by Robyn Sisman
“You’re right, I don’t understand. Hasn’t the guy heard of laundries?”
“He says they can never get the collars right again,” Suze mumbled. Even she thought this habit of Nick’s a little extravagant.
“This man is not going to go for baby poo on his fish, is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes!” Suze snapped. “And he’ll be here any minute, and I don’t have any more shallots and—”
“Then we’ll just have to make it another way.”
Suze stopped waving her arms about. “We?”
“Sure. I’d like to help. It’s the least I can do. What you want to do is look in the cabinet over the stove and find the white-wine vinegar. Second shelf, I think.”
Suze hesitated, not sure whether to trust him. Most of the men she knew thought that food came in pretty little cellophane packets. She checked the cabinet anyway. Second shelf it was. This was impressive. “Got it,” she said.
“OK. Now put three tablespoons of that and two of cold water in the pan and let it bubble. Meanwhile, get some more butter and egg yolks ready.”
Suze found herself obeying. His voice was marvelously soothing. Maybe it would be all right after all. She found a flouncy little apron and put it on over her underwear, then started cracking more eggs, phone tucked into her chin. Suddenly she caught sight of the vinegar mixture. “Oh, no! That vinegar stuff is disappearing!”
“ ‘Reducing’ is the word. Calm down. You have to wait until there’s only about a tablespoon left. Haven’t you ever cooked anything before?”
“Of course,” Suze replied loftily. She could do hard-boiled eggs, cheese on toast, baked beans . . . lots of different dishes. “My friend Bridget and I once gave a Suggestive Food dinner party,” she offered. “The trouble was we got so sloshed on Sloe Screws that we incinerated the jumbo frankfurters and had to go down the road for a curry. We were eating breast-shaped strawberry mousses for weeks afterward.”
He had a nice laugh. “What the hell is a Slow Screw?”
“Sloe gin and orange juice on the rocks. Divine, but lethal. Oops, there’s only a spoonful left now.”
“OK, pour it into the top of the double-boiler and stir in the egg yolks. Then start adding the butter, a glop at a time. And don’t let the water underneath boil.”
“A glop,” Suze repeated thoughtfully. “That’s the technical term, is it?”
“Tell me more about Mr. Perfect.”
“Don’t call him that. He’s just really nice, and American, and good fun and . . .”
“. . . and he likes you.”
“And he seems to like me. Who can tell with men?”
“Ha!” His indignant voice was suddenly loud in her ear. “It’s you women who are the inscrutable ones. The poor guy’s probably standing outside the apartment door right now, with a bunch of flowers in his arms, wondering if you’ve remembered you invited him . . . Are you still stirring?”
“Yes. My recipe says it’s supposed to ‘coat the back of a spoon.’ What on earth does that mean? I keep picturing a spoon with a little coat on it, like a dachshund.”
He chuckled. “Tell me the rest of your menu.”
Suze was just explaining precisely how she had marinated her strawberries when she broke off in astonishment. “Look!”
“Susannah, this is the telephone. Describe.”
“It’s gone all thick, and a sort of primrose color. It looks—you won’t believe this, Lloyd, but it looks like Hollandaise sauce.”
“Of course it does. Now add a few drops of lemon juice and some salt, and tell me how it tastes.”
She did as he said and licked the spoon. “Totally divine. Why couldn’t I do that?”
“You just did.”
“Thanks to you.” Suze stared into the pan with pride. “If you ever lost your job, you could always set up a cooking help-line. Wouldn’t that be brilliant? My phone bill would be enormous.”
“Listen . . . I wanted to ask if you could do me a work favor?”
“Of course! Anything.”
“There’s a file I need from the office. If I give you the name and the password, would you e-mail it to me from my computer?”
“Easy. Just let me write this down.” Suze went into the living room and started rooting around the desk. “Is it you who’s the manic pencil-sharpener?”
“Probably.”
“You also have a terror of running out of tinned tomatoes, you have incredibly long feet and you’re a hypochondriac. I’ve never seen such a medicine cabinet.”
