The Gown(39)
“I suppose I shall have to purchase a copy. Is it expensive?”
He grinned once more. “Fourpence an issue but worth every penny.”
Ann nudged her again. “We need to cross the street. For the station.”
“And I need to go the opposite way,” he added. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you. Will you be all right from here?”
Miriam nodded, though she felt strangely reluctant to say good-bye. “We will. Thank you again.”
“Think nothing of it. I do hope you’ll ring me up. For lunch one day, if you like. My offices aren’t far from here. Just so you know.”
She searched his face, still uncertain as to what, precisely, would lead him to suggest such a thing. What did he know of her? What did he see in her that made him wish to learn more?
“Good night, Monsieur Kaczmarek,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dassin, Miss Hughes.”
She watched until he was out of sight, and then she turned to Ann, wondering if her friend was as surprised as she. “Are all Englishmen so . . . so . . . ?”
“Practically never,” Ann admitted. “I’m starting to wonder if that fabric Milly sent along was sprinkled with stardust.”
“Perhaps it was. It has been an unusual evening. Very much so.”
“But a good one?” Ann asked, her voice threaded through with hope.
“The very best.”
Chapter Twelve
Heather
August 12, 2016
The streetcar was only a block from Heather’s stop when her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her pocket, hoping the driver wouldn’t choose that instant to hit the brakes, and frowned when she saw the sender. Brett only texted in emergencies. Maybe the laser printer had run out of toner again.
BRETT: where are you?
HEATHER: on my way. what’s up?
BRETT: something’s up. richard’s here. looks like he never went home. in boardroom w guys in suits. they don’t look happy.
It took her a few tries to type out her response.
HEATHER: anyone else we know in there?
BRETT: gregor and moira.
The magazine’s publisher and the head of ad sales. At eight o’clock on a Friday morning.
HEATHER: be there in 5.
The streetcar lurched to a stop, bell clanging as some jerk in a Hummer tried to inch past the open doors. As soon as she found her feet again, Heather pushed her way through a sea of backpacks and down the steps to the street. The magazine’s offices were on the south side of King Street, just at the end of the next block, and as she grew close, and then walked up the stairs to the second floor, she had to remind herself to breathe. Brett might have got things wrong. Gregor and Moira and Richard and a bunch of cranky-looking guys in suits didn’t automatically equal a catastrophe.
Kim wasn’t at her desk in reception. Not good. And the office was weirdly quiet. They all shared one big open-plan space, with shoulder-height cubicles that gave the illusion of privacy and towering plastic ficus trees that gave the illusion of a bright and healthy workplace, and most mornings everyone congregated in the break room for a solid quarter hour before drifting to their desks. Not today.
Heather made it to her cubicle, stowed her bag under her desk, and switched on her computer. Only then did she turn to face Brett, Bay Street’s other staff writer, whose desk faced the opposite wall of their three-sided pod.
“What’s the deal?” she whispered.
“Check your email,” he whispered back.
It took a minute or two to pull up her email, long enough for her heart to try to hammer its way out of her chest.
“The one from Richard?”
“Duh,” Brett hissed.
Richard had sent it at 4:20 that morning. Brett had been right about the all-nighter.
Heather,
I need to speak with you this morning regarding some alterations in our corporate structure. Please remain at your desk until I call, and refrain from unnecessary gossip and speculation with your colleagues until everyone has been briefed on the changes.
Richard
Editor in chief
Bay Street
Mitchell Media International
“And?” Brett prompted.
“I’m supposed to stay at my desk until he calls me in. Something about changes to the corporate structure. Does your email say that?”
“Yeah. But it also says I’m supposed to go to the boardroom at eight thirty.”
“Have you talked to anyone else?” He didn’t answer, so she swiveled to face him. “Brett?”
“I, uh . . . yeah. Most people are getting called into the boardroom. I’m sorry. This sucks.”
It was as good as an actual pink slip.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned away to stare sightlessly at her monitor. One by one her colleagues arrived and read their email from Richard, and most of them, Brett included, tiptoed to the boardroom.
The office grew quiet again, and when her phone finally rang Heather nearly jumped out of her skin.
“It’s Richard. Could you come to my office?”
“Sure.”
Her hands sweating like crazy, her mouth so dry she couldn’t even swallow, she walked to his office on leaden feet. He’d left his door open, but she knocked on it anyway.