“He’s a great lawyer.”
“He makes my flesh crawl,” she said, shuddering to emphasize the point.
“He makes a lot of people’s flesh crawl,” said Brogan. “That’s part of what makes him a good lawyer. He’s been very loyal to me.”
“I’m not sure it’s loyalty if you have to pay for it,” said Diana bluntly. “I wish you’d get rid of him.”
Brogan looked at her quizzically. “Really? I’m surprised you care.”
Realizing she’d given something away, Diana blushed and tried to backtrack.
“It’s not…I mean, it’s your life and your business. I don’t like him, that’s all I’m saying. I never have.”
But it was too late. Brogan was already wrapping up her flash of concern in silk, like a spider stashing away its paralyzed prey for a future meal. It was tiny moments like these—admissions of a continued involvement in his life—that sustained him through not only the chemo, but the slings and arrows being fired at him from all sides professionally.
He’d listened to Scarlett’s NPR program from his hospital bed, eaten alive by rage. How dare they broadcast such a biased, bullshit piece of propaganda? This was one of many items on the agenda for his meeting with Aidan later. Brogan might be down, but any enemies unwise enough to consider him “out” were about to receive a rude wake-up call.
Diana had also heard the show. Moved to tears by some of the miners’ stories, she’d begged Brogan to intervene, something he’d promised solemnly to do.
“Believe me, honey, I felt terrible too when I heard those interviews,” he said. And it was true, he had felt terrible. Just for very different reasons. “I intend to take urgent action, sweetheart. You can depend on that.”
Diana had taken this as another sign of his improved, reformed character. Struck down with a serious illness himself, he could at last begin to appreciate what those poor, desperate men were going through.
Suddenly shattered, Diana waved away the dessert menu and asked the waiter for their check.
“Don’t be silly,” said Brogan, as she reached beneath the table for her purse. “The day I let a woman split the check is the day they carry me off in a wooden box.”
“OK,” she said reluctantly. “Well, thank you.”
“Not at all,” said Brogan gallantly, getting up to help her out of her seat. He was so weak it was an effort to pull back the chair, but he managed it, handing her her shawl as he bid her good night.
On the way out, she ran into Aidan, straightening his tie anxiously on the street outside.
“Diana.” He pressed his sweaty cheek against hers. “Long time no see. How are you? How was dinner? Great place, no?”
“Dinner was fine,” she answered frostily.
“So I hear you moved back in. Things didn’t work out with Danny Meyer, huh?”
Every word was laced with spite. Diana could feel her upper lip curl with revulsion.
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said curtly.
“Hey, look, I wasn’t being funny,” said Aidan, feigning innocence. “I’m just happy to see you and Mr. O’D are working things out. He’s always loved you, you know.”
“For your information, Brogan and I are friends—nothing more. I’d appreciate it if you kept your misinformed comments about my private life to yourself.”
Aidan waited until she’d hailed a cab and sped away before muttering, “Stuck-up bitch,” to her retreating taillights. Brogan must be out of his mind to want her back. Who took a fat, middle-aged, holier-than-thou cow, six months gone with another man’s kid, over the stream of nubile hotties offering themselves up on a plate at Premiere?
Aidan had other reasons not to want Diana and Brogan to patch things up, not least the fact that she clearly loathed him and could easily undo the close working and personal relationship with Brogan he’d tried so hard to build this past year. Finally, after years of loyal service, his boss was starting to show him the respect he deserved. Cozy dinners with Diana did not bode well for that. He’d have to figure out a way to make himself completely indispensable before she sank her claws into Brogan any deeper.
“Hi, boss.” Marching purposefully over to Brogan’s table, he sat down and ordered himself a dirty martini and a sashimi salad before getting down to business. “I ran into Diana outside. I hope I didn’t offend her.”
“So do I,” said Brogan, frowning deeply. “What the fuck did you say?”
“Nothing!” Aidan looked hurt. “Jesus. I asked her if she’d enjoyed her dinner.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. I don’t know what it is. I’ve always had the feeling she doesn’t like me, that’s all.”