“That’s Betsy. She likes to be prepared for any epidemics that may break out in Manhattan.”
Suze tore off a piece of paper. “Right. Fire away.”
Lloyd fired away and she scribbled down the details, promising that she would send the e-mail first thing on Monday morning. Lloyd sounded very polite and grateful.
Something was still troubling Suze. “Incidentally, how did you get Mr. Kipling to the vet? Usually he hates being touched.”
There was a small pause. “In a plastic bag.”
Suze spluttered. “Don’t be daft. You can’t put a cat in a plastic bag.”
“You’re right. I guess it was a basket. Actually, it was Betsy who maneuvered him into the, er, receptacle. She’s very competent at that kind of thing.”
Suze listened to his faltering tone, the tone of a man who hated lying and was doing precisely that. Suddenly she understood. “It wasn’t you at all, was it? It was your girlfriend who got rid of him.”
“No, no. Absolutely not.”
She had never heard anyone sound so unconvincing. He must be taking the blame for his girlfriend. Could anybody be that nice? she wondered. He must have a flaw somewhere. She thought of a small test.
“One last question—do you really like Phil Collins?”
“Of course not! At least, not personally.”
Just as she had thought: a girly present from a girly girlfriend. Suze smiled. “Thanks again for the cookery lesson. Bye.”
She put down the phone and went to get dressed. Poor old Mr. Kipling . . . though he had been getting rather crotchety and smelly. She hoped he hadn’t been too frightened at the vet’s. In the bedroom, she found she was still clutching the piece of paper. She looked at it again and frowned, remembering what Sheri had said about discretion. Lloyd hadn’t sounded particularly paranoid. On the other hand, it was important for Suze to stay in Sheri’s good books.
Suze slipped on her dress, debating what would be the right thing to do. As she applied her lipstick carefully and batted her lashes to dry the mascara, she decided that she would tell Sheri about Lloyd’s request before she sent him the file. It couldn’t do any harm.
Chapter Eighteen
“Just a minute, Mr. Rockwell.”
Lloyd paused in the Schneider Fox reception area. Approaching him was a sour-faced security man whom Lloyd had sometimes seen manning the reception when he worked late. Normally he barely looked up from his newspaper to grunt. Today he was bristling with self-importance.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Fox asked me to show you straight up to his office when you arrived.”
“Fine. I’ll just—”
“My instructions are ‘at once.’ ”
“Uh . . . OK.”
Together they walked up the stairs to the first floor and along the corridor to Harry’s office. Lloyd was puzzled. Something important must have come up. Had he forgotten a meeting? This was Tuesday, right? Was he very late arriving this morning? He checked his watch. It was 9:15 A.M.
Lloyd shrugged. Every boss he’d known had been unpredictable and dictatorial in various measures, and it seemed that Harry was no exception. All yesterday Lloyd had been trying to talk to him privately without success; now here was Harry demanding to see him before he’d even gotten his coat off.
The security man knocked on the door of Harry’s office, then gestured to Lloyd to go in and closed the door behind him.
Lloyd was surp
rised to see Piers standing with Harry at the window. He smiled at Piers, but his smile froze when Harry turned to look at him. The normally enigmatic Australian looked angry. Lloyd felt a spurt of alarm. “What’s happened?” he asked. The thought crossed his mind that Julian Jewel had, after all, lured Passion away from Schneider Fox. But it was impossible, unthinkable.
“I’ve asked Piers to join us because I think it’s important that Passion knows exactly what’s been going on,” began Harry.
Lloyd stood looking at him, still carrying his briefcase in one hand with a raincoat folded over his arm.
“It’s become clear to us in the last twenty-four hours that somebody has been leaking confidential client information,” Harry continued. His tone was curiously formal. “Specifically, it appears that some passengers who booked Passion Premium transatlantic flights have been approached with a competitive offer from Stateside. They seem to have known exactly who the Passion customers were and what kind of deal they had been given.”
