Innocent Eyes Read online

  “Yes, Mr Cane.”

  The call ends with my finger shutting the phone down. Father doesn’t like phones, thinks they’re all bugged. This one’s not. Nothing I have is bugged, this house included now. The security company we own ensures that with daily sweeps of the house and grounds. Two permanent staff monitor all the extensions and movements, along with the ten other staff who keep their eyes on everything and patrol the grounds. It’s fully computerized now, not like the archaic system I inherited when he told me to take over. I’m in control of all this. That’s my job here now. I am Cane, regardless of my father’s refusal to accept that fact or his old boy’s denial. Without me, this whole sordid little enterprise of ours would fold and be burnt to the ground. Stolen from beneath his dying chest. It’s me who moves this beast along. Me who steers its next course of action. Me who keeps it as powerful as it is.

  I wind my way along the lavish halls, directing myself towards the room I fucking hate and clicking my shoulders ready for the meeting I’ve got no interest in.

  I hate him.

  I hate what he did, who he is, and what he made me become because of it. But mostly, I hate that he’s made me enjoy it, enough so that I’m far better at it than he could ever have been. Cane was nothing but a small link in a Mafia chain when I arrived and took over. It was bound by constructs and loyalty I no longer care to honour. Now it’s a global foundation for deceit, lies, and corruption. Stronger for it. I fucking did that, made us what we are now. Quinn Cane. I can’t even blame him anymore.

  I fucking despise him for that.

  Chapter Two

  Just hold it there. Eyes right at me.” Mrs Banks blinks a few times but doesn’t move. I press my finger down and the shutter snaps closed. “Perfect. If you want to lie back now?”

  I put my camera down on the box crate in the corner and grab the small stepladder leaning against the brick wall. I drag it into position, retrieve the camera, and gingerly climb the three steps. God, Jenny. Why today? The same curse has been running through my head all morning.

  Jenny, my receptionist come studio assistant, hasn’t turned up to work.

  Again.

  If she wasn't my best friend, I would have fired her months ago. Even with the friendship status, it’s proving difficult to ignore her tardiness and general lack of professionalism.

  The shoot today is important. It’s my first boudoir shoot, and I need the moral support and help in the studio. Having fun with a family or kids is very different to ensuring a woman looks sexy and alluring for the camera. The client needs to be relaxed, which means I have to put her at ease.

  It’s more difficult than I had hoped.

  “You look gorgeous, Mrs Banks.” I lean over and snap the woman who has propositioned me to do this shoot. Apparently, I took a family portrait of her daughter and grandchildren last year. The results are hanging over her fireplace at home. Then she had the idea for a racy present for her ruby wedding anniversary, and she wanted me to take the photos.

  “Can you pull the boa around you slightly? Yes, great.” I take a few more shots before stepping off the ladder. Mrs Banks has been a natural in front of the lens. She isn’t self-conscious and wants to have a good time.

  “Are we done, dear?”

  “I’d say so, Mrs Banks. You did wonderfully.” I offer her a kind smile and take a small sigh of relief for myself.

  I’ve worked hard over the last five years to develop the studio. It was two years before I could afford my own space, concentrating on outdoor shoots or corporate work in offices. Turning the back room into a courtesan’s dressing room has been fun for a change. Perhaps it was just first-time nerves that had my hands shaking.

  “If you want to head into the bathroom and get changed, I’ll meet you upstairs. Would you like a drink?”

  “A cup of tea if you can?”

  “Of course. Take your time.”

  I leave Mrs Banks and head upstairs. The antique desk by the door is still unoccupied, but Cheryl’s working at her computer in the back of the room.

  “Morning. You’re in early.”

  “Yeah, I had some prep-work to do before later.”

  “No problem.” Cheryl is a freelance photographer who comes in to help when we’re busy. She also books the studio for her own clients as long as I don’t have anyone scheduled. It’s a nice way of earning a little extra cash.

