“I’m what?” he pressed.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“It can wait. Answer the question.”
“I can’t answer it with a phone ringing in my ears. Will you please?”
He sighed and got up; I heard his footsteps disappear around the back of the sofa and drew a deep breath. I didn’t think I could take much more of this. All my high-minded principles had evaporated, just when I needed them most, just when I was tumbling into exactly the sort of situation I’d wanted to avoid. Because Julian Laurence—beautiful, brilliant, leonine Julian—could eat me for breakfast. Could swallow my heart whole and go bounding off with it, never to be seen again. And I doubted I had the willpower to stop him.
The ringing stopped, and the low musical murmur of his voice drifted between the rooms. I rose from the sofa and walked to one of the bookshelves built in on either side of the mantel. The fire had been going for some time. It was small and compact and extremely hot, hissing and popping discreetly in a pile of spent ash. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books. A wide-ranging collection, I thought to myself, smiling; it ran the gamut from Dean Koontz to Winston Churchill to Virgil, in the original Latin. Nothing like a British boarding-school education.
The books were packed in tightly; in fact, no room had been left for anything but books. No pictures, no objets, no random clutter. Nothing personal, really, unless you considered a man’s choice of reading material the most personal thing of all.
“Snooping, I see,” came Julian’s voice, far too close.
I jumped. “Jeez! You just took a year off my life.” I nodded my head to the shelves. “Do you really read Latin?”
“Not a terribly useful skill these days, is it?”
“Not everything has to be useful. I assume you learned it at school?”
“Yes, an old-fashioned education.”
Was that a note of strain in his voice? I turned and looked at him. His face had changed, had dimmed somehow, as though he’d gone through and turned off all the unnecessary lights. “Everything all right?” I asked. “The phone call, I mean?”
“Yes, yes. Quite all right.” He folded his arms and smiled, somewhat forced. “I’ve got to fly up to Boston tomorrow, that’s all.”
“On Christmas Eve?”
“Hard luck, I know.”
“Don’t you…” I swallowed. “Aren’t you going anywhere for Christmas?”
He shrugged. “Geoff has me over for Christmas dinner every year. And services, of course.”
“Your family isn’t…”
“Around,” he finished for me. “Don’t worry. I’m over it, as they say. See anything you like?” He nodded upward, and I followed his eye.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Patrick O’Brian. Are those first editions?”
“I indulge myself.” He sounded embarrassed.
“I love O’Brian. Historical fiction in general. My friends were always giving me crap about it in college; everyone else was reading chick lit. Shopaholic, that kind of thing. Michelle thinks I was born in the wrong century.” I laughed stiffly.
He didn’t reply.
I turned around. He looked peculiar, preoccupied. The tiny lines about his eyes had deepened; his mouth compressed in an unyielding line. I tried to think of something to say, but he spoke first.
“Do you?” he asked, his voice wound tight.
“Do I what?”
“Think you were born in the wrong century.”
I laughed. “Well, not literally, I guess. I mean, who wants to die in childbirth? But I do sometimes wish…” My voice trailed off.
“Wish what?”
“Well, nothing’s a life or death struggle anymore, is it? The era of honor and sacrifice is over.” I looked again at the O’Brian novels, lined up in order. “Jack Aubrey’s full of human failings—so’s Maturin—but they have principles, and they’d give their lives for them. Or for each other. Now it’s all about money and status and celebrity. Not that people haven’t always cared about those things, but it used to be considered venal, didn’t it?” I shrugged. “It’s like nobody bothers to grow up anymore. We just want to be kids all our lives. Collecting toys, having fun.”
“So what’s the remedy?”
“There is no remedy. We are who we are, right? Life moves on. You can’t get it back.”
“Yes,” he said. “Quite. Here you are, off to business school, after all.”
“Here you are, running a hedge fund.”
He smiled at that. “So what would you propose, to win my soul back?”
“I don’t know. Not one of those pansy philanthropic foundations, that’s for sure. Something more interesting. More skin in the game. Maybe manning your own letter of marque and going after all those Somali pirates, off the African coast.”