“Sure she likes you,” lied Brogan. “Stop being so paranoid. So, tell me. Where are we?”
“With what? Where d’you want me to start?”
“Yakutsk. That fucking radio show. What’s the latest?”
“It’s all in hand,” said Aidan smoothly.
“Meaning?”
“I’m dealing with the little Scottish piece of shit who wrote it—ask me no questions and all that. And I’m working with Fleishman-Hillard here and Freud’s in London to try and limit the negative press.”
“Has there been much?” said Brogan. He still got all the major international papers delivered to his hospital bed every morning, but recently he’d been too weak to read more than a fraction of the business pages.
“Some,” said Aidan. “It aired on BBC Radio Four in the UK, and on the World Service, which was unfortunate. But Matthew Freud’s been quick to play the ‘heartless media kicking a sick man when he’s down’ card. And Fleishman-Hillard got a great quote in the Wall Street Journal, about the allegations being completely unfounded, with not a shred of medical evidence to link these cancer cases to conditions in our mines.”
“I should think so. There isn’t a shred of evidence,” said Brogan, coughing heavily into his napkin.
“As many people responded negatively toward the BBC and Trade Fair as have taken a pop at us,” said Aidan, hoping to calm him down. He wasn’t well enough to get mad about this shit. “On the other hand, it has raised awareness. Sooner or later we’re going to have to be seen to be doing something to address the problems over there.”
“Hmm,” Brogan grunted. “As it happens I’ve already got something in mind. And what about the Drummond Murray girl? I’ll be honest with you, Aidan, that kid is starting to seriously irritate me. She doesn’t know when to quit.”
“We have to be careful about going after her directly,” said Aidan. “There were rumors after we took care of things in London, which we don’t want to stir up again. Plus, now she’s closely linked with the Meyer brothers, who everyone knows aren’t top of your Christmas card list, as well as making herself the voice of fucking Siberia. Much as I’d love to run her off the road or have Fleishman-Hillard start a whispering campaign, it’d be too easy to trace that shit back to us.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Brogan. “We let her get away with it?”
“Come on, boss,” Aidan frowned, “this is me you’re talking to. Of course she doesn’t get away with it. We have to play things a little smarter, that’s all. Come at this laterally.”
Brogan looked unconvinced. “You have something in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Aidan’s face brightened. “A little tidbit for the British papers. Take a look.”
Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out four black-and-white photographs and pushed them across the table.
“Jesus,” Brogan whistled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I just ate, man.”
“I know,” Aidan chuckled. “Pretty hard core, aren’t they?”
“Who is it?” asked Brogan.
“Cameron Drummond Murray,” Aidan replied. “Scarlett’s brother, and heir to the family estate. He works at Goldman in London.”
A malicious smile spread across Brogan’s face. “Not for much lo
nger he doesn’t.”
“So you want me to run with this?” said Aidan. “You’re sure?”
“Never surer,” said Brogan. “Just for fuck’s sake make sure you don’t leave my fingerprints. And if Diana hears a word of any of this…”
“She won’t,” said Aidan confidently. “You focus on getting well and back in that boardroom. Everything else you can leave to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SCARLETT STOOD IN the front display window at Flawless, gazing out on a gorgeous, sunlit April day.
“Sweetie, I don’t mean to annoy,” said Perry, who was kneeling at her feet trying to artfully wrap another strand of fake moss around a papier-mâché tree trunk, “but do you think you could possibly, like, get back to work? I know you’re the boss and all, but I can’t get the Forest of Arden finished with you standing in my shady glade.”
With Scarlett in New York for the better part of a month and Jake distracted with Solomon Stones and his brother’s personal problems, Perry had enjoyed free rein at Flawless. Scarlett had been back for ten days now, but she was still mentally elsewhere and had been more than happy to leave the thorny subject of their spring storefront up to him. He’d decided to go to town with a Midsummer Night’s Dream theme, with diamond jewelry nestling in miniature lichened valleys, peered over by tiny porcelain faeries. If he did say so himself, it looked awesome. Or it would if Scarlett would only get out from under his feet and let him finish.