  Cheryl’s style is edgier than mine. Not all of my clients want the same look for their portraits, so having a second photographer helps me to grow my client base.

  As well as our photos being different, our looks are poles apart. Her jet-black hair and sleeve of skull and rose tattoos contrasts vividly with my blond hair and creamy skin. Where she wears heavy Doc Martin boots, ripped jeans, and any shade of black, I choose skirts, dresses, and colour.

  The large, open-plan studio is divided into sections. The front is set up as a reception and waiting area, an office space with two computer stations where Cheryl and I work, and an alternative space for shoots behind a curtained-off corner area. The hallway at the back leads to the small kitchen, a room we fitted out for hair and makeup, plus a storage cupboard. Finally, steps descend to the photography studio space in the basement, where lighting, backdrops, and props are set up ready to be used depending on the shoot.

  “Do you want a drink?” I ask Cheryl.

  “No, ta. I’m good.” She barely glances at me, engrossed in the images on her screen. Being work colleagues, I’d hoped that we could grow into friends as well, but Cheryl keeps quiet and to herself.

  I make two cups of tea and place them on the low coffee table in front of the leather sofa in the waiting area. Mrs Banks comes over to join me with a beaming smile on her face.

  “That was the most fun I’ve had in months. Thank you, Emily.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs Banks. Here.” I offer her a seat and her tea. “Now, it will be a few days before I’ll have the photos processed and edited for you. Then you can come back in, and we can go through the ones you want to be made into the album.” I get up and grab my diary off of Jenny’s desk. “How about you come back in next Thursday?”

  “Can we make it the following Tuesday, dear? I have bridge club on Thursday.”

  “No problem. I don’t have a package specifically for what you’ve asked. I’ve based this on my usual family shoot album.”

  “Fine, fine. I told you. I don’t mind paying. I just want to have a collection of photos that will give Harold something to think about.” I splutter, barely keeping from spraying tea over myself. Mrs Banks is certainly a character.

  “Well, we can go over the details next week.” I put the tea down and pencil Mrs Banks into the book.

  The tiny bell on the front door rings and I glance up to see who’s walking through the door. Jenny sneaks in as quietly as possible. She catches my stare and walks swiftly to her desk. I clench my teeth together and remember that she’s my friend, not just my employee.

  “The finished album will be ready by the end of next month, won’t it? It’s my forty-fifth wedding anniversary in December. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  “Yes, that’s plenty of time. Don’t worry. You’ll have a wonderful gift for your husband.” I stand and smooth down the front of my dress, holding the diary across my chest. It’s an automatic reaction. I cover my breasts every chance I have. My hourglass figure doesn’t extend to my hips, and I look woefully out of proportion.

  “Jenny, could you fetch Mrs Banks’ coat? It’s in the makeup room.” Jenny looks affronted that I’d consider asking her such a thing, but goes to retrieve the coat.

  “See you next week, Mrs Banks.”

  I show her out and turn my pleasant smile on Jenny. “Care to explain yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I lost track of time and, well…” Her excuse dies before it’s even formed on her tongue.

  My mismatched eyes take in her appearance. Her tawny hair looks like a bird tried to nest
in it, and her tights have a ladder running up the back. Her skirt and shirt are the same she wore last night. “Did you even go home last night?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She sounds affronted again, but looking at her state of dress, I can’t work out why.

  “Were you sober? Because you look a mess, Jenny. You being late is turning into a habit, and I can’t afford to keep carrying you like this.” I keep my voice soft and calm. The whines of complaint and protest are only a moment away. There’s absolutely no use in getting angry at her. Jenny never changes.

  “That’s none of your business. You’re not my mother.”

  “No, but I am your employer. You can’t keep doing this, Jenny. If you’re late again, I’ll have to let you go. I need someone I can trust and who is reliable.”

  “I am. Come on. You trust me more than anyone. I’m your best friend.”

