Toxic People by S.D. Monaghan

Author:S.D. Monaghan [Monaghan, S.D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-03T16:00:00+00:00

27

5.54 pm: Having put the failed security cameras out of his mind, Otto’s lean angular face stared at the TV, changing station each time his thoughts switched theme. The flickering screen created the illusion of activity, allowing him to sit still in his edgy state. He was thinking too fast, as if he had two brains, passing ideas from one to the other and back again.

So what if Shane is an accomplished writer? Most arty types weren’t smart enough to make money. The few that were – the kind that ended up hiring him – didn’t really make art; they created wealth under the guise of art. Such as his favourite painting that hung above his bed that portrayed a map of the world in matte colours that had cost Otto fifty thousand euros at auction. He craned his neck and looked up to the painting. I have what I want.

Even as the words drifted across his brain, he knew they weren’t true. If he had what he wanted, he’d have a Rothko over the bed. But he wasn’t at that level – yet. I’m full of shit. He actually hated Rothko. I don’t know what I want. I have millions and I’m going to make millions more and I haven’t got around to spending the millions I made years ago. He’d always felt that he could paint a Rothko in five minutes; though he knew that to even think such a sentence was utterly forbidden. Jenny could’ve sorted my life out. I could’ve loved her.

His thoughts always swung back to Jenny. From the day she had re-entered his life, the calendar pages had flown off the wall. The world spun on, and she’d remained entrenched in the front of his brain. Now, they were done. All it had taken was for the stakes to be raised –and he’d raised them by trying to kiss her.

After he’d abruptly left the university and moved to London, Otto assumed he’d never see her again. Then, after eight years, she’d texted him. He was making waves in the Dublin business scene, and she was a burgeoning interior designer who was wondering if any of Otto’s clients might like to see her portfolio. Considering his unspoken debt to her, they met up and he was delighted to see that she hadn’t changed much since he’d been her lecturer. Back then she’d been fresh-faced, golden tanned; in another age she could have been the poster child of the Hitler Youth. Eight years on she had been much the same: still blonde, but now buttery blonde. The passing years had given her face angles that she’d been missing, and which her intelligence deserved. Time had framed her jaw and lengthened her neck.

It had not been difficult to set her up as a consultant. She had the right attitude from the start – bringing all the formality of her parents’ life of wealth and influence to her own, post-wealth, life. Her late father’s name was still respected,

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