As I obsessed about everything I hadn’t done, I started to feel a little feverish. My hands started sweating when I realized that the resignation of the VP in Atlanta could have been a huge opportunity to show Joe Elliot that I could pull people together in times of corporate change. The power outage in Boston could have been a providential chance to take the team back to the basics of working with pens and paper on ideas rather than on computerized visual trickery.
My hands started to shake when I realized that Frankfurt could have been an opening for me to really get a handle on the European markets, instead of tuning out what everyone was talking about until they’d said the magic word—beer.
I hadn’t been giving WorldWired the attention I should. If I was being honest with myself, I’d known that all along. And although I’d never consciously realized it, I knew now that I’d been assuming, in the back of my mind, that eventually something would change and I’d get into gear and…focus.
But the truth was, I was focused. I just wasn’t focused on WorldWired. My entire intellectual capacity seemed to be filled with the detritus of a cartoon graveyard and its undead mistress. Vladima was what I thought about, schemed about, dreamed about. Making her successful had become my obsession. On planes when I could have been preparing for meetings, I was writing press releases. And after meetings, when I should have been preparing insightful reports with brilliant recommendations, I’d been monitoring the progress of the Vladima movie e-mail campaign.
My head was in the game, all right. But the game was Vladima. And that had to be bad for WorldWired’s investment in me. From their perspective, I was not doing a good job.
I was not doing a good job.
With that realization, I ran to the nearest restroom and threw up.
I’D BLOWN IT. I’d blown the opportunity of a lifetime, which had been handed to me on a silver platter by an eccentric earl with a fondness for swans. I’d been given the chance I’d been craving for years and I’d thrown it away in favor of a cartoon creature of the night.
I don’t know how long I hid out in the restroom, mentally kicking myself while alternately splashing my face with water and holding cold compresses over my eyes. But by the time I came out, the office was largely deserted and I’d made up my mind.
Joe Elliot was going to fire me. Fine. I’d brought this on myself. In his position, I’d probably do the same thing. And now that I knew, I might as well get it over with. At least, once it was over, I’d be able to catch a late flight to the convention.
I squared my shoulders and went looking for my executioner.
Thirty-seven
I heard him before I saw him.
His voice, proper and British and unmistakable, was floating down the hallway of the twenty-seventh floor. The executive floor. I’d seen it on Monday’s tour of the offices, all frosted glass and low-slung furniture in poolside colors, but I hadn’t been invited up since.
It had seemed the likely place for Joe to be hanging out, and when I heard him I congratulated myself on finding him so efficiently. Then, after talking myself out of the impulse to run away, I followed his voice. As I got closer to a half-opened door, I started to make out what he was saying.
“—more talent than I’d have given her credit for.”
Her who? Her me?
“No, she’s really not as attractive as I would have expected.”
Probably me. Was he on the phone? I couldn’t hear anyone responding to him.
“Although, I have to say, in New York I really did see some flashes of brilliance.”
Damn right he had. Well, flashes of desperation, anyway.
“No, no, of course I understand. Yes, the situation is untenable.”
Untenable? What situation?
“Certainly. A man of the earl’s age. It’s not uncommon, of course—no, you’re quite right.”
The earl? George?
“No, I completely understand your position.”
Joe seemed to be trying to reassure the other person. Who the hell was the other person?
“Yes, of course. Tomorrow. Certainly. As soon as it happens. Yes, of course, Sir Charles.”
Sir Charles?
I heard the plastic clatter of the phone being hung up.
I stood frozen in the hallway. It wasn’t until I saw Joe’s shadow moving against the frosted glass that I fled. I ran back down the hall, sprinted past the elevator doors, and dove for the stairwell. I made it down fourteen flights before I had to stop, gasping for air and hanging on to the railing.
I’d left my purse in my temporary office. I’d have to go back and get it, and the laptop, and make my way to the hotel. I told myself this while I tried to get my breath under control. Purse, laptop, hotel.
These are the things I concentrated on. I did not think about the slimy knight who’d been talking about me. I did not think about Joe Elliot, the knight’s—what? Henchman? I did not think about what plans they’d been putting in place for me tomorrow.
Purse, laptop, hotel.
Once I took care of those, I’d be able to form a plan.
“HAVE YOU TOLD JOSH?” Max asked.
“No. I’ve talked to him at least seven times tonight, but I just couldn’t ask him to deal with my problems on top of everything else he’s doing.”
“Becks, he’d want to know. He’d want to deal with your problems. And what’s more, he might have some good advice. He knows a hell of a lot more about office politics than I do.”
“But, Max, this isn’t just office politics. Not if Sir Charles is behind it. And I never told Josh about the whole idiotic Lord of the Manor thing and what a lunatic I was in England—and I don’t want to now. So without knowing what a bastardly bastard I’m up against, how could Josh help?”
“Why do you suppose Sir Chuck has it in for you? I mean, it all seems a little…over the top, don’t you think?”
“The only thing I can think of is that he doesn’t like the fact that George got me the job in the first place. He seemed to hate his father for some reason, so I’m wondering if this is a lot more about getting back at him than it is about hurting me.”
