Recently, Christopher had rarely come home before one A.M. He rarely brought up the subject of their having children. When he did, it was at a vague distance, some faraway place in the future. That had to have some significance. Was it indifference or exhaustion? All those late nights—could he be seeing someone? She remembered the lunch at Fiona’s where Solange had acted as if a husband’s infidelity was a question of when and not if. But Helen wasn’t concerned about an affair. It was his indifference, which, for her, felt worse.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Milan
Within minutes of arriving at the office, Christopher understood that he should have come earlier. At the close of last year, they had a small operation with one trader and one secretary. Now it appeared the staff had tripled, and he had never been consulted. Before arriving he had reviewed the accounts from the trading business, and staff salaries had not gone up. What was going on? Marc explained that several of the traders were independent and had rented space in their office. Christopher still felt he should have been consulted. As with all analysis, the questions and answers were in the details. “Then why isn’t there a line for rental income?” Marc had structured the rent on a quarterly basis. Christopher would see the line item on the next set of accounts. It seemed that Marc had answers for everything.
Christopher and Marc spent the morning reviewing the trading and investment accounts line by line for the year to date. When they went over the list of clients, Christopher noticed that Marc had added several pension funds of large Italian multinationals. He questioned Marc about what sort of business they were doing for them. Mark said they all had come at the recommendation of Philippe Pavesi.
“How can he generate new business for us? He works for Credit Suisse.”
“He left a few months ago and went off on his own. He mainly invests money for a few wealthy individuals. For transactions he can’t handle, he brings them to small firms like ours and receives a fee if the deal is successful.”
Christopher asked Marc to take him step-by-step through the transactions involving pension funds. Marc explained that, as in the role he had performed for Anthony Wu, he was acting as agent, representing funds in the purchase of parent company shares. The only difference was that he was now on the buy side and not on the sell side. Under U.K. law, a company could not give financial assistance for the purchase of its own shares, and Christopher assumed that similar restrictions applied across the E.U. They would need to determine that there was no collusion between trustees of the pension funds and the company. Also by U.K. law, the trustees had to be independent and have no association with the company. Christopher was concerned that some of the more aggressive Italian CEOs could use this strategy to prop up their share prices by having their pension funds buy shares from time to time. It could be used as a form of stock manipulation.
He was beginning to question whether they should have such a close association with Philippe. He had agreed with Marc that Mr. Pavesi’s rumored transgressions had nothing to do with his son. But now he was not so sure. It was beginning to feel like spilled water. It could only be a matter of time before it seeped across a line.
Christopher told Marc he was going to bring in outside counsel to review the trades just to make certain. Their firm had been going so well, there was no need to take on extra risk for higher gains, especially if the activities brought them too close to any line that, if crossed, could jeopardize their firm’s reputation. He would ask their U.K. counsel, Nigel Barrington, to oversee everything. Christopher could tell that Marc was angered by his unilateral action and was trying not to show it because he knew he had no choice but to consent.
Marc invited him to his flat for a drink before dinner. Christopher arrived early, and a butler answered the door. The flat was much grander than he was expecting. He and Marc had done well but not well enough to support this style of living, and he knew Ghislaine had no money. In fact, Marc had told him so when he had recommended paying Ghislaine a design fee for the interior decoration of their new office. Christopher was shown to the drawing room and offered a drink before Marc came down. The room was stylish, with a combination of antique and modern furniture and works of art. A Jim Dine dressing gown hung over an Italian painted eighteenth-century console table. A mounted scagliola panel was surrounded by modern art deco sofas. Ghislaine knew what she was doing. He wandered around looking at all the photographs—mainly of their wedding in Rome, on a boat somewhere, on the terrace at Il Pellicano. One of the wedding photos surprised him. There next to Marc at the altar was Philippe Pavesi.
While he was waiting for Marc, he checked his phone. Nothing from Helen. He left her another message and then called the hotel in Tangier. He was surprised to learn she had checked out. He reached her at home. She said she had decided to come back a day early—she had gotten what she needed—she wasn’t feeling great and was happy to be home.
Marc appeared. Ghislaine would not be joining them. She was still nursing their baby and was exhausted. He had invited Philippe instead. They had a quick drink and walked down the street to Savini next to the Duomo. The evening air was chilly with a light drizzle. On the way to the restaurant Marc complained about the autumn weather as a way of filling the silence between them.
During dinner, Philippe explained a tax straddle that had been very successful in the U.S. in avoiding income taxes. It had recently been shut down. Philippe thought it could be applied with modification to the European markets. The controversy in the United States had centered around whether or not certain transactions had economic risk. Christopher listened carefully but was very clear he opposed even considering pursuing Philippe’s idea, which was based, as far as he could surmise, on breaking the spirit of the law while staying within the letter of it.