“Yes,” said Lloyd. “That makes sense.”
Harry ignored him. “The information could have come from within Passion, of course,” he went on, “but we think it came from Schneider Fox.”
Lloyd shook his head. “Not a chance. As you know, we have been analyzing the response to our last promotion, but nobody outside my department had access to that data.” He tried to guess where this was all leading.
Again Harry appeared to ignore what he had said. Piers was avoiding his eye.
“In the last twelve hours we’ve been running a security check to see if any Schneider Fox employee with access to that list has had any direct contact with anyone at Stateside. That’s how we came across this message.” Harry tossed a sheet of paper to Lloyd. It was a photocopied page from Dee Dee’s message book. ‘Tony says thanks for the list.’ “Recognize this?”
“Sort of.” Lloyd nodded slowly. “Dee Dee—my secretary in New York—gave me this message last week. I was already in London when she took the call. But I’ve no idea who it’s from or what it means.”
“Are you also going to tell me you don’t know a man called Tony Salvino, head of direct marketing at Stateside?”
“Well, no, I don’t, though I’ve heard the name.” Lloyd felt the first pricklings of danger. “Wait a minute, though. Are you suggesting that I’ve been leaking the list of Passion customers to Stateside?” The idea was so ludicrous that he almost laughed.
Almost.
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” Harry’s eyes were cold.
“But that’s preposterous. I—I—I just couldn’t do such a thing.”
Lloyd looked appealingly at Piers, who shifted uncomfortably. “Harry, perhaps we should—”
“Open your briefcase.” Harry jerked his head at Lloyd.
“What?”
“Put your goddamn briefcase on the table and open it.”
Lloyd obeyed, tight-lipped.
On top was his newspaper. Harry tossed it aside, dislodging an apple, which rolled across the desk and smashed to the floor. A batch of memos and folders followed, then a clear plastic folder. Harry snatched it up, then passed it to Piers. “This good enough for you?”
Too late, Lloyd understood. “Wait—” he began.
“How much did they pay you, Lloyd?” Harry interrupted bitterly. “Lots of nice fat zeros, were there? I actually liked the bastard.” He was talking to Piers now. “He and his fiancée came to stay with us only last weekend. I thought it strange the way he kept trying to pump me about Passion, but I didn’t understand why until yesterday.”
Lloyd’s head was spinning. He knew he should interrupt, should explain why he had done what he had done, but he was bewildered. Nothing made sense. Why had Stateside thanked him? Did they, too, think that he was guilty?
“Bernie and I talked last night. We’re terminating your employment with Schneider Fox as of this moment. Here is your letter of dismissal. I want you to leave the building right away.” Harry Fox spoke as though his words disgusted him. “Schneider Fox employees will be instructed not to speak to you. You are to hand over all company property in your possession. We will clear your desk and return any personal items in due course. I warn you that you are still bound by the confidentiality agreements you entered into when you joined Schneider Fox, and if you attempt to use any further privileged information we shall take legal sanctions against you.”
When Lloyd didn’t move, Harry strode across to the door and flung it open himself. The security man was waiting outside. “Please escort Mr. Rockwell from the building.”
“Harry—”
“Just get out. Now!”
Chapter Nineteen
There was a strident honk, a blur of red and a buffet of wind that rocked Lloyd back on his heels. An angry male voice shouted, “Are you effing blind?”
He was standing on the edge of the sidewalk a block or two away from Schneider Fox, facing into the traffic. His heart was hammering at frightening speed. He could hear himself panting, mouth open. How he had got here, he didn’t know. Now he seemed unable to move. Trying to regain control, he forced himself to focus on something. On the ground were two black objects: tapering, rounded, maybe three or four inches across, with a smooth surface and a deep sheen—he made himself describe them, as if he were an expert witness at a murder trial. One of them moved. They were, he realized, the toe-caps of his own shoes. Abruptly he turned from the road, causing a young woman to pull her child sharply to her side and steer a cautious course around him. Drugs, said her frightened eyes, or drink, or schizophrenia. They were common enough around here.
