MONEY TREE (35 page)

They stumbled into the hotel lobby, weary to the bone, and desperate to
collapse on a soft bed. A carpeted floor would do. But the ever efficient Meera Banerjee had phoned ahead and had adjoining rooms waiting for them. It felt like coming home. It was 10 pm and all Erin wanted to do after removing the layers of grime from four days travel, two nights in a village hut, and two thousand miles of Indian railways, was sleep, but Ted urged her on.

‘We have to make that call. Meet me in my room as soon as you’ve dropped everything.’

Erin squared up to him. She didn’t mind him taking charge, sometimes. But there were limits.

‘I am carrying the Gobi Desert in my hair. I absolutely, must have, will have, at any
price, a shower first. Then I’ll come by.’

Twenty minutes later she was sitting
on the couch in Ted’s room, swaddled in a white robe, her face scrubbed and glowing, her hair still damp

‘Going native?’ had been
Ted’s smiling comment at the towel turban. ‘I’ve ordered coffee and a sandwich. Stiffen the sinews. Shall we?’

He picked up the
hotel phone, ready to dial New York. She leaned over and gently but firmly took it from him. She clutched it to her chest.

‘
Wait. We need a moment. The other night. I told you stuff that I haven’t told anyone.’

‘It’s fine,
Erin. I understand. No wonder you were –’

‘P
o-faced? I was. Am. But, look, can you take some more?’

Her jaw muscles were working overtime.
He looked her over.

‘Sure. If it would help.’

He sat down next to her on the couch. She pulled herself back, tucking her legs under her. She searched his face, wondering how he would react.

‘Before we phone Warwick,
there’s something you should know about him. It doesn’t change where I am on all this. Where we are. What we’re doing. OK? Trust me?’

She was pleading.

‘Okaaay. Shoot.’

‘Remember that night in Carnegie’s?
Our blind date?’

‘A million years back? Sure.’

‘I told you about the exec meeting a year ago? At the end Warwick called me into his office. . .

Erin Wishart waited a respectful minute or two before entering her boss’s chamber via the connecting corridor from the conference room. The door to his washroom was ajar and she could see his shadow moving. Oh, God, what’s he up to? Rather than take a seat and wait for who knew what to emerge – Jekyll or Hyde? - Erin strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling window that opened onto the balcony hanging high over the narrow wynds of downtown Manhattan. The morning sun flooded the outside space. Flower tubs and shrubs marked the periphery of the patch of real lawn, mowed and manicured like a pool table. She stood at the open door and sucked in the warm air. In the background – so faint that it might have been from another room – the usual Chopin played.

The
door clicked behind her and she turned. Warwick was standing watching her, his face flushed, eyes bright. His hand went up to his nose and wiped it, once, twice. He sniffed. At a sign from him she walked back to the centre of the room and took one of the four plush armchairs. They were clustered round a low coffee table of Hazelwood, its whorls and grains glowing with the patina of age and gentle hand polishing. She sank into the deep cool leather and crossed her legs. Warwick took up her vacated position at the open balcony door. The light now came over his shoulder, shrouding his pale eyes in the peaks and troughs of his angular face.

From his vantage point, he studied her. She looked smaller and more vulnerable against the slab of brown leather.
But he knew there was nothing vulnerable about Miss Erin Wishart. He wanted to hear her talk. There was always something about those dependable Celtic cadences that he ached to disrupt. He began pacing. He prowled round the room until he was standing behind her. Her shoulders tensed. He leaned over and said quietly,

‘
So, Erin, you think we’re sending out the wrong message?’

She shook her head.

‘This isn’t about PR, Warwick. We’ve spent the last 10 years through four acquisitions, a merger, and a bailout building an image and offering a service that we can’t change overnight. Our culture is at odds with our customers.’

‘Be specific.’

She was acutely conscious of his hands gripping the headrest. She kept gazing straight ahead, afraid of looking up. Afraid of what she’d read on his face. She fingered her blouse buttons, checking they were closed. She felt her cheeks warming, her stomach tightening. She cleared her throat.

‘We never recovered from the bad press we got over our 500% hike in bank charges for our least profitable customers. It got rid of most of them and did wonders for our bottom line. But it left a picture in the public’s mind. We’re elitist and uncaring. Cold and hard.’

The leather creaked again.

‘Cold and hard,
Erin? You know I’m not cold, don’t you? Whereas. . .’

She tensed, knowing what was coming. Her toes curled in her shoes. His hands slid down to her shoulders and began to massage them gently. His fingers shifted to her neck and fondled her bare ears. They found the hair clips. The
y clattered to the wood floor and her hair tumbled about her face. He leaned forward, lifted bunches in both hands and buried his head in them. He breathed deeply and massaged her scalp at the same time.

His smell was rich in her nostrils, the familiar shower gel mixed with maleness. H
is smell. She uncrossed her legs and pushed her head back into the chair. Her fingers clawed into the chair arms. The sound of the piano seemed louder now. Maybe it was her senses sharpening. She recognised the tune from her lessons as a child a million years ago; Barcarolle in F. The intent was so crass and contrived. Yet. . .

‘. . . I
am hard, Erin.’

The blunt crudity broke the hold. She swung forward and up on to her feet, clutching at her hair and dragging it behind her ears. She staggered a fraction, dazed from the rapid rise. She was panting but found her voice.

‘I can’t do this any more, Warwick. We agreed this was crazy.’

Anger twisted his face. The veins stood out on his forehead. Then he smiled and shrugged. She scuttled past him, wanting to smack the smug grin off his face. Wanting to pin him to the floor and make him beg. She shoved at the heavy door and was
gone.

