“Can’t talk here,” he says laconically.
He can’t talk in the office. Intuition strikes me: all those articles about the poor economy and downsizing in the major banks . . . Surely his firm wouldn’t have been so stupid as to agree to relocate him from Boston to London just to fire him? Except I know banks can be exactly that stupid, and more so. “You still have a job, right?” I ask urgently.
“I do. Others . . . not so much.”
“Jesus.” The atmosphere must be awful on the trading floor. “Well, my company is well and truly fucked so I’m just the girl for a truly depressing night on the town. Seven at the same pub we met at before?”
“Done.” He pauses. “Is it really fucked?”
“Yes,” I say baldly. “Only a miracle will suffice at this point.”
I hear a sigh down the phone. “I’m really sorry, Kate.” His words are heartfelt; I feel a rush of warmth toward him.
“I know. I am, too. About your situation, I mean.” About my own, too.
“Well, at least one of us still has a paycheck,” he says with dark humor. “Which means I’m buying tonight. I can keep you fed and watered for one night, at least.”
“No argument from me. See you at seven.”
I disconnect then look up to see my ghostly self hovering in front of a swimwear montage, a smile still in place from the phone call that fades as I watch. The promise of a new life, a different life, still lies tantalizingly in reach. But I have things to do before I meet Tom at seven.
I head back to my office.
* * *
—
I don’t look at the spreadsheet and I don’t look at Paul’s empty chair. Instead I deal with e-mail and bash on determinedly with the calls I have to make. It’s not so much a fighting spirit as a grim fatalism that drives me on: the few contracts we do have, we need to deliver on—on time and in style. Nobody should be able to say Channing Associates failed through a lack of professionalism.
“I’ve got Gordon from Haft & Weil on the phone for you,” calls Julie.
For a moment I consider telling her to take a message. I’ve been expecting a call from him, to tell me he’s awarding the contract to a rival firm. I could do without the final nail in the coffin . . . but why delay the inevitable? “Put him through, please.”
The phone in front of me buzzes after a moment. I find a smile to drape on my lips. “Good afternoon, Gordon. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. Is this a good time?”
“Absolutely. Fire away.” Fire away. Not that he can really fire me since he’s never actually hired me, but still, the inadvertent gallows humor amuses me. I will tell Tom that later, I think. I can already see his eyes crinkling above that unmistakable nose.
“I want to tell you that OpCom met last night.” OpCom is the operating committee of Haft & Weil. Whatever recommendation of recruitment firm Gordon made would have had to be ratified by them, but really as a rubber-stamping exercise. “We’ve decided to award the contract to Channing Associates.” He pauses, but I’m literally speechless. “Subject to agreeing final documentation, of course.”
I sit bolt upright and find my voice. “Well. Thank you.” I work hard to sound professional, as if contracts from firms like Haft & Weil drop in my lap every day, but inside the tumor of worry has begun to fizz, dissolving like Alka-Seltzer in water. Yes! Yes! Yes! “That’s wonderful news. I’m . . . well, I’m delighted to hear that, as I’m sure you can imagine. Delighted, and not a little surprised.”
“We felt it was time for some new blood.” I can hear the smile in his voice; he likes it when I’m direct. “And I think you and I will deal well together.”
“I do, too,” I say sincerely. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“On that note, I’ve had a contract drawn up. It’s fairly standard and has the terms we discussed previously. Shall I send it across now?”
“Perfect.” I pause, then add, “Though I should mention that we’ll require the retainer fee to be paid quarterly in advance.” If he agrees, Channing Associates is definitely solvent. If not, we have some creative accounting to do to get through the three months until the fee comes in. I find I’m holding my breath.
“I can’t see a problem with that. Just amend the draft.”
Yes! The fizzing has spread to my limbs now; my legs are literally jiggling with suppressed excitement. “I’ll do that, and we’ll get it back to you as soon as possible. We’re keen to start making progress for you.”
“Excellent. Speak again soon.”
“Absolutely. And thank you again. This is fantastic news.”
I put the phone down and put both palms to my flushed cheeks for a moment, feeling my cheeks bunch in a wondering smile. I look across at the empty desk. “Julie!”
“What?” she calls from the outer room.
“We got it!” I spin in my chair exultantly.
“Got what?”
“The contract!” I’m on my feet now, on my way to her room, but she’s moving, too; we meet in the doorway. “Haft & Weil. We got it!” I realize I’m actually bouncing.
“That’s fantastic!” Impulsively she grabs my hands and begins jumping with me. From the look of relief on her face, I wonder if I should have been paranoid about keeping her as well as Paul.
The external door opens, and Paul comes in, cursing at his disposable cup, which is dripping latte everywhere. He looks askance at Julie and me, still bouncing, our smiles as wide as our mouths can stretch. “What?” He dumps the leaking cup on Julie’s desk and looks from me to Julie and back again, nonplussed. “What?”
“We got it!” I croon. “We got it, we got it, we got it!”
“Haft & Weil?” he asks urgently. “Really?”
I nod, beaming at him. “Awesome!” he roars. “Haft & fucking Weil! Fucking awesome!” Then he’s slinging an arm round each of our shoulders and all three of us are jumping together and grinning inanely, and I think: I should remember times like this, remember perfectly. I should bottle them somehow. You don’t know how many of these moments you might have in your life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time I reach the pub a few minutes after seven, I am drunk. Mostly drunk on excitement and drunk on relief, but the champagne Paul nipped out to buy and cracked open in the office has played its part, too. Paul, Julie and I sat on the floor and ate posh crisps whilst drinking the bubbly from mugs. Paul was still shaking his head and saying at regular intervals, “Haft & fucking Weil!” with a broad smile and looking at me with something akin to renewed respect; and Julie was flushed and decidedly unsteady when she eventually left to catch her train. I thought, if we succeed, we will be telling this story in years to come: the anecdote of how Channing Associates celebrated their first big win.
But here and now I’m mildly tipsy, standing just inside the door of the pub once again scanning for Tom. This time I spot him at a table; he’s been here long enough to be a third of the way through a pint, with what looks like a vodka tonic waiting for me on the table. His attention is on his phone, and he’s had a haircut. For a moment it throws me off balance: he looks sharper, older—other. But then he looks up and catches sight of me; he gets up to deliver his trademark hug, his face breaking into a welcoming grin, and I see he still has freckles on his nose—he’s Tom again.
“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.”