After a full review of the trading records with U.K. and Italian counsel and accountants, Christopher came across nothing illegal. There were certain actions and trades that pushed the boundaries—there was no question the practices were very aggressive—but they all held up in the light of day. Senior accountants from the top firm in Milan had gone through past and proposed transactions step-by-step. Sloppy accounting was the most they could find. Not only did the head of the securities department say the transactions were within the law, but also he said his firm would provide an opinion letter to this effect. Every objection Christopher had put up, Marc had been able to extinguish, but despite legal reassurances, Christopher remained uneasy. Maybe it all had to do with the difference between the disposition of an investor and the disposition of a trader.
Chapter Twenty-Three
London
The following day, Helen made an appointment to see her doctor. The metallic taste would not go away. The ultrasound showed the sac but no heartbeat. She asked him to check again, maybe the ultrasound had not picked it up, but he shook his head and told her what was going to happen. She should undergo a procedure to avoid having to go through the experience of passing the fetus. Each day was adding more risk that she could abort anytime.
“And there couldn’t be another one?”
“No, dear. Twins are always a possibility but there was only one fetus.” He moved the handle of the ultrasound monitor around her stomach to show her the outline of the uterus. “There is nothing more here. If it would put your mind at rest, come back tomorrow, but it won’t change the results.”
Helen tried to push past her doctor’s logic, but it caught her no matter where she turned. Still, the following morning she arrived at his office. Again, there was no heartbeat. She felt as if her body no longer belonged to her.
“You’ve waited long enough. You could abort anytime now. We should schedule a D&C as soon as possible.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Without one, there’s the danger of hemorrhaging and infection if all the tissue is not expelled.”
She asked him again about the hep A vaccine. He gave her the same answer as before—it was highly unlikely it had caused the miscarriage.
> “Then could it have been something I drank? When I was in Morocco I was served a mint tea that made me feel strange.”
“Very, very doubtful. I’m sure it’s not because of the vaccine or something you ingested. It’s Mother Nature’s way.”
“You can’t tell anything from the embryo?”
“No, dear. This happens more than you know. Most women never know they’ve had a miscarriage because it happens so early in the pregnancy.”
“And you’re one hundred percent certain?”
“Yes. You should have no issues about getting pregnant again if that is what you wish.”
At six A.M. Helen drove herself to the clinic and checked in. Her doctor came by to see her and told her she would be out around ten A.M. He asked if her husband had come, and she said no, he was out of the country on business. She lied and said she had a friend coming to pick her up.
She woke up in the recovery room feeling as if she were underwater. Everything took effort. She tried to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids felt waterlogged. She tried to sit up, but she felt as if the air were so heavy it was pinning her down. She didn’t have the strength to push past it. She rested a bit more, then tried again. She was desperate to go home. The discharging nurse was insistent someone had to drive her home. Helen hadn’t made any arrangements, her friends would be at work. She asked if they could call a cab. The nurse called, they were in the middle of morning rush hour, there was a forty-minute wait. Helen couldn’t bear to stay in the hospital waiting room—it smelled of warmed-over chicken broth and antiseptic. She didn’t want to call a girlfriend—there would be too many questions. She would call Peregrine. She wasn’t even sure he still had a car, but he would be too awkward to ask her any questions. He answered after two rings. No, he didn’t have a car but he could borrow his flatmate’s and be there “in a jif.”
Peregrine pulled up in a vintage Mini Cooper. “Your ladyship,” he said, running around to open the car door for her. He was wearing the pea-green coat he had admired in the Saint-Tropez market.
“Peregrine, you bought the coat.”
“I wore it just for you. Thought you might need some cheering up. Your ladyship is looking very pale. Could I give you my coat?”
Helen shook her head and clipped her seat belt.
“Are you up for a coffee or a spot of lunch?”
“If you could just take me home.”
“I take it there’s nothing seriously wrong?”
“No, nothing seriously wrong, but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“By the way,” he said, as they were turning the corner to her house, “Zara’s invited us all to a reading at the Royal Society of Literature tomorrow evening. Want to come?”
“Thanks, Peregrine, maybe a rain check. I think I should take it easy for a few days. I think Christopher may be coming back. By the way,” she said as she got out of the car, “I’m glad you got the coat.”
He laughed. “I knew you’d come around.”
* * *
Helen changed into her pajamas. She planned to stay in bed all day and watch television. Despite what her doctor had said about her ability to get pregnant again, she felt defeated and inadequate. She didn’t call Christopher, even though she wanted to. It was her way of proving to herself that she didn’t need him. He never worried about her. He always assumed she would be fine.
