One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) by Mandy Baggot Read Free Book Online Page A

slid open. He stepped inside and hit the button for the eightieth floor. It struck him then, as the elevator began to rise, that he had no idea what was in his schedule for the day. How had that happened? Maybe Clara was right. Had he dropped the ball lately? He checked his watch. It was a little after nine. He hoped there was nothing for at least an hour or he might have to send out for mouthwash.
    The elevator finally came to a stop and when the doors opened there was Clara. She was wearing maroon, another statement necklace at her throat, but the expression on her face was one of concern.
    ‘Good morning, Clara,’ he stated hesitantly.
    ‘We have a problem,’ his PA said without prelude.
    ‘Have you called Mackenzie?’ he asked, beginning to walk along the corridor towards his office.
    ‘It isn’t a legal problem,’ Clara said. ‘It’s—’
    He interrupted her. ‘I didn’t have a nine o’ clock appointment, did I?’ He powered on past the other offices towards his room at the very end of the walkway.
    ‘No, but, Oliver wait, listen to me before you go in there,’ Clara rasped as she broke into a jog, chasing him.
    He put his hand on the door but stopped, turning to look at his assistant. Her face was the colour of an overripe strawberry and there were beads of perspiration above the beads of the necklace.
    ‘Your mother is in there,’ Clara whispered, pointing at the office door.
    He creased up his face in the hope his ears were as dry and deficient as his throat. ‘Sorry, Clara, could you say that again?’
    ‘Your mother is in your office,’ she repeated.
    It was his turn to perspire. He could feel the collar of his shirt getting a little tight, his body reacting to the statement in the way it always did where his mother was concerned lately. He wanted to run, or at least turn on his heel and head back down the corridor to the bank of elevators. He could call Tony. They could head out to play golf. Blast away his hangover and his worries on the fairway, spend a couple of hours in the nineteenth hole. He blinked, coming back into reality.
    ‘What do we do?’ The words were out of his mouth before he thought about how infantile he sounded.
    ‘What do we do? Oliver, I told you this would happen if you kept ignoring her calls.’
    Clara was gesticulating at him, her hands flying about to get her point across like a desperate shadow puppet act. And she was right of course. She had warned him several times that if he didn’t call his mother back she would turn up at his penthouse or here. And there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He might control the company but she was also a member of the board. This was as much her building as it was his. But he knew already her visit wasn’t about the business. No, this was definitely personal.
    He inhaled a long breath and put his hand to the tie at his throat, straightening it, ensuring it gave away nothing about the night before. Straight away the twinging in his chest began. He almost welcomed it. If the Grim Reaper took him now he wouldn’t have to deal with this conversation. He closed his eyes, holding his form steady.
    ‘Make us some coffee, Clara. I’ve got this.’
    And then he just stood, his hand on the door, listening to Clara’s dull footsteps on the carpet as she powered off to arrange the drinks. He was making far too much of this. It was his mother. He loved his mother, very much. He pushed the handle down and opened the door.
    Stepping into the room, he watched her stand from the seat opposite his desk. He took in the black patent court shoes, the bright orange designer shift dress, the matching wool jacket over it, and her perfectly coiffured blonde hair. Nothing out of place. Cynthia Drummond was fifty-five but still looked mid-forties.
    ‘Mom,’ he greeted, striding across the floor towards her, arms open.
    He embraced her fully, letting her hug his body to hers like she always did. He drew away first.
    ‘This is a surprise. You