‘Charlotte, of course I won’t repeat it.’ Jeremy looked genuinely hurt. ‘Don’t you get homesick for England?’
‘Yes I do,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I miss my family. Specially now Baby’s working in London. He was my security blanket. He’s a terrible loss.’
‘He certainly is. One of my best friends. He’s such fun, dear old Baby. I think I shall be spending a little more time in London than I used to. Which brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. Did you know he was ill?’ Charlotte stared at him.
‘No. No of course not. What sort of ill?’
‘I’m not sure. He says it’s nothing. Some kind of muscle problem, he said. You know how he laughs things off. He wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t seen him fumbling in his wallet the other night. He absolutely couldn’t get some money out. In the end he asked me for some. And tried to change the subject. But I pressed him, and he said well, yes, he did seem to have some kind of problem but he was sure it wasn’t too serious. He’s promised me to see a specialist anyway. I just wondered if you knew.’
Charlotte frowned into her glass.
‘No, I had no idea,’ she said. ‘I mean I hardly ever see him now. But I’m having supper with him tomorrow, before he leaves. I’ll try and talk to him. And I’ll have a word with Freddy.’ She sighed.
Jeremy looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t you like Freddy?’
‘Oh – yes, of course. I don’t know how much he likes me, though.’
‘Well, I suppose he would hardly be human if he could actually think of you fondly. I think he’s a terrible guy,’ he added with a grin.
‘Why?’ said Charlotte curiously.
‘Oh, he has that awful constipated manner, just like his mother. I can’t tell him good morning without feeling I’ve seriously goofed. And between you and me, I don’t think he’s very bright. Well, he may be bright, but he is most definitely not a great banker. I asked him to give me his opinion on a little window manufacturing company down in Detroit that I was kind of interested in, and he sent me a twelve-page document saying it was nothing out of the ordinary. Then your friend Gabe just happened to point out that they were one of the very first companies to use recycled aluminium for the frames, and that that would be a great PR thing, so I bought them. Only don’t mention it to Freddy, will you?’
‘Golly, I wouldn’t. It would be more than my life was worth,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m glad you told me, though.’
Jeremy laughed and leant forward suddenly and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What a lovely, well-brought-up English girl you are. Talking boarding school slang. Don’t change too much, Charlotte, don’t turn into a Wall Street whizz kid, will you?’
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ said Charlotte. She was confused, disproportionately warmed and touched by the kiss, the admiration. She had been holding her feelings in check for so long she felt they must have become stunted, warped things, unused to any kind of life; she stood up quickly and smiled down at him, carefully casual. ‘Jeremy, I have to go. I have a zillion things to do before tomorrow, and Gabe and I are flying down to Miami at five a.m. for a breakfast meeting. Will you excuse me?’
‘Only if you promise to do this again some time. Soon. Very soon.’
‘Jeremy! Whatever would Isabella say?’
‘She would tell you you were welcome to me,’ he said.
She had been about to laugh when she saw an entirely unfamiliar expression at the back of his eyes. It was sadness.
‘There definitely is something wrong,’ Charlotte said to Jeremy the day after she’d dined with Baby, ‘but he isn’t going to tell me what it is. I suppose he thinks I’ll tell someone. Freddy was very frosty about it, basically told me to mind my own business, but he certainly doesn’t know anything either.’
‘Well, like I said, Baby’s promised me that he’ll see a specialist,’ said Jeremy. ‘We must just keep an eye on him, make sure he really does. And keep in touch with one another. I have to go away for a few weeks; when I get back, I’ll call you, and we can have – dinner do you think? Just so that we could discuss exactly how we could monitor Baby’s progress.’
‘Jeremy, I really don’t think dinner’s necessary for that,’ said Charlotte, laughing. ‘But call me anyway.’
Jeremy called her. She had no news from Baby, did she?
‘No, none.’
‘Well, we should have dinner anyway.’
‘Jeremy, why?’