T
ed stared at her as she drifted to a halt. Her face was tight and her neck scarlet. He took a long time finding his voice. When he did, it was low, and controlled. Barely.

‘
It was never about the poor and democracy and all that bullshit. Was it? Your were dumped. By a cokehead!’

She shut her face wit
h her hands, tore them away, displayed hot tears.

‘I knew you’d think that! It’s why I never said. It wasn’t like that.’

He was on his feet.

‘Oh really? What was it like then? How long had it been going on?
’

‘A couple of years or so. What does it matter how long?’

‘So, more than a quickie behind the filing cabinets. Or on top of the mahogany board room table?’

‘Stop! Stop! It wasn’t – like – that.’

‘Yeah?’

Her voice fell to a whisper. She was talking into her bath robe, clutching her knees to her chest.

‘I don’t fall easily. You don’t know him, what he’s like. I thought we were equals. Coming together. It took a while to see I was wrong. That he was using me.’

‘
Whereas it’s only taken me a couple of weeks.’

She tugged off her
damp turban and threw it at him.

‘
That’s a cheap shot!’

‘You played me. Wound me up with talk of saving the world. But all the time you just wanted back at him.’

‘I wasn’t dumped. I dropped him.’

‘
But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So you thought you needed to teach him a lesson!’

She pounded the cushions. ‘No! No! Do you really think I’ve done all this – got
nearly killed – given up everything – for a bloody psychopath who’s out to murder me?!’

They were both panting, mouths twisted, eyes blazing
. Ted’s shoulders dropped.

‘It’s ok. I’m used to it. Nothing new here.’

‘Don’t talk like a bloody loser, Ted Saddler! Look what you’ve achieved here.’

He shook his head. ‘But not with you. For a while there. . .’

She sprang up and marched over to him and threw her arms round him.

‘You great oaf. Are you blind?’

He looked down at her, searching her face. She went up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. It was brief but it left its mark. She gave a small smile.

‘Let’s call Warwick. I’ll show you how it is.
’

She pushed back, still holding his arms, gave him a
shake or two to try to drag a grin out of him. He wasn’t playing.

‘Anything else I need to know first?’

‘Only that you’re about to witness my formal resignation.’

She dropped her grip and found the phone. They sat down,
Erin on the couch, Ted in the armchair, the phone perched between them on the table. She glanced at her watch.

‘Perfect. It’s ten to one in the afternoon in New York. Stanstead is at his desk, with a salad brought in by his PA. This will go through to Pat Duschene.
Let’s hope Oscar is getting all this. Ready?’

Ted
nodded. She stabbed the pad with complete familiarity and put the phone on speaker. Despite preparing themselves, both jumped when the voice cut through loud and clear.

‘Mr Stanstead’s office. How can I help?’

Erin put on her smiley voice.

‘Hi Pat. It’s
Erin Wishart. How are you?’

There was the faintest of pauses. It wasn’t the time-lag on the line.

‘Just fine, Miss Wishart. And you? How’s your vacation? Where are we today?’

‘Well Pat, I guess you’re in your office and we’re out of town.’

Nerves and anger were making her flippant.

‘Put me through to Warwick, please. It’s urgent.’

‘I’ll just see if he’s in his office.’

She could picture his little face puckering up with ill-intent. The line flipped to that day’s holding music, Tchaikovsky’s
Romeo and Juliet. She almost smiled. It gave her time to examine the man sitting opposite her. He still seemed to be in shock, but Ted Saddler didn’t give much away. Could this still go somewhere? Probably not. Men hated hearing about other men. But he looked a great deal better than she felt. How had his eyes avoided the black rings and the red rims? Even the bones on his face stood out more clearly, his hooked nose looking like it belonged to him again.

The
music stopped and Stanstead’s refined and relaxed tones fell clearly from the speaker phone. A hand grenade in the room would have had less effect.

‘Well this
is a pleasant surprise. How are you, Erin?’

She couldn’t hold back.

‘You mean it’s a surprise to find me still alive, Warwick?’

‘
What? This is a bad line. How is Hong Kong? I hear typhoons are on their way. Keep your head down, Erin.’

‘Warwick, can we cut the b
ullshit? You know where I am. And you know its not Hong Kong. And before we go any further, and for the record – are you getting this, Pat? - this is my resignation, effective immediately.’

‘Wait,
Erin. Don’t. . .’

‘Shut up, Warwick. I’m resigning because you tried to
have me killed the other day. By any standards that constitutes breach of contract on your part. Don’t you think?’

‘
Erin. How can you say this? You know how I feel about you.’

‘
A convenient lay? But who cares. The other reason I’m calling is to tell you that I know you murdered José Cadenza. We have proof.’

‘
Erin, I’m horrified at these accusations!’ His voice had just the right note of astonishment and hurt. ‘What poor José did has really upset you. It sounds like post traumatic stress, frankly. Now, we can help, Erin. . .’

‘
Don’t patronise me! And don’t call me Erin. You haven’t earned it.’

Ted
’s eyes widened. He made a two-thumbs up sign. She went on.

‘I want you to take a peek at a web site that’s been set up. I think you’ll find it interesting. In fact you’ll be knocked out by it.’

Stanstead’s voice lost its flippancy. ‘I don’t like games. What’s this about Erin. You need help, you know.’

‘You’re blown
, Warwick. Just take a look at
sevensilverbullets.com
. Let me spell that.’

She did and they heard him say and spell it
out loud to his desk computer.