“Sorry,” she said, swinging a gazelle-like leg over his shoulders as she stepped over him back onto the shop floor. In a ribbed American Apparel tank top and skintight J brands, she looked skinnier than ever, something Perry put down to heartbreak since her split with Jake. “It’s bookkeeping day today. I’ve been putting it off.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Perry. “Those figures make my head swim. But if you want cheering up, check out the last entry in the sales ledger.”
Scarlett walked over to the big, brown leather book in which she still handwrote every sale.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, delighted. “You sold the dagger necklace. And both of the diamond-and-ruby eternity rings.”
“Uh-huh.” Perry nodded airily, removing a silver tack from between his teeth and pressing it firmly into the papier-mâché bark. “Last night, right after you went home, to a little Asian dude. He only came up to my knees, and he couldn’t speak a word of English, but he took one look at the rings, whispered something to his lady friend, and started nodding and pointing like a maniac. They were in and out in five minutes, then they came back half an hour later and bought the necklace too. I’d love to say it was my brilliant salesmanship that clinched it, but all I did was nod when he pointed to the American Express sign and say, ‘That’ll do nicely, thank you,’ so I’m afraid the credit’s all yours.”
“Rubbish. You’re a star,” said Scarlett, blowing him a kiss. “Honestly, Perry, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my ass these last few weeks.”
“Yeah, well, you know,” he shrugged. “A pay raise is always an option, hint hint.”
Scarlett blushed. “Of course, of course. God, I’m sorry Perry, you’re well overdue for a pay review. I’ve really been off the ball lately, what with Nancy and Trade Fair and…things.”
“I know,” he said kindly. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetie, don’t worry.”
Scarlett sighed. That was it. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d have to sit down with Jake. Perry’s pay rise was only one of a zillion pressing business matters she’d been avoiding dealing with since she’d got back, afraid of how she’d react when she saw him in person. It was over six weeks since the Oscars, and despite numerous cordial e-mails and texts, and even the odd stilted phone call, she still hadn’t laid eyes on him since that night.
“I think I might run out for coffee,” she said when, after a few minutes, she realized she’d been staring at the same page of figures on her PC screen without taking anything in. “D’you want something?”
“I’ll have a skinny blueberry muffin, if you’re going,” said Perry, standing back and admiring his now-finished handiwork. “And for God’s sake, get a full-fat one for yourself. If those ribs get any more visible the only guys who’ll want to date you will be paleontologists.”
Strolling down Rodeo a few moments later with the sun on her face and a warm, almost summery breeze in her hair, Scarlett made a conscious effort to count her blessings. She was healthy. It was a gorgeous day. No one in her family had just died; she had a bunch of great friends (albeit on the other side of the Atlantic) and her business, knock on wood, was still thriving. Having waited with bated breath for weeks after the NPR program aired, expecting Brogan to retaliate, she’d finally begun to relax. Other than the few defensive comments his spokespeople had made in the press, he’d been silent as the grave. Whether it was his cancer or the reconciliation with Diana that had done it, she didn’t know—like everyone else in the business, Scarlett had heard through the grapevine that Brogan’s wife had moved back in with him; poor Danny must be crushed—but something seemed to have muted Brogan’s thirst for revenge.
Walking into the coffee shop with a familiar feeling of guilt—she really ought to support small local businesses and not huge multinationals like Starbucks—she was pondering whether or not she could stomach an entire, human-head-size muffin when her phone rang.
“Hello?” she answered.
“Scarlett, it’s Che Che.” It had been weeks since she’d heard from Nancy’s ex. She’d started to wonder whether he’d ever get back in contact but decided not to chase him. If he wanted to stay involved with Trade Fair, he’d let her know eventually.
“How are you?” she said warmly. “I was hoping you might call.”
“I’m guessing from your tone that you haven’t heard,” he said. Only then did Scarlett realize how deathly serious his voice sounded. Something must be wrong.
