The French Girl(57)
I’m temporarily floored, then I say, “Thank you,” because of course I can’t say anything else, but inside I’m scrabbling around to figure out the angle, because of course there’s an angle, and if I don’t know what it is then I’m exactly where she wants me. Or at least, that’s how it would be for the Caro I thought I knew, but perhaps this Caro is something different . . . I adopt a smile that’s at least half genuine. “That’s kind of you, very much appreciated.”
“Well, we’re in business together, and business partners help each other out.” Her eyes gleam, and she has a self-satisfied smile as she adds slyly, “I told you I could stay on message.”
I laugh, both out of surprise and because her wicked little dig is genuinely funny, and for a moment I see her as she may well be, or perhaps I see her as Seb and Tom see her—a clever, sharply witty, fearless woman. I can’t tell if what she’s presenting now is only part of the picture or if the picture has changed: it leaves me uneasily off-kilter.
Her mobile goes off, and she takes the call with a quick apology, firing out a series of short responses and checking her watch while she paces the room. “Sorry,” she says with a grimace when she hangs up. “That call from New York is going to happen in ten minutes. I’m afraid you and Gordon will be on your own for lunch.”
“No problem.” We exit the windowless room into an equally windowless passageway. “You know,” I say conversationally, “I always wondered why you joined your father’s law firm. You could have gone to any number of competitors, I’m sure.”
“Oh, sure,” she says offhand as we climb a sweeping glass-and-metal staircase to the main lobby, where I find myself blinking, somehow surprised at the daylight. But it’s lunchtime; of course there is daylight. “But Haft & Weil was really the best opportunity for me. You can’t do better than best in class, after all.”
“Bravo,” I say, raising my eyebrows with a half smile. “Once again, admirably on message.”
She lays a hand on my upper arm and laughs, a genuine laugh, and it softens her; her sharp edges become impish rather than cutting. “I told you I could.” She looks over my shoulder still smiling, then exclaims, “Right on time! Here’s Gordon. You know, I probably see more of him now than I did growing up, what with the divorce and boarding school and all.” She smiles a hello over my shoulder at him and then shakes my hand, quick and firm, cordially professional. “I’ll leave you in his capable hands; you two have a lovely lunch.”
“We will,” Gordon says, smiling at her, then he turns and ushers me through the lobby. “Looks like you two are getting on famously,” he remarks, and it suddenly crosses my mind that perhaps Caro knew he was there and staged that little tableau—the laugh, the little touch—and then I realize how loathsomely paranoid I’ve become and I hate myself for it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The designated thinking hour arrives and departs without a single moment spent in contemplation, because Hugh Brompton does indeed call, and the job in question is dynamite, the kind of contract that really establishes a new firm—but of course they want our strategies and suggestions at a meeting tomorrow afternoon. So Paul and I work late, eating take-out sushi at our desks and mainly ignoring our mobiles. Actually, mainly ignoring Paul’s mobile: judging from the number of times it rings, he either has a very active social life or an extremely jealous girlfriend. In contrast, mine rings only twice: the first call is Lara, and I take it to quickly check how she’s holding up; the second is from Tom.
“Do you need to take that?” asks Paul, and I realize I’m staring at the mobile screen as it rings.
“No,” I say brightly as I reach over to hit the reject button. “I can deal with it later.” A moment later the phone beeps with a voice mail alert; I deliberately ignore it and turn back to Paul. “Where were we? Oh yes—do you think we’re promising too much with this timeline?”
It’s one in the morning before I climb into a cab and settle in the back, glancing at my phone out of habit. A tiny red alert reminds me I have a voice mail. I play the message, and Tom’s deep baritone greets me. “Hi, Kate, it’s Tom.” A pause. “We really do need to talk about the case. Are you able to come round after you finish work? I’ll be home, so just give me a call whenever . . .” He sounds uneasy, awkward even. “I . . . Well, give me a call.”
It hardly credits belief that a single drunken kiss can reduce years of friendship to dodged calls and stilted voice mails. I stare out of the cab window in a state of torpid exhaustion and watch London slide by, lit patchily by garish neon signs and streetlamps that deliver a stark, pale light without color or warmth. After a moment I pick up my phone again and type out a text message.
Been working late, big pitch tomorrow afternoon. I can drop by after work tomorrow. Kx.
I read it over again before sending. Kx is my habitual sign-off with Tom, but now every character is fraught with meaning and open to misinterpretation. I remove the x.
* * *
—
The presentation to Stockleys goes well: Paul is a good presenter, suave and relaxed, and he thinks well on his feet; his style is a good complement to my own direct approach. Caro was right: the contract was ours to lose, and by the time we are shaking hands and saying good-bye I know we haven’t done that. Paul hails a cab, and we jump in and animatedly dissect the meeting on the trip back to the office.