Page 163 of The Home Grown
As much asI want to let it rest, I can’t. Greg may not believe Ellie, but he’s got no reason not to believe me. I mean, if anything, it’s my neck on the line because I’m the one who has to sit on the bench next to Langer knowing I ratted him out.
Greg’s office is on the high-street, only a few doors down from a derelict looking ‘House of Kathryn’ and a short taxi ride from Ellie’s house, which I took as soon as she left for work; I dug Greg’s business card from my wallet and made it over here before I could talk myself out of it.
I have one day here before I need to head back home for a practice filled week and the last thing I wanted to do was to spend it in a stuffy solicitors’ office, but here I am.
“Can I help you?”
I’ve barely closed the door behind me when the blonde behind the front desk directs her attention towards me. She flicks her eyes up and down, lingering on my hockey jumper before she surveys my hat.
I whip it off my head, setting it down on the counter and leaning in to reply.
“I’m here to see Greg Jamison,” I say, forcing my formal ‘phone voice’. “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to talk to him briefly.”
“He’s in a meeting,” she says.
“Well, I’m sure he can squeeze in a quick tête-à-tête with me once he’s done,” I say with a smile. “I can wait.”
I don’t give her a chance to turn me away. I grab my cap and move over to the hard-looking tub chairs next to the window.
Sitting in the grey one, I reach for a magazine from a pile on the glass table to my left.
Railway Timetable Digest—jeez.
I thumb through the pages, more out of curiosity than anything, because there’s no way there’s a whole magazine dedicated to timetables. But ten minutes later, I’m intrigued, my brow furrowed as I try to work out if a thirty-five-hour train ride from Moscow to Nice would be worth it. Spoiler: probably not, but I’d do it anyway just to say I had.
A throat clears in the distance and I pry my eyes away from the Japan segment to see a mousey-haired guy in a cheap suit glaring at me.
“Can I help you?” he says.
I toss the magazine aside and get to my feet, striding over to who I can only assume is Greg.
“Michael Betts,” I say, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He cocks a brow, dipping his head to stare at my out-stretched hand.
“Not a hand-shaker? I get it, don’t worry. Anyway?—”
“Is this about the marriage stuff? Because I told Ellie she’d need to enlist the help of a family lawyer on a formal basis. It’s not my bag,” he says.
“Actually, it’s not,” I say. “It’s about marriage stuff, sure, but—” I look around, spotting the blonde pretending not to eavesdrop. “—is there somewhere we could go for a quick chat?”
He exhales in an over-dramatic fashion. “I’m a little busy right now.”
“Trust me … you’re going to want to have this conversation in private.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrow. Then he nods. A single nod and a flick of his head towards a small office to his left.
“Did you know Japan’s bullet trains are so punctual their average delay is under a minute?” I say as I follow him inside.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind—look … there’s no easy way for me to say this, but bro-code dictates I tell you what I know… but since we’re not actually ‘bros’ in that sense, I’m not going to sugar-coat it.” I pause, waiting for him to give me permission to continue, I guess, but he stares blankly at me. “Right, well … your wife-to-be Kathryn is screwing your best man. Rick Langdon, just to be clear.”
He glares at me, unblinking, then he scoffs, a half-laugh that’s awkward and dry.
But I keep my expression stable, showing him that this is definitely not a joke.
“I’m sorry but what?” he says.
