The French Girl(24)

“You look . . . suspiciously happy,” he says, releasing me and cocking his head in confusion.

I nod and slip into the chair opposite him. My smile needs very little encouragement this evening, already it’s spreading across my face. “That miracle I needed. It happened. We just landed a major contract.” I adopt a contrite expression. “I’m really sorry for not being miserable.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s fantastic!” He waves away my apology, looking genuinely delighted for me. “I’d much rather toast your success than drown my sorrows. Who did you land?”

“Haft & Weil,” I say proudly, taking the vodka tonic he slides across the table to me. “With a big enough retainer to tide us over for a little while. But I’m quietly confident we’ll nail the performance fee, and this big a contract is great publicity, I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a lot more interest after this—”

“Breathe,” he teases affectionately.

“I know, I know; only . . . I really thought we were fucked.” The last few days catch at me: the ever-present dread, the seemingly inevitable failure looming over me. I take a deep breath and try to rid myself of the memory, but an echo of it lingers.

“I know,” Tom says soberly. “I could hear it in your voice on the phone.”

“One contract does not a business make, but still . . .”

“You have to celebrate the wins,” Tom says, almost fiercely. “They’re important. Regardless of . . . well, regardless.” He looks away, almost as if he’s embarrassed by his own vehemence.

I take a sip of the vodka tonic. “Well, cheers. And thanks for this. Anyway, tell me about your dreadful day. How many did they let go?”

“Hundreds,” he says tiredly. “About fifteen percent all told, apparently. A massacre. The thing is, I’m head of the desk now, so . . .”

“Oh God.” My hand is at my mouth. No wonder he’s had such an awful day. “You had to do some of the firing.”

He nods bleakly. “Four guys. Well, three guys and a girl, actually. I barely knew them—Jesus, I’m fresh off the plane; I’ve barely had a chance to get to know anyone. At least I didn’t have to decide who; the list was already fixed.” He takes a swallow from his pint then stares gloomily at it for a moment, slumped in his chair with the pint at the end of his outstretched arms. “I knew there was some kind of restructuring afoot when I moved back here, but I wasn’t expecting this. I only heard the details two days ago.”

“Do you think it made it easier that you didn’t know them? Who you were, well, firing, I mean.” I wince a little on the key word.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. On the one hand, yes—it’s not like I know if they have families to support or anything. On the other hand . . . shouldn’t it be personal? I mean, you work all hours for a firm—granted you expect to be paid for it, but it’s an emotional thing, too; you work hard for your colleagues, you have a laugh with them, you have the odd drink with them . . . Don’t you deserve to have someone who actually knows you shake your hand and say—God, I don’t know what. Thank you? It’s been a pleasure? You’re really good, this is not the end for you . . .” He shakes his head and stares across the table at his pint again. “Something. I don’t know.”

“Oh, Tom.” There is nothing I can think of to say to that. I take a drink and am surprised to see my glass is almost empty. We sit in brooding silence for a moment. Around us the pub is getting busier and louder.

“You know, there’s a good chance at least one of them was really crap,” I say eventually, with mock seriousness. “Or had bad breath.”

The corner of his mouth tweaks upward a little. “One of the blokes was quite sweaty,” he concedes. “Unpleasantly so. And the girl dressed like she was still a student. Not jeans or anything, but ridiculous floaty skirts that were too short for a trading floor, of all places. And no tights.”

“There you go. Definitely best not to be personal, then.”

He nods, a ghost of a smile in place, then pulls himself a little more upright. “You know, I used to think that we’d get wherever we got in life because of hard work, because we deserved it,” he muses, elbows on the table. “Don’t get me wrong: the hard work definitely counts. It’s just that luck seems to play a much bigger part than I ever figured.”

I think of Theo, of Severine. Luck, or lack thereof. It’s an uncomfortable thought. Blaming luck means it could have been any of us: there but for the grace of God . . .

He visibly shakes himself. “Anyway, another?”

“Let me get them.”

“Nope. You haven’t got the money in the door yet; this is still on me.” He flashes a quick grin. “When you float Channing Associates for millions, you can pay me back. With interest.”

I grin back, then watch him head toward the bar. As the bartender works his order, he checks his phone again, or perhaps it’s his work BlackBerry, and for a second the otherness is there again: Tom, but not Tom. Or a different Tom from the one I used to know.



* * *



—

The evening wears on, and we move to a pizza place nearby, where Lara joins us, she and I facing Tom across the table meant for four. We are celebrating, but not; we are commiserating, but not—it was a delicate balance in the pub, but Tom and I were managing it; now Lara’s presence is thoroughly destroying the equilibrium. Tom has become more taciturn, Lara is twitchy, and I’m too watchful, though not sober enough to interpret anything I see. And all the while Severine sits at the table too, coolly offhand as if utterly uninterested, although I suspect she’s taking in every nuance with those black eyes.