“Well, whatever his twisted reasoning may be, I know exactly what you should do.”
Thank heaven for friends. “What?”
“March right in there tomorrow morning and quit. Better yet, send your boss an e-mail and get on a plane to Vegas tonight.”
“Max! Be serious!”
“I am serious. What the hell do you need with that job anyway? Leave them in your dust and get out of Dodge.”
“Max, I can’t.” Of course it had occurred to me to cut and run. But I just couldn’t do it.
“It’s pointless, Becks. You should have quit weeks ago. And may I point out that if you had, instead of losing sleep and getting wrinkles talking to me all night, you’d have spent the evening doing Lord-knows-what kind of debauched bachelorette things with Vida, and then gone to bed with a man who loves you!”
“I know!”
“Then quit!”
“No! Max, if Joe Elliot fires me for incompetence, I can deal with it. Hell, I probably deserve it. But I can’t just bail without knowing what the hell is going on.”
Nothing Max said, sensible as it was, changed my mind. Even as I hung up I knew. I knew that, whatever this game was, I had to play it to the end. Whatever Joe Elliot threw at me in the morning, I could take it. I would take it.
But it would help if I could summon my inner Vladima.
“YOU WANT ME TO GO where?”
Joe Elliot looked at me with something that might have been excitement in his eyes. “China. Guangzhou. We’re thinking of opening a branch there.”
“China?”
“China.” He seemed a little flustered. More flustered, in fact, than I would have expected. Of course, I’d expected to be fired—not offered a huge promotion and a transfer halfway around the world.
“Look, Becks, there are some things at play here…I don’t really feel at
liberty to discuss…but there are things that…”
Definitely flustered. But why?
“Joe, what’s really going on? Why China? Why all this urgency all of a sudden?” And what in the hell did the LOTM have to do with it all?
He poured himself a glass of water and seemed to collect himself. “All I can say, all I will say, is that there are certain pressures being brought to bear. Certain pressures that make it impossible for me to keep you on in your current position. But I’d like to offer you this not inconsiderable opportunity—”
Pressures. That clicked it all into place.
“Sir Charles wants you to send me to China.” I said it flatly, cutting Joe off in midsentence.
He blanched. His mouth moved. Then sound came out. In a whisper.
“Sir Charles?”
“I know he’s behind this. I know he wants you to get rid of me. What I don’t know is why.” I pinned him with a look, causing him to squirm in a way that would have made a certain vampire role model proud.
Joe cleared his throat violently. “What do you know about Sir Charles?”
“I heard you on the phone last night.” I said it coldly, in something like Vladima’s voice.
Joe blinked. He stared at me, then nodded. “So you know.”
“I don’t know a damn thing! I don’t know why he cares what you do with me, and I don’t know why you give a damn what he thinks! So why don’t you just drop the act and tell me why the hell you’re following his orders and sending me to China.”
By that point I might have been yelling. It felt good. Not as good as slapping him, or—and this is Vladima talking—snapping his neck like a twig, but good.
He sat down suddenly and shook his head. “Becks, he doesn’t want me to send you to China. He wants me to fire you.”
Now it was my turn to blanch. “What? Why?” Because I slept with him in a fit of English wedding–induced lust?
He shrugged. “He’s embarrassed. He thinks people will talk about how his father got you the job. That they might think you and the earl…”
My jaw dropped. “That’s ridiculous!” Good God. Sir Charles didn’t want me fired because I’d slept with him. He wanted me fired because he assumed I’d slept with George. Yuck! I mean, nothing against George, but—Yuck!
Joe shrugged again. It seemed to be his management style. “It’s what he thinks, and he hasn’t given me a moment’s peace since he found out about you.”
“Why the hell do you care what he thinks?”
“Becks.” He gave me a pleading look. “He’s going to inherit it all one day.”
Of course. The words just hung in the air for a while.
Finally, Joe took a deep breath. “But if there’s a God in heaven I’ll be retired and living in the South of France before that happens.” He stood up. “In the meantime, I don’t want to fire you. I think you’ve been doing brilliantly, and…”
Brilliantly? I’d been doing brilliantly? How was that possible? I hadn’t gotten obsessive or controlling or even remotely bitchy on the job. I hadn’t cared enough to. Was Joe telling me that the secret to professional success was to stop paying attention? I blanked out what he was saying for a moment until I heard the fatal word.
“But I’m sick and tired of being bullied about it, and Sir Charles insists you’re some sort of a stain on the family honor. So—”
I braced myself.
“I’m going to give you a whopping salary increase and a chance to carve out a significant segment of the Asian markets. All you have to do is stay off his radar for a while until you become so completely indispensable to WorldWired that the board of directors would have his balls for firing you. Can you live with that?”
He looked at me expectantly. Could I live with that? It was the professional chance of a lifetime. Or the chance of a professional lifetime. It was huge, and more than I’d ever dreamed of being offered. More than that, it was a chance of justifying Joe’s faith in me—and George’s. And a way of spitting in Sir Charles’s eye while making a staggering salary doing it.