  “Then why don’t you start acting like it and show me some respect?” I intend my voice to have more bite. Of course, I can say the words, but I struggle to put any venom or power behind them. The only time my voice holds any strength is when I sing.

  “I do respect you. You know I’m having a hard time, that’s all. I promise it will get better.” And I know it will. For a few weeks, she’ll be on her best behaviour. Then it will slip. It’s a cycle with Jenny, and I’m still in the dark as to what causes the pattern. At first, I thought it was related to whomever she was sleeping with. But boyfriends or dates don’t coincide with her bad behaviour.

  “We’ll see. You can help me move the furniture back to normal downstairs, and Cheryl has a client in an hour.”

  “Seriously?”

  “So help me, Jenny.”

  “Fine. Yes, I’ll get right to it.”

  How does she manage to do it? It’s her job to assist me, be the receptionist and look after the studio, but if I ask her to do anything, she makes it sound like she’s doing me a favour.

  “And please tell me you haven’t forgotten about Friday evening? I have a rehearsal and need you to mind the studio between four and six. I can’t miss it, and Cheryl isn’t available.”

  “Friday? This Friday?”

  “Jenny!”

  “Relax. It’s no problem. I can shift my thing.”

  “Good.” I walk away. Cheryl gives me a questioning glance as I pass her and I just shake my head.

  Jenny has been my best friend since secondary school. I was shy and awkward, and she was fearless and popular. She befriended me and made my life that much easier through school. I was the odd girl with the funny eyes, always with my nose in a book or behind a camera. She stood up for me, confided in me. We supported each other.

  I thought we’d be friends forever. We were inseparable all through school, and I can’t help but look back with a fondness that is ingrained in me. We grew apart when we went off to University. Jenny got in contact after we graduated and we rekindled our friendship. I moved closer to London and started doing what I had always loved.

  But Jenny wasn’t the same. Something had changed in her, like someone, or something, had broken her spirit. Now I’m the one who helps her, stands up for her and defends her. She’s gone through countless jobs, can never stay in the same house or apartment for long. She even lived with me for a few years, but I couldn’t have her working for me and living with me.

  She’s told me she has a flat in Peckham, but she hasn’t convinced me she’s still renting it.

  I hang the feather boa on the chair and go about stripping the bed.

  “Here, I can help.” Jenny’s followed me down into the studio. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a bad morning, that’s all.”

  “You can’t use that as an excuse. We have responsibilities.”

  “I’d forgotten about the concert. Sorry.”

  “It’s fine, as long as you’re here. Please don’t let me down.” The choir I sing with is performing in a local concert on Friday night. It’s our final rehearsal before our debut in front of the paying public. Nerves wrack my body every time I think about it.

  I’m comfortable behind the camera, but certainly not out in front for people to see. Now, as well as the notes to sing, I’ll be pre-occupied with Jenny.

  “Is there anything wrong? You’ve not been yourself for a few weeks now,” I venture in an attempt to settle the tension between us.

  “You know I hate asking for help,” she mutters, as she helps me pull the sheets off the bed.

  “But you can,” I press.

  “Fine. Can I borrow some money? Maybe get an advance on my wages for the next couple of months?”

  “Months? How much do you need to borrow?”

  “I’m hoping my parents will be able to help, but I was thinking about five thousand.”

  My mouth falls open as I stare at my friend. Despite her unkempt appearance, all I can see is the girl who befriended me in school. My stomach churns with worry as to what she needs five thousand pounds for, and although I know I’ll likely regret it, I can’t help but ask.

  “Why do you need the money? Are you in trouble?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It’s to do with the flat. I got a little behind on the rent, and for me to stay, I need to pay the arrears and advance next month.” She bats off my concern, but her eyes don’t meet mine. I know she’s lying.

  “Do you want me to transfer it online?”

  “No. No, I mean, that’s not what they want. Cash. If you can?” I stare at her for a moment, waiting for her to spit the truth out. She doesn’t. She squares her shoulders and stares me down. I know she’ll win. She would do this when we were younger. She’d draw on some inner courage to stand up to whoever was in her way. I never thought she’d turn it against me, though.