He began laughing, a rich comfortable sound. “You’re priceless. And where would I find a crew reckless enough to go along with me?”
“I’d go in a heartbeat,” I said, without thinking.
The smallest pause, and then: “Would you, now?”
Oh, genius, Kate. I cleared my throat and looked back at the bookcase. “Well, except for having to earn a living and all.”
“Ah. Hadn’t we better get back to work, then?”
I checked my watch. The two sides of my brain struggled: the one that wanted desperately to stay, all night and all week and really all my life, drowning in the light from that beautiful face of his; and the one that wanted to bolt away in mortal fear.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve already stayed too long. I’ve got an early flight from LaGuardia tomorrow morning and, to be honest, I haven’t had much sleep the last few days.”
I couldn’t quite bring myself to meet his eyes, but I felt them penetrating me. “What an ass I am,” he said. “You’re exhausted, of course.”
“A little.”
“My fault, I expect, demanding all these rewrites.” He ran a hand through his golden hair. “I beg your pardon. Go home and sleep. I’ll have a look at these over Christmas and we’ll speak again when you’re back in the city.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll just get your coat,” he said, moving to the sofa and lifting it from the back. He held it out to me. “Here you are, then.”
I let him help me into the coat, a novel experience, and then grabbed my laptop bag and headed numbly for the hallway.
“Look,” I heard him say, and I turned at once, nearly burying my nose into his sweater.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Sorry,” he said, at the same time; we smiled awkwardly, stepping apart. “Look, I… would it be at all proper…” He closed his eyes, and opened them again with a slight rueful tilt to his mouth. “I suppose I’m trying to ask whether I might see a little of you, after Christmas.”
“Um, sure.” I tucked my hair behind my ear and examined the wall behind his shoulder. “You have my e-mail, right?”
“Yes. I…” He stopped. “Will you look at me a moment?”
“What is it?” I asked, dragging my eyes to meet his gaze.
“Christ,” I thought I heard him whisper, under his breath, and then, more audibly, “I just want to be clear that it’s nothing to do with ChemoDerma, or any of that rubbish.”
“Look here. Don’t go around insulting my client, if you think you want to see me again.” Not bad, Wilson. How did you manage that?
He smiled again, more fully. “ChemoDerma’s a lovely, lovely company. I can’t stop thinking about it. I shall tuck that charming little pitch book under my pillow tonight.”
“Much better.”
He reached one crooked finger into the space between us; it hovered for an instant, and brushed along the line of my jaw. “Have a safe flight tomorrow,” he said.
“You too.”
And then, somehow, I found the strength to turn and walk out.
4.
[via e-mail]
Julian: Kate, at LaGuardia, just boarding now. P
itch book tucked inside my coat, safe and warm. Shall read on the flight. Julian.
Me: What, no private jet? What kind of billionaire hedgehog are you? Kate.
Julian: A disgrace to the name, apparently. Geoff gave me a NetJets share for Christmas last year, but I keep forgetting to use it.
Me: How do you forget to use a private jet?
Julian: Shareholders first. Where are you now?
Me: In a taxi, stuck on the Triborough. Flight’s in an hour. I’m getting nervous.
Julian: If you miss the plane, I’ll ring up NetJets for you.
Me: Like that wouldn’t raise a few eyebrows back home. Here’s Kate coming back for Christmas in a Gulfstream. How many carbon offsets would I have to buy?
Julian: Hold on to that thought. I’m supposed to switch my phone off right now.
Me: [later] Where are you sitting?
Julian: 8C
Me: Hmm, an aisle guy.
Julian: And you?
Me: Window. 12A. All right, pulling up to the airport. Later.
Julian: Did you make your flight?
Me: Barely. Hold on, they’re calling my row.
Julian: Starting to descend now. Boston looking brown and un-Christmaslike.
Me: [later] All settled in. So are you overnighting in Boston?
Julian: No. Flying back to NY after the meeting.
Me: And doing what?
