Your Perfect Year(73)

Then she marched away in the direction of Brahmsallee as quickly as she could while retaining her dignity. She could still hear Daphne yapping behind her, but at least the old lady wasn’t screaming anymore, and the figures from the next-door villa didn’t seem to be coming in pursuit.

She almost had to laugh. She had clearly come within a hair’s breadth of being arrested for assault, but she had only wanted to ask the dog’s owner about Simon. What had the woman been scared of? What on earth did she think Hannah wanted? To sell her a magazine subscription? That thought really did make Hannah laugh, even though the situation was anything but funny.





33

Jonathan

Thursday, January 4, 4:56 p.m.

“My goodness, Bode! Respect!”

Jonathan was sprawled over a leather armchair in the living room of his house, where he had invited his CEO for “one for the road”—a refreshing glass of iced tea—after their tennis match. He grinned; he was exhausted but also euphoric. Yes, he had really, really enjoyed the game with Markus Bode, even though the balls had done little more than fly past his ears, and every muscle ached as if he’d been run over by a truck. “I wouldn’t have had you down as such a genius with a racket!”

“Why not?” Markus Bode also grinned, with an unmistakable glow of pride.

“No idea.” Jonathan shrugged. “I just wouldn’t have thought it.”

“Just like I’d never have thought you were so bad,” Bode replied with an even broader grin. “After all, it was you who suggested the game. I assumed you could actually play.”

Jonathan laughed. “Well, I’d no idea I was up against a second John McEnroe.”

“Thanks for not comparing me with Boris Becker.” Markus Bode smiled. “But seriously, you did improve with every minute.”

“You don’t need to flatter me because I’m your boss.”

“I mean it. I could tell you’ve played in the past; you’re just a bit rusty. How long since your last match?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘match,’” Jonathan replied. “When I was a little boy I used to hit balls around in the garden with my mother; it was never anything more than that.”

Bode raised his eyebrows quizzically. “So what gave you the sudden idea for a game today?”

“Oh . . .” There was no way Jonathan was going to tell Bode that he was following the instructions of a mysterious diary. “No idea. I just thought I ought to try a few new things in the new year. I want a bit more oomph in my life and decided to start with tennis.”

“I see.” Bode nodded thoughtfully and looked down at his half-full glass of iced tea. “The new year’s going to bring a few changes for us both, isn’t it?”

“It looks like it.” Feeling obliged to ask, he added, “How’s it going with you at the moment?”

“I’m managing. My wife and I are talking it over, as people so neatly put it.”

“Oh? Well, that sounds promising.”

“It depends what’s being talked over. To be honest, in our case it’s the lawyers who are doing the talking for us, and it’s basically all about the amount of alimony and child support I’ll have to pay and how often I’ll be able to see the kids.”

“Oh.” Jonathan looked at him apologetically. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Not really.”

“Well, my dear fellow.” He noticed himself floundering and slipping into forced joviality, but felt he had to say something suitably wise. “As a man who has all that behind him, let me assure you that it’ll all pass one day.”

“Hmm.” Bode nodded. “But you and your ex-wife didn’t have any children.”

“That’s true,” Jonathan admitted.

“And as far as I know, she was more than reasonable after you separated and didn’t even want any alimony from you.”

“How do you know that?” Jonathan asked in surprise and some embarrassment.

“I’ve been at Grief & Son Books for fifteen years—as CEO, too, since your father left. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes, of course. But what does that have to do with it?”

“Let’s just say that my job includes keeping myself informed about everything that affects the business.”

“I didn’t realize my failed marriage was something that affects the business.” Jonathan was unable to conceal his indignation.

“No, of course not,” Markus Bode said hurriedly, turning red. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, I am sorry. But as owner of the publishing house, you’re at the center of things. It’s inevitable that people will talk.”

“People?” Another wave of embarrassment washed through Jonathan. “What people?”

“Well, the employees, your staff. They’re bound to be interested in their boss.”

“Ah.” The thought of his private life being a topic of discussion among his workforce was extremely uncomfortable. He would never have thought such a thing. He had always assumed that they viewed him, the head of their company, simply as a gleaming figurehead—or some kind of figurehead, at least—who appeared every now and then and was otherwise of little interest to them. And now here was Bode telling him it wasn’t so. It was . . . it was . . .