Summer in the City

by Robyn Sisman

  Dee Dee, where are you? Suze screamed silently.

  “I’m glad you picked up on that, Mr. Bannerman,” Sheri cut in smoothly. “That’s exactly what we wanted. We thought we’d try the other presentation first, to see if you might want a change of direction, but this is the option we think is best.”

  “I see,” said Bannerman, a little dubiously. “Well, you had me fooled. Anyway, let’s go with the second option.”

  “It will be our number-one priority.” Sheri gave him a dazzling smile.

  She’s going to get away with it, thought Suze, in rising panic. All that work Lloyd and I have put into this just to benefit Sheri. She glanced around the table. Bannerman and his team were getting ready to leave. Sheri had recovered her poise. Bernie was grinning. Only Harry sat absolutely still.

  “One thing, Ms. Crystal,” said Tucker. “That great music in the background. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. What is it?”

  “It’s . . . um . . . ah . . . Oh, it’s so silly but it’s slipped my mind.” Sheri looked inquiringly at Suze. Suze met her gaze, saying nothing.

  “Suzanne?” Sheri prompted. There was an edge of panic in her voice. For several seconds they stared at each other in silence. Suze was aware of Bernie shifting uncomfortably.

  “It’s Miles Davis, from his album Kind of Blue,” said Lloyd’s voice. Suze nearly wept with relief. There was a crackle of static from the video screen, and a man’s features appeared. “With John Coltrane on sax and Bill Evans on piano,” he added.

  The stunned silence erupted into uproar. “What the fuck is he doing here?” demanded Bernie. He’s not here, thought Suze, swallowing a hysterical giggle. Sheri’s face looked frozen with panic. The Passion team whispered to each other.

  “He’s here—at least, he’s linked to us by videophone, at my invitation,” said Harry Fox abruptly. “Rockwell outlined this presentation to me in London yesterday morning. And he’s convinced me that he wasn’t responsible for leaking the Passion bookings to Stateside.”

  Bernie shot a sharp glance at him. He looked worried.

  “Go on,” said Bannerman.

  “I think Rockwell should tell you himself,” replied Harry. “Go ahead, Lloyd.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” said Lloyd. “When I was accused of leaking data to Stateside, I couldn’t understand what had happened. For the first week after I was fired I confess I didn’t know what to do. Then a good friend,” he paused for a moment, “encouraged me to try to clear my name, and I decided to try to find out what was going on.”

  Suze was standing stock still in the middle of the room, staring at the screen. There was Lloyd, the man in the photographs, the voice on the telephone, put together at last. He was wearing a dark suit and a plain light shirt, as she had instructed him, to look good on screen. And he did look good; in fact, he looked great. His face was calm and confident. His eyes were blue.

  “I began by calling up Passion customers,” Lloyd continued, “and I found that many of them had been approached by Stateside. Somehow they had accessed the list, as you rightly concluded, Harry. I knew it wasn’t me who’d leaked it to them, and I also knew that somebody had tried to pin it on me by planting a phone message where it was likely to be discovered. That suggested it was somebody close to me trying to cover up his—or her—traces.”

  “That’s just what I said!” Sheri gave Bernie an accusing look. He ignored her.

  “On the other hand,” Lloyd continued, “it wasn’t somebody familiar with the procedures for using such lists—anyone who was would know that we had inserted dummy names in the list to prevent this kind of abuse. I called one of those dummies on Tuesday night—my sister. Sure enough, she had been approached by Stateside.”

  Bannerman and his colleagues were staring at the screen, intent on Lloyd’s words. Suze saw Tucker make a note.

  “My next step was to try and find out when this list was leaked. As some of you will know, Schneider Fox has online access to data on Passion bookings. Earlier this week I got hold of an up-to-date list. By calling a large number of Passion customers and comparing the booking dates of those who had been approached by Stateside with those who hadn’t, I was able to establish to within a few days when the leak occurred.”

  “How does that help us?” asked Bannerman.