“Heard what?” she said, trying not to sound panicked. “It isn’t Nancy, is it? Has something happened?”
Though still sharing a house up at Vado Drive, the girls’ conflicting work schedules meant that Scarlett and Nancy had barely seen one another all week.
“It’s not Nancy,” said Che Che bleakly. “It’s Andy Gordon. He’s been killed.”
For a horribly long moment, Scarlett was silent. She’d heard what he said, but she couldn’t seem to get her brain to register its meaning.
“He was found last night outside a block of apartments in Moscow,” said Che Che, filling the dead air himself. “Shot through the back of the neck. Executed, apparently.”
Scarlett felt the nausea rise up within her and put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Can I help you?”
She’d reached the front of the line, and the pissy-looking barista was hassling her for an order. Looking at her blankly, Scarlett backed away, sinking down onto the nearest available chair.
“What was he doing in Moscow?” she heard herself croak. Her throat was suddenly dry as dust.
“I have no idea,” said Che Che. “It’s the lead story on BBC news right now. You should try and get to a TV; they may be reporting more.”
“Do they know who did it?” she whispered, still struggling to take it all in. A snapshot of Andy’s face beneath his shock of red hair, smiling his wry, “I’ve got a secret” smile flashed through her mind. He was only her age, for Christ’s sake. How could he be dead? “Do they have any leads at all?”
Che Che let out a cynical laugh. “Not officially, no. This is Russia. Shootings like this are a daily occurrence over there. But it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out who wanted him dead.”
Too stunned to speak, Scarlett stared straight ahead of her, willing this not to be true. Was Brogan really capable of such extreme retribution?
“Listen, I’m sorry,” said Che Che eventually. “I know you knew the guy personally. But you can’t blame yourself.”
“You didn’t,” said Che Che firmly. “He was neck-deep in all this long before you came along. He’s been on O’Donnell’s hit list for years, and he knew the risks he was taking.”
“I don’t think he expected to die,” whispered Scarlett. “Do you?”
Che Che didn’t answer the question. Instead he tried to get her to focus on more practical considerations, such as protecting herself.
“I don’t mean to be melodramatic,” he said, “but you need to look seriously at your security, Scarlett.”
“What security?”
“Exactly. You and Nancy are a pair of sitting ducks up at that cottage on your own.”
“It’s our home,” said Scarlett, her old defiance surfacing through the layers of shock and fear. “Why should we leave? Besides, where would you have us go? Didn’t you say Andy was shot on the street?”
“In broad daylight, yes,” said Che Che. “But that was Moscow. This is LA. You’d be a lot safer in a hotel.”
“I’m not living in a bloody hotel.” Scarlett’s response was immediate. “I can’t think of anything worse, and I know Nance will feel the same. No way.”
Che Che, who knew better than to argue, sighed heavily. “Then at least get some protection installed, will you? An alarm, a dog. And I don’t mean Boxford; I mean a serious guard dog. Armed security would be the best option.”
“OK,” said Scarlett after a long pause. “I’ll think about it.”
She could hear the genuine concern in his voice, for both her and Nancy, and was grateful for it, although fear for her own safety was the last thing on her mind right now. All she could think about was Andy and the tragedy of what had already happened, a tragedy for which, no matter what Che Che or anybody said, she couldn’t help but feel at least partly responsible.
Staggering out of Starbucks in a daze, she had no idea where to go. It seemed ridiculous to head back to work as if nothing had happened. Nor did she want to go home alone, knowing Nancy would be at work at the studio until probably past midnight. She should let Nancy know what had happened, of course, although that would mean driving over to Paramount—Nancy never answered the phone when she was writing—and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to get behind the wheel. Turning a corner, it occurred to her that Jake’s apartment was only about six blocks away, an eminently walkable distance. He probably wouldn’t be in either. But at least it was somewhere to go, and in that moment what she needed most was a plan. One shouldn’t be alone at times like these. Jake might not be the ideal shoulder to cry on, but he was better than nothing.
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