* * *
Christopher had tried Helen from his hotel before he left for the airport. When she didn’t answer, he assumed she was in the shower or had gone for a run. He kept trying her cell on his way to the airport and still no answer. His flight was boarding when he arrived, but he hung back to try her one more time. She finally picked up.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”
She didn’t say anything. She allowed herself to misinterpret his concern as a reprimand.
“Are you okay?” His voice slowed and dropped down a register.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Helen, talk to me. Are you sick?”
“No, I just don’t feel great.”
The airport loudspeaker announcing the last call for his flight prevented them from speaking.
“Where are you?”
“At the airport. I’m flying back to London—hang on one second—yes, I’m coming—listen, Helen, I’m going to have to turn my phone off in a minute. I was going to go into the office when I landed, but I’ll come home.”
“No, don’t. I think I’m just going to try to sleep.”
“Shouldn’t you see a doctor? Helen, are you there?”
“Yeah. No, I don’t need to see a doctor.” God, were they disconnected. She wasn’t going to tell him about the miscarriage now. She was thinking about how they seemed to be moving away from each other and wondering why neither one of them tried to do anything about it. There were times when it felt as if he had lost her, as if he were thinking so intensely about what was in front of him that he would forget her, as if his mind were emptied of all thoughts of her. When she first noticed it, she interpreted it as the “eye-on-the-object look” Auden had written about, but Auden had been describing the rapt expression of a cook, a surgeon, a clerk—the forgetting of themselves as they performed a function. But forgetting oneself was different from forgetting another person. She had been disappointed, but she had not been surprised when Christopher couldn’t meet her in Marrakech. She wondered if he had ever planned to come. Had he only been humoring her by pretending he would make it?
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. I’ll be home early evening. I love—”
She hung up before he could finish his sentence.
Her abruptness unsettled him. Her disappointments always moved on like patches of weather, but this one felt set in. He knew she had wanted him to meet her in Morocco. Maybe it was the disappointment of not being able to write the larger article. She had been excited by the complexity of the research. A profile of an aesthete was something she could do without thinking. Christopher had told her nothing about what he was going through, partly because he didn’t want to worry her and partly because it was easier not to. He was looking forward to being with her next weekend, even if it was at Charlotte and Eric’s. He hoped they wouldn’t have every moment of the weekend scheduled. On the way in from the airport he would stop to see if he could find something to cheer her up.
* * *
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” Christopher said, holding up a book, a bottle of wine, and a white paper bag with the name of her favorite restaurant on it. He found Helen lying in bed watching television.
“I know what that means. You’re not Greek.”
“I know but I don’t know the word for banker in Latin.”
“Argentarius.”
“Timeo argentarios et dona ferentes.”
He kissed her. “Completely pathetic kiss,” he said and wouldn’t let her go. “Three gifts! Stop being mad at me.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Oh, yes you are. Are you okay?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Which one do you want first? All will bring you pleasure. Missed your chance, I’ll choose. Book first,” he said, handing her a small package wrapped in tan tissue paper. “You have no idea how much trouble I went to to get this for you.”
She carefully unwrapped the book. It was slight—the size of a prayer book, brick colored, with an embossed anthemion design in the center of the cover and a black floral band above and below. Ins and Outs of Circus Life or Forty-Two Years Travel of John H. Glenroy, Bareback Rider, Through United States, Canada, South America and Cuba. “Is this Édouard’s?”
“No, but he told me where I might find one. I basically had to sell part of my soul to convince the clerk at Heywood Hill to part with it. Apparently requests for books on circuses are not as rare as you might imagine. I’m not the only one in London who thinks he works in a three-ring ci
rcus. Have a look.” He pointed with his chin to the book she had just put on her bedside table. “And for this,” he said, holding up the paper bag, “I bargained with what remained of my soul. The maître d’ pretended not to understand my request. I’ll be back with dinner. We’ll save the wine for when you’re better.”
She opened the book. Inside she found a handwritten note by the author to the buyer along with a notice of “The Broadway Circus: Novelty Is the Spice of Life,” which had been cut out of a newspaper. “Master Glenroy will appear on his rapid courser. The act of this youth must be seen to be believed.” She started to read the first page. “I was born 1828, in the City of Washington, D.C., but when just two years old, having lost both my parents, I was removed to Baltimore, and adopted by a lady named Hannah Murdock. . . . After attaining the age of four, I commenced to show a great liking for horses, and also for all kinds of acrobatic exercise, which grew stronger as I continued to grow older.” Why did it have to start with a small child? She closed the book and put it down. She wiped her face and turned back to the television.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Theory of Love Page 11