  “Well, for one thing,” Lloyd replied, “the leak occurred after I had left New York, when I no longer had direct access to the Passion data. That helps me—though, of course, I might have been able to leak the list of customers from London with the help of a confederate.”

  Suze noticed that Harry was smiling.

  “But there is another aspect which is much more significant,” Lloyd continued. “To access this data requires the use of a password. Only a few people are authorized to access the data and each has his—or her—own password. For security reasons these passwords are kept confidential. I know my password, but I don’t know that of any of my colleagues. But the computer knows them and the computer will be able to tell us who accessed the data during the period it was leaked to Stateside. I guess whoever leaked the list of passengers didn’t know that his or her password would have been logged at the time.”

  Sheri choked and then rose to her feet. “I hope none of you are taking this seriously,” she said. “It’s clearly a setup, engineered by Rockwell and his accomplice, Suzanne Wilding.” She pointed to Suze. “Rockwell has already shown himself to be disloyal. Now Wilding has gone behind my back too. I would not be surprised to find that she was the one who supplied confidential client information to Rockwell after he was fired by Schneider Fox.”

  She paused for dramatic effect, and for a moment Suze thought Sheri might yet win them over. Then Bernie spoke. “Ms. Crystal, as of this moment I am placing you on indefinite leave. Please leave the building immediately.”

  Sheri’s face froze. She looked at Bernie. Finding no response, she turned first to Harry and then to Bannerman. They looked away. Anger blazed in her face. The features Suze had once so much admired turned ugly: her eyes were wide; her lips drew away from her pearly teeth: she looked like a Barbie doll on speed. She snatched up her case and strode to the door. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” Then she left, slamming the door behind her.

  Bernie was the first to speak. “Rockwell, I owe you an apology. Please consider yourself reinstated with honor.”

  Harry coughed. “Actually, Bernie, I’ve already offered him a job with the London office.”

  Suze could see that Lloyd was trying to stay cool, but delight and relief animated his whole face. She kept smiling encouragingly at him, as if he could see her.

  “Jesus, guys, what kind of a company is this?” asked Bannerman. “Listen, Lloyd, while these two are fighting over you, why don’t you jump ship and come to work for me? If you can meet me here in New York on Monday, we’ll talk about it.”

  “Thanks, everyone.” Lloyd was grinning openly now. “I’m flattered by your confidence.” If he was being ironic, his face showed no sign of it. “This morning I had no prospect of a job, and now I’ve got three terrific offers. I hope you’ll understand if I take a few days to decide my next move.”

  Schneider, Fox and Bannerman all made noises of agreement. “I’d just like to say one more thing,” Lloyd went on, “and that’s to pay tribute to Susannah Wilding. She had faith in me when nobody else seemed to. She encouraged me to try and clear my name. And this Passion campaign is as much her work as mine. Thanks, Suze, for everything.”

  Lloyd smiled down out of the screen. Then there was a crackle and his image disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “Isn’t this lovely?”

  Betsy’s mother surveyed the imposing dining room with an approving smile and allowed Lloyd to pull out a chair for her. “So much better than that poky table by the kitchen they wanted to give us. You can’t let these people get away with tricks like that.” She settled herself in the seat with the best view of the small garden, while Betsy
and Lloyd ranged themselves on either side.

  Betsy let out a tiny sigh of relief. She had spent days of investigation before picking this hotel. It was within walking distance of Harrods and it had character—Mother was big on character—but it also had modern bathrooms and unstained mattresses: Betsy had checked. The only hiccup so far had occurred over the forty-watt lightbulb in the bedside lamp, but Room Service had promised a more powerful replacement as soon as it could spare someone to go to the drugstore. She allowed her gaze to wander around the lofty room, with its framed foxhunting scenes, gilt bracket lamps and ornate plasterwork. The effect was a little chilly, perhaps, but undeniably English. Most tables were still empty. She recognized the few other diners as fellow Americans, accustomed to eating earlier than the British: it was still only six thirty.