The far side of the sidewalk was bounded by a stone wall, waist high, that formed the parapet of a bridge over the canal. Lloyd leaned his forearms on it, trying to slow his breathing. His head drooped. He stared down, down, down. The water below was a deep, dark, inviting green.
He had been fired. He had been thrown out of his office and told never to return. He had no job, no purpose, no place to go each day, no salary, no future. His colleagues thought him a cheat and a liar—worse, a criminal.
There was a ringing in his ears, which swelled until it seemed that he could hear again the echoing slam of metal doors and the scream of electric bells. A stench of cheap food and sweat and disinfectant rose in his nostrils. He saw the once-confident figure unbearably diminished in rough uniform blue, and the eyes that haunted him—pleading spaniel eyes. Overcome with revulsion and guilt, Lloyd pressed his face tight into his shoulder until the world went dark.
Try to think. What could have happened? Only two days ago he had been Harry’s guest, laughing with his wife, playing with his children. Could Harry have been playing some double game all along? Lloyd lifted his head and looked down along the canal. Someone was fishing. Lloyd thought of how he had tried to raise his worries about Passion with Harry on the riverbank, and wished he had been more persistent. Why did he always have to be so goddamn polite? He ran his finger around the tight collar of his shirt, then impulsively ripped off his tie, his badge of office servitude, and flung it into the water. Only when he saw it floating limply did he remember that it was one Betsy had given him.
Betsy . . . Lloyd felt a faint stirring of warmth. There had been a time, early in their relationship, when Betsy had taken a whole week off from the library to take care of him when he was sick. They were hardly even going out at the time. It had been a truly selfless gesture. The memory of Betsy’s calm presence filled his thoughts. She had known exactly what to do. Drink your soup. Lie down. Put on another blanket. Time for some medicine. She had been so soothing and competent. He could remember the gloriously comfortable feeling of resigning himself to another’s control.
Betsy was intelligent. She had a trained mind, clear and direct from years of academic study. She would be able to figure everything out for him, and tell him what to do next.
Before he realized it, he was walking the familiar route home, up Caledonian Road with its laundromats and hardware st
ores, along his favorite street, where each house was guarded by a pair of domestic-sized sphinxes, and on through the quiet squares with hidden gardens, leading to the sanctuary he already thought of as home. He ran up the stairs of the apartment, shouting her name. What if she was out? But Betsy appeared on the landing, a startled expression on her face.
“What are you doing here?” She came down the hallway to meet him. “Where’s your tie?”
He put his arms around her and for a long moment he held her close, breathing in her fresh, familiar smell, feeling her body warm and reassuringly alive against his.
“What is it?” she asked again, freeing herself.
“I lost my job.”
“What?” Betsy looked horrified. “Why? What did you do?”
“I—” Lloyd shook his head. “I don’t know.” He explained what had happened—the suddenness of it, the shock.
Betsy put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “There must have been some kind of misunderstanding, Lloyd. These English people probably don’t understand the business. Why don’t you call Bernie and explain what’s happened?”
“If Harry didn’t believe me, Bernie certainly won’t.”
“Is there anyone else who might know what’s going on? How about Sheri?”
Sheri! Yes, she might be able to make sense of this. After all, she knew more than anyone else about what they were planning for Passion. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll call her.”
“You can’t call her yet. She’ll be asleep. Why don’t I make you some coffee and run you a bath? You look terrible. Try to relax for a while.”
Lloyd couldn’t wait longer than twelve o’clock English time; seven in the morning in New York. Sheri would be awake but still at home. He was feeling a little calmer now. He took the phone into the bedroom and dialed her home number, listening to the familiar American purr, so different from the English ring.
“Hello?”
“Sheri, it’s Lloyd—I need to speak to you.”
There was an intake of breath and then a click as the receiver was replaced. Lloyd felt a shock of realization. She already knew that he’d been fired! He sat stunned for a moment, then went to find Betsy.