  “Cash?” I give her another chance.

  “Yes. If you can.”

  “Jenny, this is a loan, right? I can advance you some of your wages, but you can pay the rest of it back, okay?”

  “Sure. And I’ll smarten up. Promise.” Her tune brightens when she realises she’s won. What does it say about me, though? Am I doing her a favour and helping her out? Or just enabling her problems to grow bigger by not calling her out and forcing her to face them?

  “I’ll get the money by the end of the week. You can have it Friday.”

  “You’re the best.” She steps forward to engulf me in a hug, and she can’t hide the smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol from her clothes and hair. I cling to her as she embraces me and pray she isn’t getting mixed up in something she’ll later regret, or that costs her too much.

  “Come on then. This room needs to be back to the basic shell. The drapes and fabrics all need to be put away, and the chair needs to go back upstairs.”

  “On it.” Jenny’s enthusiasm returns instantly, a contrast to her initial sulky attitude. Then again, I’ve just agreed to lend her five grand. She doesn’t have the option to argue with me.

  My attire doesn’t consist of many black items. A pair of jeans and a shirt are the extent of what hangs in my wardrobe, but black is the uniform for tonight, so I’ve bought something new. Of course, everything black is slinky and sexy and not the overall appearance I want to give. I finally find a more demure dress that contains my cleavage and brushes the tops of my knees. Capped sleeves and a mandarin collar complete the outfit.

  I ease up the side zip and slide my feet into a modest peep-toe heel. Done.

  Jenny is at the studio, and I have twenty minutes to get to the church for the rehearsal. All Saints has superb acoustics and suits our chamber choir. Steven, the musical director, wants our first performance to be quite traditional, so the repertoire for tonight includes Bach, Bernstein and the piece I hate to sing, Ave Maria. He’s been promising for some time to allow us some more contemporary music. Hopefully, after this performance, he’ll finally come through.

  I bundle up to make the short walk to the church. It might only be October, but there isn’t any lingering warmth from the mild autumn we’ve had. Luckily, All Saints isn’t a draug
hty old church. It’s a beautifully restored triple-gabled building with high arched ceilings. It feels warm and light as I enter, which is at odds with my internal images of churches.

  I haven’t set foot inside a church since I finished school.

  “Ah, Emily. Come on, come on. We’re going to run through the full programme before the doors open.” Steven bustles over to me and moves me into position with the other members of the choir. Ann and Jane, my fellow sopranos, are waiting for me.

  I don’t have time to pay attention and worry about the nerves rioting in my stomach. Steven thrusts my music book into my hands and takes his position.

  Two hours later, we’re waiting for the audience to take their seats. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, like I’ve been stung by a bee and am having an allergic reaction. My saving grace is the lighting in the church is bright and makes it hard for me to see the audience. Steven keeps moaning about lifting heads up, looking out, and projecting. He can’t complain in the middle of the performance, though.

  There are two other choirs performing tonight. We’re on first—the warm up if you like—and I just want it to be over. I love to sing; that’s why I joined the choir. Music makes me happy, but performing doesn’t. I just have to hold onto every note, feel the energy and joy it gives me, and pretend the people in front of me aren’t there.

  And it works. My hands grip my music folder like a lifeline, and I focus on an empty seat four rows from the front, but I don’t let my anxiety win. I’m confident with the songs and let the delight of the music invigorate my blood.

  Even Ave Maria can’t dampen my enthusiasm.

  By the end of the evening, my cheeks ache from smiling so much. I’ve accomplished something I never dreamed I would. Although I don’t intend to repeat it anytime soon, I feel good about myself.

  After all the music, it’s a gentle melody from one of the other choirs that sticks in my head. Its delicate tune obliterates everything else I’ve heard this evening and settles into my psyche. It’s restful and sweet, and I hum the notes all the way home.