  Betsy perused the menu, glad to see that the food wasn’t too fancy. She was hungry, having eaten nothing all day except a flabby so-called croissant at Heathrow Airport. This morning she had traveled out on the subway to meet her mother, alone, since Lloyd had pronounced himself too busy to accompany her. Fortunately, Mother had accepted her explanation that he could not leave the office on a normal working day. Subjecting her mother to a return journey on the subway was, of course, out of the question, though it was irritating that the taxi had cost almost a hundred dollars and taken forever to reach the hotel through the commuter traffic. Perhaps it was just as well that Lloyd hadn’t come. It was so important that this evening was a success.

  So far, so good. Lloyd was politely inquiring about her mother’s flight. Betsy was already familiar with the saga of delays, long lines and the dearth of baggage carts due to striking Stateside staff.

  “You see, you should have traveled Passion after all,” Lloyd teased. “They take care of their employees as well as their passengers, so no one needs to strike.”

  “I think this English welfare system is to blame. People here don’t seem to want to work. There weren’t any problems at Kennedy.”

  “Now, Mother, let’s not get into that,” Betsy interceded. Experience had taught her that politics was not an ideal topic of conversation between her mother and Lloyd.

  “Drinks, sir?” A waiter stood at their table, pencil poised, head cocked ingratiatingly.

  “Do you serve iced tea?” Betsy’s mother inquired.

  “Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Lloyd had been lounging back in his chair, looking relaxed and unusually handsome, Betsy thought, if a little unkempt. When they got home, she would tell him he needed a haircut. Now he leaned forward and grinned at them both. “Let’s have some champagne.”

  Betsy saw her mother give a doubtful frown. “Is there something to celebrate?”

  “Lots,” replied Lloyd exuberantly. “Including your arrival in London, Mrs. Rennslayer.”

  “Why, thank you, Lloyd dear. You know, now that you’re going to be one of the family, I really think it’s time you started calling me ‘Happy.’ Unless you’d prefer ‘Mother.’ ”

  “Whatever makes you happy, Happy.” Lloyd winked at Betsy. She gave him her be-on-your-best-behavior glare.

  He had been in this impish mood ever since she had returned home to change, leaving her mother at the hotel. They had spent the afternoon shopping. Even as she had approached the front door, tired and laden with large crackly bags, she had heard loud music pounding out of the stereo. She found Lloyd lying on the living room floor, in jeans and bare feet, with all the windows wide open, surrounded by CDs. As soon as he saw her, he jumped to his feet, picked her up, bags and all, and carried her triumphantly about the room until she had yelled to be put down. She had almost wondered whether he had been drinking, though it wasn’t even six o’clock.

  Eventually she had persuaded him to turn off the music and explain what had happened. She had not been able to follow every twist of the plot, with its printouts and computer passwords and video-links, but two points emerged. First and most wonderful was that Lloyd had been offered his job back. To Betsy this seemed like a miracle, an eleventh-hour reprieve from breaking the news of his unemployed state to Mother. Not quite so thrilling was the realization that a key role in Lloyd’s rehabilitation had been played by Susannah Wilding. Lloyd had been irksomely effusive on this point. For some time Betsy had been wondering what this Wilding woman was like. Mother’s report had not been wholly encouraging: messy-looking and insolent, but the sort of woman, Mother supposed, that certain men might find attractive. Still, now that everything was working out at last, Betsy could afford to be magnanimous.

  The champagne was ceremonially transported to their table in a silver bucket, swaddled in white napery like a royal baby. When it had been poured out, Lloyd fingered the fragile stem of his glass and cleared his throat.

  “Oh no,” Betsy’s mother objected, before Lloyd could speak. “You can’t toast yourselves. Let me.” She raised her glass. “To Betsy and Lloyd. Eternal happiness.” She took a tiny sip and smiled bravely. Mother didn’t care for alcohol. “Darling, have you decided where you’re moving yet? It would be so wonderful if you could be near us. You know Daddy and I would be happy to help financially.”

  “Who said we were moving?” Lloyd shot Betsy an accusing glance.

  “We’ve only discussed it,” she put in hurriedly. “Why don’t we order our food?”

