The Maid's Diary(74)

He checks the time. He has a big meeting at work today. He needs to pull himself together. Jon showers, dresses, and goes downstairs.

He sees Daisy from the rear. He notices the weight she’s gained on her bum. She’s holding a large knife. It glints in the sunlight as she slices open a grapefruit. The two halves of the fruit split open, revealing glistening ruby flesh. Jon stares at the blade. So much sharpness. So much whiteness and glass and brightness. The red flesh. His head hurts.

She turns. Smiles.

He sees her teeth. The flush in her cheeks. Her belly. She wears a weird Halloween apron with a pumpkin on it.

He feels ill. It’s the lingering effect of drugs from the other night, he thinks. Combined with fear. And the cortisol pounding through his body like poison. His gaze locks on her belly. She’s due so soon. Their progeny growing, turning, kicking, sucking his thumb inside her. A baby boy. Kicking, kicking. A future little ski racer perhaps. Jon feels a bolt of sadness as he thinks of his own dad—that shitty example of paternal guidance and love. He makes a bargain with the devil. Or God. He’s not sure which. But he vows that if he’s spared the fallout from his terrible misguided mistake with Mia, he will be the best dad he can. For the rest of his son’s life. He will be there for him. He will be present. And he will love his boy.

Daisy’s smile fades to a look of worry. “Did you sleep okay? Are you sure you’re well enough to go in today?”

“Yeah. Got that big meeting.” He pours himself a coffee.

“I phoned a dietitian,” Daisy says. “And a personal trainer for an assessment. I told them your history, and—”

“Daisy, not now.”

She dials it back. She looks overly flushed. “What time will you be home?”

“Regular dinnertime.”

“Oh, you’ve forgotten?”

“Forgotten what?”

“Halloween dinner—Vanessa and Haruto’s thing tonight.”

“What? Christ, not tonight. I—”

“Please, Jon. For me. It might be good for both of us to do something different.”

He regards her in silence. He feels bad. For everything. He’s afraid he’s going to lose her. “Sure. Fine. My time is all yours.”

“Thank you. They said we should come around six p.m. for cocktails. I thought we’d pick up some flowers and some pie for dessert on the way over. Okay?”

“Sure. Yes.”

By the time Jon parks his Audi S6 sedan in the underground garage at work, his head is a little clearer. From his car he calls Jake Preston. He’s paranoid that the thing with Mia was orchestrated by Labden, or Henry, or perhaps even Ahmed Waheed. Threads of Mia’s sultry voice snake through his brain.

And who’s this rival, JonJon BergBomber? . . . How will you find dirt?

Jake picks up on the second ring. “Jake Preston.”

“It’s Jon Rittenberg. Have you got anything yet?”

“Might need a while longer. Your guy is squeaky damn clean, Jon. So clean it’s enough to think he’s gotta be hiding something. But we’ve found no criminal record. He doesn’t party. He runs miles every day. Lifts weights. Does yoga—”

“Yoga? For Pete’s sake.”

“Yeah. Yoga. He’s into the holistic health shit. Shops for fresh produce at the market. Likes to buy local, spends weekends visiting galleries. Passionate about sports. Snowboarder in winter. Kite boards in summer. He’s got a steady girlfriend. She moved to Vancouver with him. She works in finance.”

“Finance?” John’s pulse blips. “Like what kind of finance—banking?”

“Yeah, you got it. She’s with a firm based out of the UK. Works long distance, but also travels a lot for her work.”

Jon’s hand tenses around his phone. He peers into the shadows of the parking garage. “What’s her name?”

“Listen, buddy, I thought you didn’t want to do this on the phone. Thought you preferred in person.”

“Just give me her damn name.”

“Mila Gill.”

“Mia?”

“No, Mila. M-I-L-A.”

“Where’s she from? What nationality?”

“British.”

“You said you’d find dirt, Jake. I need something, dammit. What you’ve told me—I could’ve scored all that myself. It’s worthless. I need something I can use. Now.” Before something comes down on me. “You promised you’d find it.”

“I said I’d find it if it was there to be found. Manufacturing kompromat, Jon, is a whole other kettle of fish. I told you at the outset I needed to know where we were to draw the lines. Planting kompromat comes with a whole other price tag, too.”

Jon drags his hand through his hair. Mia. Mila. Banker. Finance. Foreign. Travels a lot . . . He has a horrible feeling. “Plant the dirt,” he says. “I don’t care what it costs. Just do it.”

Jon kills the call, exits and locks his car, and goes up in the elevator. With each floor that the elevator goes higher, the heavier the sense of trepidation pushing down on his head.

He exits the elevator and walks into the office. Anna the receptionist is dressed like Morticia, and Jon is instantly reminded it’s Halloween today.

“Morning, Anna,” he says.