“Becks, what do you say?” Joe asked.
Good-bye, Vladima would have told him. Then she would have hunted down Sir Unbelievable Bastard and made an afternoon snack out of him.
My response was more pragmatic. “When do I leave?”
IMMEDIATELY. If I was to make it look as if Joe had really gotten rid of me, it had to happen immediately. I was taken from the company office tower by the company limo to the private company jet. My bags were already packed for the trip to Vegas. I even still had my passport on me, as I hadn’t cleaned out my purse since Frankfurt. It all happened…immediately.
THIS IS JOSH. Leave me a message at the beep.
But I couldn’t. It was ten-thirty the morning of show day. The doors had opened half an hour ago, and by now Josh would be in the middle of the kind of frenzy only half-crazed fanatics with misplaced blood lust could create. I couldn’t just leave him a message. I couldn’t just tell him I was abandoning him.
Even if I was.
HI, IT’S VIDA. If I’m not answering, I’m probably surfing. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.
I hung up. What could I say? That I was going to miss her wedding because of my job? I didn’t want her to wake up to a message from her supposed best friend telling her that “something came up.” I couldn’t do it.
I GOT OUT OF THE LIMO and looked at the stairs leading up to the private jet. This couldn’t happen so fast. I had to have time to explain. I had to tell Josh about Sir Charles…and the chance of a lifetime. I had to tell Vida about…what? What could I tell Vida to make her understand?
“Let’s go, miss.” A uniformed man spoke from the top of the stairs. “We’re only cleared for takeoff for the next ten minutes.”
I saw my suitcase being tossed into the back of the plane. My stomach lurched.
I went up the stairs.
“Are you afraid to fly, miss?” The uniform gave me an assessing look. “You seem kind of pale.”
“She’ll be fine.” A middle-aged woman in a smart suit and sensible heels took the laptop off my shoulder. “She just needs to get comfortable, right?” She gave me a smile that crinkled the skin around her eyes and made me want to tell her my life story.
“Just sit right here.” She led me by the hand to an enormous leather swivel chair. “And as soon as we’re in the air, I’ll bring you a lovely cup of tea.”
Suddenly, I wanted a lovely cup of tea from this nice woman more than I’d ever wanted anything in the world. I looked around the cabin. Just six comfortable chairs and a door at the back. I was the only passenger. I sat down.
Then, I think, I went into shock.
IT MUST HAVE BEEN SHOCK. I know I was numb. What seemed like ages later I watched my hand reach out for a cold teacup, but I didn’t feel anything when I saw it make contact.
Odd, that.
I couldn’t hear anything but a sort of whooshing sound. Then I noticed that the kindly flight attendant was saying something. I could see her lips moving. But I had to concentrate very hard before her words came through.
“…lunch? It’s almost twelve, Los Angeles time.” She tilted her head to one side while she waited for me to process the request.
Food. I hadn’t eaten anything since noon the day before, and I’d lost that rather dramatically in the eighteenth-floor restroom of WorldWired LA.
I shook my head, and in doing so I came to my senses. I blinked and shook my head again. It was almost twelve in Los Angeles which meant it was almost twelve in Vegas. I was on a private plane. I was going to China. And I hadn’t told Josh or Vida.
Suddenly the ridiculous thought popped into my head that I might run into Ian in China and we could commiserate about those we’d left behind.
I shook my head again, hard. I hadn’t told Josh or Vida. They’d be looking for me any time now. Vida would expect me to call her from the cab after I’d landed. Josh would expect me to show up at the booth any
minute.
I grabbed for my purse and pulled out my cell phone.
“I’m afraid not,” the nice lady plucked it out of my hand. “The use of cellular phones is prohibited.”
I gave her my most serious don’t-even-think-of-fucking-with-me look. “This is an emergency.”
She pocketed the phone with a smile. “Federal regulations.”
My mouth went dry. “Do you have the other kind of phone? Like on real planes? Where you pay with a credit card?”
She shook her head. “We used to, but—”
I tuned her out. I couldn’t call Josh or Vida.
“What time will it be when we land?”
“We’ll be in Hong Kong—we’re making a stop in Hong Kong—at approximately ten-thirty Saturday night Hong Kong time.”
“What?”
The woman was unflappable. “It’s the time change. On a plane this size, it’s about a twenty-hour flight, so—”
“So it will be what—six-thirty in the morning Saturday in LA time? In Vegas time?”
She dimpled. “Yes, you’re very quick—”
She said something else, but I wasn’t listening. It would be six-thirty Saturday morning before I could talk to anyone. By which time they’d be worried sick.
No, they wouldn’t, I realized. Because Max would get there this afternoon. And he’d tell them that Joe Elliot had been plotting something with Sir Charles. And they’d call WorldWired to see what had happened. And they’d find out.
And they’d hate me.
While I sat there waiting for my head to explode with the hideousness of what I’d done, the door at the rear of the cabin opened. And an extremely rumpled man stepped out.
The Balance Thing Page 25