  When the menu had been thoroughly interpreted and debated, and the accompanying wine chosen, Lloyd raised his champagne glass again. “We have something else to drink to tonight. I want to celebrate the fact that today I have received no fewer than three job offers.”

  Mother was impressed. “That’s wonderful, Lloyd! Are you a vice president at last?”

  “Who cares about the title? The important thing is to enjoy your work, to feel stretched. And guess what, Betsy?” He looked across at her excitedly. “I forgot to tell you that Jay called today. He’s finally sold his movie to a Hollywood distributor. Isn’t that fantastic?”

  “Who’s Jay, dear?” asked Mother.

  “A friend of Lloyd’s.” Betsy did not expand on this. So far she had managed to conceal from Mother that Lloyd’s best friend was a, well, homosexual.

  “Maybe Betsy told you that I helped Jay write the script?” Lloyd continued. He speared a prawn and chewed it with relish. “In fact, I wrote most of it. Jay says the studio may want to commission more work from me.” He laughed happily. “Watch out! Next thing you know, I’ll be lying by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, talking telephone-number deals.”

  Mother stiffened. “Hollywood would not suit Betsy. It’s such a corrupting atmosphere.”

  “Think of all that sunshine, though—and the ocean! I could handle that kind of corruption for a year or two. If I hit some troughs, I could always play piano bars to keep us going. By the way, Betsy, I’ve decided to buy another piano when we get home. We can make room, if we throw out some of the furniture.”

  Betsy sawed at her magret de canard with grim concentration. She did not care for Lloyd in this mood. She knew perfectly well that he had no intention of going to Hollywood: he was being deliberately provocative. “Tell Mother about the real jobs,” she said, hoping to steer him back on course.

  “Well, one is with Passion, but that’s not a firm offer, just a possibility. I’m meeting the big boss in New York next week. Oh, yes,” he continued, “I’m afraid that means I won’t be able to accompany you on the trip.”

  “What?”

  “Lloyd, you can’t let us down!” Betsy dropped her knife and fork with a clatter. She felt like bursting into tears. “Who’s going to drive the car?”

  Lloyd looked surprised. “You both have licenses, don’t you? You just point the car and drive.” He raised his glass and took a careless swig. “I’ve already booked a flight going out tomorrow night. By the time you get back, Betsy, I’ll have the apartment in shape and my job fixed up.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Mother was dabbing her mouth with her napkin, eyes downcast. “Let’s just pray
we don’t get a flat tire,” she sighed, “or wind up murdered in some strange hotel room.”

  Lloyd laughed. “Of course you won’t.”

  Betsy couldn’t believe how heartless he sounded. She touched her mother’s hand. “We’ll be all right.”

  “I know we will, Betsy.” Her mother returned her grip comfortingly. “It’s the lack of consideration that bothers me. I’m afraid that’s something you’re going to have to learn about men.”

  “More wine, anyone?” From the other side of the table, Lloyd raised a bottle and smiled at them with almost insulting good humor. There were times, these days, when he seemed like a stranger. Betsy was beginning to doubt if she would ever be able to keep him in order.

  “I think we have all had enough,” Mother said firmly. “And my steak was tough. I always say you can’t beat American beef.”

  Betsy could see Lloyd preparing to issue a retort. “What about the third job?” she prompted, heading him off.

  “Schneider Fox London have a vacancy. It’s a very successful outfit, Mrs. Rennslayer, and it’s on the up. I have to say I’m tempted.”

  “But that’s impossible! It’s been bad enough for poor Betsy to be away from home all these weeks. I don’t know how many times she’s been on the telephone to me, sobbing her heart out.”

  Lloyd was looking betrayed. Betsy attempted a dismissive laugh. “Mother, you’re exaggerating. It did seem awfully rainy at the beginning, but we’ve had lots of interesting experiences.”

  “I admit that I have had to go to work some of the time,” Lloyd said pointedly, “but that’s given Betsy a chance to write her thesis and soak up some English atmosphere. We’ve been out to dinner and the theater. We’ve gone sightseeing. We even had a sunny weekend in the country.”