Julian: Glass of wine, good book. Pondering the mysteries of that marvelous company of yours. And you?
Me: Family stuff. Dinner, eggnog, carols. You’re spending Christmas Eve alone? Aren’t you supposed to be having dinner with Geoff?
Julian: That’s tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m quite all right. Altogether used to it. Though you’re welcome to check in, if you like.
Me: I’ll send you so much Christmas cheer your head will spin. What’s Geoff like?
Julian: Good chap, rather boring wife, two rambunctious children.
Me: Boring how?
Julian: Conventional. Lives in Greenwich. Shops a great deal. Aspen in January, Nantucket in August. The twins have three nannies.
Me: Yikes. Oops, we’re taxiing. Evil eye from flight attendant. Later.
Julian: Rough landing. On way to taxi.
Me: So where is this meeting of yours?
Julian: Harvard.
Me: The endowment fund? How long will you be?
Julian: Don’t know. Will let you know when I’m out. Should hate to miss a moment of your Christmas cheer.
Me: Do you still have the presentation with you?
Julian: Next to my heart.
Me: Stop. You had me at hello.
Julian: So there’s hope. Just pulling up now. Thinking of you.
Me: [later] Landed safely. I’m in the car with Mom and Dad. There’s about three feet of snow. Thinking of you too.
Julian: [much later] Just left meeting. Glad you got in all right.
Me: Wow. Long meeting. Which shuttle are you taking?
Julian: 8pm.
Me: Maybe you’ll see the big guy’s sleigh ;-) According to the NORAD Web site he’s over the Atlantic right now.
Julian: Shall keep watch. Happy Christmas, Kate.
Me: Merry Christmas. Wish you could see the festive spirit around here. My mom always goes a little overboard. The front yard is a total embarrassment.
Me: [later] Checking in, as promised. Lots of merriment here. I think Dad overdid the brandy in the eggnog. His cousin Pete keeps trying to get Mom under the mistletoe. How are you getting along?
Julian: Rather shattered, in fact. Heading for bed.
Me: Good night, then. Are you sure you’re okay?
Julian: Right as rain. Good night. Stay away from Cousin Pete.
Me: [much later the next day] Julian, just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Kate.
Julian: You too. Off to Geoff’s.
Me: Enjoy.
Julian: [Sunday afternoon] Dear Kate, I hope your Christmas was happy, without too much frightful knitwear lurking under the tree. I’ve been thinking, over the past few days, that it might be more prudent to hold off on any personal contact until after the ChemoDerma IPO. It’s nothing at all to do with you, on my honor; I only want to forestall the prospect of the ruddy SEC piling on my doorstep at the moment. I do hope you understand, and of course you need not consider yourself bound in any way in the meantime. Let me add, however, that if you should have need of me for any reason, you have only to call, whatever the hour. I shall always pray for your safety and happiness. Yours, Julian.
Me: [later] Julian, I was kind of thinking the same thing. Thanks for the heads-up. You phrased it very well. Take care. Kate.
5.
May 2008
I decided to head home early and go for a run in Central Park. Of course, around here, going home early meant something like eight o’clock, but the long hours were no longer something I resented about life at Sterling Bates. Busy was good.
“Hey, Kate. Free for coffee?” The voice, bright and cheerful like a ray of freaking sunshine, belonged to Alicia. She leaned over the wall of my cubicle, smiling down at me with her small mouth in its large round face. She was growing her hair out, and it hung listlessly in an in-between stage that suited her even less than the pixie cut.
“Actually, I was thinking of going running this evening,” I said, trying to sound as cheerful as she did. Rumors had swarmed around Sterling Bates all winter, and everyone was watching breathlessly for my inevitable breakdown. According to Charlie, people were convinced I’d had a one-night stand with Julian Laurence on Paul Banner’s orders, and then been turned out the next morning like a whore on the streets, never to hear from him again. Embellishments had evolved into the story over the months—apparently I’d gone in for an abortion in early February and submitted the charge on my expense sheet—but the basic theme hadn’t changed, and my only weapon against the gossip was a fierce and unrelenting good mood. Especially with Alicia.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
“Have some coffee first,” she insisted. “It’ll rev you up.”