‘Why not? You’ll get a good dinner, you look as if you need feeding up, I shall have a really nice evening, and Elaine and her clients will benefit considerably by having something to gossip about.’
‘Jeremy, you know perfectly well it’s gossip I’m worried about. I’m certainly not going to Elaine’s with you.’
‘Oh, all right, darling. We’ll go somewhere very quiet. If that’s your only worry. We can take a suite at the Pierre for the evening, if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Charlotte, laughing.
‘I’m not being ridiculous. What about your place? We could get a delivery.’
‘I haven’t got a place. I’m still living with Grandma and Grandpa.’
‘Well, I can see that wouldn’t be absolutely ideal. I’ll think of somewhere, and I’ll call you later. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Charlotte, giving in suddenly. Being wanted, being desired, was virtually irresistible after the endless months of humiliation at the hands of Gabe Hoffman.
‘You won’t regret it,’ said Jeremy. ‘I promise.’
Those words were to haunt her in the months ahead.
He rang her again at five. ‘I’ll send a car for you at eight. Pine Street or 80th?’
‘Will you be in this car when it comes?’
‘I might.’
‘Well, you’d better come to Pine Street. I hope we’re not going anywhere smart, because I won’t have a chance to change.’
‘We’re going somewhere very smart. But you won’t need to dress up.’
‘Is this some kind of a riddle?’
‘Think of it as a game. I like games.’
‘All right,’ said Charlotte, smiling slightly foolishly into the phone.
Gabe came into the office at seven, tired and bad-tempered from a long session with Fred, and asked her to start work on the minutes of a meeting they’d attended that afternoon; his watch was off, and his hair was extremely tousled. Charlotte looked at him, and her heart turned over. Shit. If only she could hate him in the good healthy way she used to.
‘Gabe, I really can’t. I’m sorry. That is –’ She hesitated. She was aware she wasn’t being at all professional.
‘Yes, what? I suppose you have some social engagement.’ He made it sound as if she was planning to indulge in some particularly unpleasant perversion. ‘I do as a matter of fact. But – is it very important that I’m here?’
‘Yeah, it’s very important,’ said Gabe. ‘I’d be most grateful if you could possibly spare the time. Lady Charlotte.’ His eyes were hostile, darker than usual.
Charlotte sighed. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll cancel my evening. Perhaps you could allow me to just make a phone call.’
He turned and walked out of the office again: didn’t even thank her.
She called Jeremy’s office; he’d gone. She could hardly call the house. Well, she’d have to go down and explain when he got to the bank. It was probably Fate stepping in, to prevent the evening with Jeremy, and she should be grateful.
She started working through her notes on the meeting. Gabe had come back and was hitting his keyboard as if he would like to kill it. She was upset, angry; and nervous about Jeremy’s arrival. It was hard to concentrate. She sat without lifting her head, her stomach churning increasingly, drinking endless cups of coffee, aware that Gabe was watching her, aware of her discomfort. At eight o’clock exactly her phone rang.
‘There’s a car for you, Charlotte.’ It was Dick, the night porter.
‘Oh, thank you, Dick. I’ll be down. Excuse me please,’ she said to Gabe, her voice sarcastic, ‘I just have to go and send a very disappointed friend on his way.’
‘I thought you’d called him.’
‘I did. I missed him.’
‘Fine. Don’t be long.’
She ran down the stairs. An extremely long stretch limo stood in the street. There was a shadowy figure in the back. She went over to it and knocked on the window, and then jumped as it slid down; there was an old woman sitting in the back, wearing rags, with a scarf over her head.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought –’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Jeremy’s voice in a theatrical hiss from the depths of the rags. ‘Just get in and we’ll go and hide some place else. I have a false beard you could put on … now where did I put it …’
‘Oh Jeremy,’ said Charlotte, laughing. ‘Jeremy, you are ridiculous.’
‘I am not,’ he said, sounding hurt, ‘I went to a lot of trouble to get into this gear. I thought you’d be impressed. Come on, darling, jump in.’
The driver was standing behind her, his face impassive.
