Page 25 of Save Us
“Good luck,” he calls after me.
If only he knew how much I need it.
A woman and another man get into the lift with me. They look me over in surprise as they see the floor I’m heading for. I turn away from them, staring down at my shabby brown leather shoes.
It’s a high-speed lift, yet it seems to take forever to reach the twentieth floor. All I can think about is Lydia. It’s been five days since I heard from her, and I’m sick with worry. I spent the whole of Monday evening trying to get through to her, but her phone stayed switched off after our call. Late that night, I got an email:
I’m bringing you nothing but trouble. Maybe it’s for the best if you forget me. I’m sorry.
Lydia
I wrote back, but she hasn’t replied. I don’t know where she is, or how she’s doing. So, when I got a phone call from Mr. Beaufort’s secretary yesterday, I felt as though the ground was giving way beneath my feet.
If Lydia’s father wants to speak to me, that can only mean one thing. He knows. And while that makes me even more anxious than my first day teaching at Maxton Hall, I’m also almost…relieved? The last few days have been, without a doubt, the hardest of my life so far. I’m suspended from work, will probably lose my job and with it my entire professional career. But the sense of hopelessness is mingled with thoughts of Lydia. We might actually be able to have a future together without living in constantfear and guilt. It would be a high price to pay, but Lydia is worth it.
I’m the last person out of the lift. A dark-haired woman at another reception desk greets me with a reserved smile. “Do take a seat just over there, Mr. Sutton. Mr. Beaufort will be with you shortly.” She points to a row of chairs at the end of the corridor.
I walk over to them but don’t sit down. I stand by the glass wall that takes up the whole right-hand side of this floor, giving an impressive view of London. I study the city where I grew up. The Thames glitters in the spring sunshine, looking almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the tumult inside me.
“You can go in now, Mr. Sutton,” says the assistant.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Then I take a deep breath, walk past the chairs to the door, and press down on the handle.
Lydia’s father’s office is just the same as the rest of the building—neat, cool, and emotionless. There’s a silver filing cabinet to the right, alongside a simple gray sofa with metal feet. To the left, there’s a large glass desk.
Mr. Beaufort is standing behind it, at the window. His hands are linked behind his back, and he only turns around once I’ve shut the door behind me with a quiet click. His eyes are chilly as he looks at me.
“Sit down, Sutton,” he orders, pointing to one of the chairs facing his desk.
For a moment, I’m startled by the lack of a greeting, but I don’t back down in the face of his challenge. “Mr. Beaufort.”
He comes over, takes a seat himself, and leans both arms on the glass top of his desk. There’s a huge black computer screen onone side and piles of paper, catalogs, sketches, and designs on the other. My eye rests on them for a moment, then I look up at Mr. Beaufort again.
“I’m sure you know why I invited you,” he begins, without batting an eyelid.
“I have an idea,” I reply.
“I am assuming that my daughter has informed you of her change of address.”
I look calmly back at him, trying not to show that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“There is no changing the past. But I strongly advise you not to throw your professional prospects away on a relationship that can have no future.”
It feels like a punch in the solar plexus as he bats away our love in so few words. He doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know what connects Lydia and me, how much we have both helped each other move forward. And he has no idea that we need each other more than ever now.
I didn’t come here in the expectation of being given his blessing. No father wants his daughter to get into a relationship with a teacher, that’s obvious enough. But his tone is disrespectful, and the way he’s trying to intimidate me is ridiculous. He has no right to order me around, and none at all to threaten me.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, Mr. Beaufort.”
“Then let me speak a little more plainly, Mr. Sutton,” he says after a moment. He leans forward, linking his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his knuckles whiten as they stand out. “From now on, you will break off all contact with my daughter. If I find out that you have continued to speak to Lydia or come anywhere near her, I will make sure that you regret it.” He saysthose words with the calm certainty of a man who always gets his way and tolerates no contradiction.
For a moment, I wonder if I should actually be afraid of him, but I can’t help thinking about Lydia. About what we’ve been through so far and what the future holds for us.
Last Saturday, at the Spring Ball, I finally realized that I can’t fight my feelings for Lydia any longer. I’ve made my decision. I know perfectly well that it won’t be easy. Her father might be the biggest obstacle in our way, but he’s certainly not the only one. But without Lydia, there’s no color in my life. Nothing makes sense without her. And whatever happens, I’m not giving her up without a fight. I won’t let anyone take Lydia away from me, least of all a father who has done nothing for her all her life but put her down, when she has the potential to achieve so much.
“With all due respect, Mr. Beaufort, that is quite impossible,” I say, my voice every bit as cool as his.
