” Zig continued. “Greenbelt land, too. They just outbid the Green Trust for a woodland in Kent and—”

“OK, stop. I can’t… I need a moment, OK?”

She sensed Zig nod, knew how he’d look, his thin blond hair almost to his eyes, nail scratching his reddish beard as he paused for a moment before saying, “It’s why he’s on FTP’s radar now. He’s their prime target.”

She shook her head, but if Zig could sense her reluctance down the line, he ignored it.

“It’s like I was saying last night, Eve. Wehaveto join FTP. It’s no good setting up community gardens or saving a dog or two in Spain when it all gets steamrollered by these guys with the fat cheque books. We need to stopthem. If we fight them, bring them down, make it clear that we’re not going to put up with it anymore… FTP has this plan—”

“No. They’re extremists. They give protesters a bad name.”

“Maybe that’s what it takes. If we’re really committed to the cause. What about the suffragettes? Are you condemning them for the things they did? For The Planet are the same. They take risks, yeah, but we’ve been trying it our way—the kind, polite way—for years. And where have we got? Gardens bulldozed and trees cut down and libraries shut. And it’s only getting worse. You know it.”

Evie had a headache by the time she got to her brother Roscoe’s place in central London. It was a relief to turn off the busy side streets and enter the peaceful mews where his maisonette was located. She walked slowly, dredging up the energy to be bright and sociable, wanting to linger in the soft pink light of the languidly setting sun.

Thoughts preoccupied, she only properly became aware of the man walking some distance in front of her when he slowed and stopped at the very door she was headed for. He pressed the buzzer, glanced up at the house, then turned, noticing her as she stopped a few steps from him. He raised an enquiring eyebrow, nodding at the blue painted door.

“Dinner at Roscoe’s?”

He was older than she was, mid-thirties. Tall and handsome in a wholly masculine way, like those 1940s screen stars. Darkhair and straight dark brows and straight nose and straight lips. Nothing pretty about him at all. Almost severe.

Not her type,she dismissed him automatically, the way one did when single. She liked guys with wavy, curly hair and save-the-world stars in their wood-green eyes. The only thing this man would save were reservations in exclusive restaurants. From his suit to his shoes, he was clearly another of Roscoe’s financial city boy friends.

He was smiling—a very self-assured sort of smile.Smug,she thought.Arrogant.

“Or perhaps you’re not here for Roscoe at all,” he continued. “Except for the fact you look exactly like his older brother Hugo.”

She flushed, because shedidlook like Hugo, damn him. They were both tall and angular with very dark hair and very blue eyes.

“The female version, of course,” he assured her, still smiling, though the amused gleam in his dark brown eyes felt like he was laughing at her. Or rather, laughing at the whole world, as though he thought he might just be the first person in all of humanity to realise life, and everyone living it, was utterly absurd.

“Aubrey Ford,” he said, holding out his hand. “I work at your father’s company. It’s how I know Roscoe.”

Evie shook his hand, which was large and strong, despite a lifetime of doing nothing but sitting at a desk making rich men richer. His admission of where he worked sunk her opinion of him even lower. Definitely not her type.

“Evelyn Blackton,” she said.

They were saved from further small talk by the rattle of the lock and Roscoe greeting them, grinning and happy. Aubrey stepped inside past him, then her brother, the big oaf, enveloped her in one of his suffocating hugs, from which she emerged embarrassed but already feeling better.

Aubrey had paused on the bottom step, watching. Roscoe quickly made the same introductions they had just made then waved them both ahead, following them up the stairs. “Poppy’s cooked something amazing,” he said. “And it’s all vegan, Eve, so don’t worry.”

Distantly, up the stairs ahead of her, she thought she heard Aubrey groan.

Of course he’s that type,she thought irritably. At some point tonight he would probably start mansplaining the purpose of human canine teeth. She swallowed what she’d been about to say to Roscoe about the garden, not wanting to get into it now, with an audience. Or think about it at all, if she was honest. Maybe it was better to try and just enjoy being here, with Roscoe and his lovely new girlfriend, whom she’d already met twice since coming back to London. Good food and good company would be enough. If this Aubrey man didn’t ruin it.

Speaking of which… Inside Roscoe’s flat, she toed off her shoes and eyed his friend who had already gone through to the living room to talk to Poppy.

“I thought it was just us three,” she whispered to Roscoe.

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