‘Jeremy, I can’t. I’m sorry. I really can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well – because I have to work. Gabe wants me to do something for a meeting in the morning.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Tell him you can’t. Tell him you have a prior engagement.’
‘Junior associates aren’t allowed to have prior engagements.’
‘Hell, Charlotte, you’re going to own that bank one day.’
‘That’s all the more reason why I can’t.’
‘Well, I’ll wait,’ said Jeremy easily, after a pause. He smiled, his eyes dancing up at her. ‘I’ll just sit here till you come down. I have plenty of work to do. Champagne on board. It’s fine.’
‘Jeremy, I might be hours. It might be midnight.’
‘That’s fine. I like eating late.’
‘But –’
‘Charlotte, go and get on with your very important work. I’ll wait. I’m not going to go away. You can’t get rid of me as easily as that.’ He smiled at her, his engaging, boyish smile. Charlotte contrasted it with Gabe’s fierce brooding face, and smiled back, wishing she found Jeremy’s more moving and Gabe’s less.
When she got back to her office, Gabe wasn’t there; the draft of the minutes she had given him was thrown onto her desk, a post-it note stuck to the sheet saying ‘This needs entirely reworking’. Almost every sheet was scribbled over in his large, black scrawl. Charlotte stared at it in disbelief. She knew she had done a good job; she knew the minutes were basically absolutely fine. And they were only minutes. Bastard. He knew she wanted to get through quickly, he was doing this entirely to hurt her. A white-hot temper ripped through her suddenly; she longed to leave him a short, extremely pithy note and walk out again. She even began to draft one; then she threw her pen down, and picked up the notes again. There was no way out of this one, but through it. Gabe’s victories were her defeats; for that reason alone she had to keep winning. And winning right now was getting the fucking report right. And not showing him she cared. One day, one day … Charlotte wrenched her mind from the pleasurable thoughts of one day, and forced herself to concentrate.
Ten minutes later Gabe came back in. He was carrying a brown paper deli bag; he put it down on his desk, looked at her and said, ‘I thought you might like a coffee. And a bagel.’
‘No thanks,’ said Charlotte briefly. ‘I’m too busy to eat.’
She heard, enraged, her voice tremble slightly. Gabe shrugged and took the lid off a coffee, unwrapped a bagel.
‘Please yourself,’ he said through a mouthful.
‘I find it rather difficult to do that around here,’ she said.
There was a silence: then he suddenly laughed. Charlotte looked up startled. It was a rare event.
‘Did I say something funny?’
‘No. Yes. A bit.’
‘I’m glad I manage to amuse you,’ she said.
There was another silence. Gabe sat down and continued to look at her as if she was a new and interesting object set down in his presence.
‘What you need is a good fuck,’ he said, almost conversationally.
Charlotte stared at him. For the first time in her life, she realized the true meaning of literally not being able to believe her ears. ‘What did you say?’ she said at last.
‘I said you needed a good fuck. Calm you down a bit. You’re one huge jangling nerve.’ There was something almost approaching a smile on his face, challenging, aggressive. Charlotte sat, utterly still, wanting to feel rage, outrage, but aware only within the deepest heart of herself of a violent, snaking lash of sexual excitement.
‘And I suppose,’ she said icily, ‘that you feel you should deliver it in person.’
The moment she’d spoken, she could have bitten her tongue out. She should have been dignified, hurt, shocked, anything really, other than coming back to him with some crude wisecrack, a wisecrack moreover that laid her open to further insults. What a fool she must appear to him now: crass, gauche and, worse than those, arrogant, self-opinionated. She braced herself for mockery, sneering, aware of a flush rising up her neck.
Gabe looked back at her for a moment or two, in silence; then he said briefly, ‘No, I hadn’t thought it through that far,’ and went back to his work.