I bared my teeth in a smile. “Sure. Why not?”
A week after Christmas, I’d received an e-mail from Alicia, apologizing for her rude behavior and asking if we could start fresh. Strangely enough, she seemed to mean it. She’d taken me under her wing, bought me coffee, dragged me to lunch, even brought me out drinking with some of her witchy friends. I’d gone along with her—it was something to do, after all, something to keep my brain from looping back to its preoccupations—until it became an expected habit. I was almost growing to like her.
Going to Starbucks meant taking about ten steps outdoors, from the revolving-door entrance of Sterling Bates to the storefront next to it. On this particular afternoon, they were easy steps to make: it was beautiful outside, that brief period in Manhattan between the fitful bluster of spring and the sticky breathless heat of summer. The warmth of daytime still lingered around us; the sun had only just begun to disappear behind the towers to the west. I drew in the limpid air. The urge to run pulsed through my muscles. Spring fever.
“So has Banner talked to you about the gala thing at MoMA tomorrow night?” Alicia asked, taking a drink of her latte.
“Banner doesn’t talk to me much lately.”
“Oh yeah.” Her mouth twitched. “Well, I spoke to him about it this afternoon, and we agreed you should go.”
I wrapped my lips around my straw and drew in my Frappuccino before replying. “Hmm. What is it, exactly?”
“Just a fund-raiser for some big charity. Capital Markets always buys a table, and Banner has his jollies picking which of us should go.”
I fell silent. If memory served, last year’s gala had been the venue for Julian Laurence’s sole appearance in the gossip columns. “I’m not sure I have anything to wear,” I said, drawing out my words with care.
“Perfect. We can go shopping. You can ditch after lunch tomorrow; there’s not much work anyway rig
ht now.”
“Well…”
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You could use a little fun. It’s why I made Banner put you on the list.”
“No, no. I’m looking forward to it.” I pushed out another false smile. “I haven’t gotten dressed up like that since the Sigma Nu formal, freshman year.”
She shuddered. “Yuck. We are definitely going shopping.”
“So who else is going?” I asked casually.
“Well, Banner, of course. Me. Two VPs. You. Then a few clients.”
“You should ask Charlie. He’s been working hard. He deserves a night out.”
She tilted her head at me and lifted her latte to her lips. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re right. He can be, like, your wing man.”
“Why would I need a wing man?”
“Come on, Kate. These things are full of rich guys.” She winked. “You can totally get laid.”
THE GOLDEN WEATHER had beckoned all the runners out tonight, the regulars and the stragglers, but most had started earlier and began to drop off, one by one, as the sky grew purple and twilight wrapped around the horizon. Alicia had been right; the coffee did rev me up. I bounded up the hill toward the main drive and settled into an effortless pace, taking pleasure in the rhythm of my feet striking the pavement, in the feeling of grace that overtook me after the first half-mile or so, deep and meditative.
Of course, meditation was a dangerous thing for me these days. Inevitably I began to think of Julian, and it took effort to turn that around, to force my brain to pursue some piece of busywork: calculating how I was going to pay for business school next fall, for example, or how long my savings would last at various rates of cash burn. Tidy puzzles to solve.
I lasted longer than usual. I ran north, counterclockwise, and had gone around the far end of the park for the steady climb toward Ninety-sixth Street before my mind began to slip its ropes and wander away. Desperately I tried to haul it back in, but it was no use. Julian’s face began to appear before me, that impossibly handsome face; his glowing eyes, his expressive smile. I thought of our e-mail exchange on Christmas Eve, so tender and funny and then so abruptly cold; that last Dear Kate, so exquisitely phrased, with its odd formality at the end, like he’d copied it from one of those old model-letter books. As if I could ever think of calling on him for help. Hi, Julian. Kate here. Could you write me a recommendation for my summer internship? Thanks a bunch!
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