It was one thirty before she finally finished, and Gabe told her to go home; he was still working furiously, his watch pulled off as it always was when he was intent on something, consuming endless cans of Diet Coke, and glaring at his terminal. He was working on a series of financial models for a paper company; the price of the stock was roaring up. Charlotte looked at him and thought with a touch of something near sadness that he had no idea that he had said anything particularly outrageous, anything that might have caused her to feel hurt, humiliated. Had she pointed it out, it would have intrigued him, she supposed, on an intellectual level puzzled him even, but it would have been totally inexplicable. A waste of time and energy. He was totally arrogant, chauvinist, insensitive; she felt a sense of strong sudden relief now that she had not made a scene, not reacted badly, come on all tender and girly, given him that kind of satisfaction. For the hundredth, possibly the thousandth time she reflected on the revenge she would extract from him one day, picked up her things and walked out of the office without a word.
She went into the ladies’ room, looked at herself and sighed. She was pale, and her eyes were dark with tiredness, her mascara smudged. Her hair was a mess; her skirt was creased. Well, at least it should put Jeremy off.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he said. ‘I like tired girls. Their resistance is lower.’
‘My resistance is very high,’ said Charlotte firmly. She sank into the seat beside him. He had shed his rags and was wearing a pair of Levis and a beige cashmere sweater. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the floor of the limo.
‘What the hell have you been doing in there?’ he said, opening the bottle, pouring her a glass. He was good-naturedly interested, not in the least reproachful at the delay.
‘Oh – working on figures, and lists of contacts. Gabe’s still in there.’
‘Do you often spend the night together?’
‘Yes. Very often. Unfortunately.’ The car moved off; she sipped her champagne, feeling she was watching someone else in a bad movie.
‘You really don’t like him, do you?’
‘I loathe him,’ said Charlotte, Gabe’s words suddenly reiterating themselves in her head. ‘He’s arrogant, crude, and totally insensitive.’ She heard her voice tremble slightly again, and sighed.
Jeremy looked at her thoughtfully. ‘He’s upset you, hasn’t he?’
‘No! Well – maybe. Let’s not talk about him, Jeremy, please.’
‘OK. We’ll talk about everything else but. Tell me, Charlotte, how is the Chinese wall in that bank of yours?’
; ‘Very strong,’ said Charlotte firmly. ‘Why?’
The Chinese wall – the invisible security structure to protect clients from the hazards of information leaking out from the banking floor to the dealers – had been one of the first things she had learnt about on Day One at Praegers.
‘Oh – there’s such a lot of insider dealing going on. Someone was telling me the other day that in a lot of banks they’re not too much like a wall. More of a net curtain, I was told.’
‘Jeremy, I’m sure you’re wrong, and anyway, I don’t want to talk Praegers.’
‘No, I know. I’m sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Anyway, where are we going?’
‘Oh – nice little dining room I know.’
‘Jeremy! It’s not a hotel?’
‘It is not a hotel.’
The car was moving into Manhattan; the streets looked twice as wide in the deserted pre-dawn emptiness. Just past the Rockefeller Center they turned right, wound their way down a few blocks, and pulled to a halt. Charlotte looked up at the huge building towering above her.
‘Where on earth are we? Your office?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Jeremy, either it is or it isn’t your office.’
‘Well, it kind of is. Come along, darling, let’s go in.’
The driver was holding open the door, his face if anything blanker than before. Charlotte got out and allowed Jeremy to take her arm, shepherd her into the building. ‘I wish you’d explain,’ she said slightly irritably.
‘I will in a minute. Come on, into the elevator.’
Had she been anyone else, had Jeremy been anyone else, Charlotte thought, she would have refused, been afraid of being raped or attacked. But she felt (and told herself she was right to feel it) that she was protected by her position and his. She stepped into the elevator, watched him press the button for the seventy-third floor. The elevator roared up; she had never got used to New York buildings, she felt sick and her ears popped. Jeremy stood the other side of the elevator, smiling at her.
It stopped, they stepped out into a long wide corridor. Jeremy took out a key and unlocked the door to the left of the elevator. ‘Come on in.’
Wicked Pleasures Page 52
