Overseas (17 page)

“Ah. All those rotters, isn’t it?” He was so warm, so gentle; the tension had left him entirely. I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me, the cradling strength of his arms.

“Well, not that many, actually. I wised up before too much damage was done.” I paused, letting the unspoken details lie massive and still between us, before going on softly: “But you know, I never realized how… just…
lame
they were, until now.”

He tightened his arms around me. His lips pressed against my hair, reassuring, but his voice was intense. “I could murder them.”

“Please don’t,” I said, half-serious, thinking of the efficient way he had landed punches on my attacker in the park. I sat up. “You promised me you’d play the piano for me sometime.”

“Now?”

“Why not?” I twisted in his arms to touch his chin with my finger. “I don’t want to leave yet, and you’ve ruled out sex.”

“Kate. And you can’t think of anything else to do?”

“Please?”

His eyes rolled upward. “You’re discovering your power over me, aren’t you? Very well.” He stood up, bringing me with him. “Go upstairs. The piano’s in the room fronting the street. I’m going to fetch a bit of wine.”

“Wine?”

“Stage fright.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand and smiled at me. “Up with you. I’ll be right there.”

I skipped up the stairs, turning right at the landing, and found my way down the darkened hall to the room at the front. I was half-expecting it might be his bedroom, but in fact it was more like a study, or perhaps a
music room, with a low comfortable English-armed sofa at one end and a grand piano filling the space near the windows. I turned on a lamp and went to the wide window overlooking the street below. What time was it? Not too late, ten-thirty maybe, but it seemed later: the streetlamps cast lurid yellow-orange pools of light on the deserted sidewalk, and the rapid pulse of traffic had settled into the occasional passing taxi and black sedan. I felt a surge of gratitude, to be where I stood, in this tranquil room, with Julian’s presence a comforting certainty somewhere nearby.

“Found your way, all right?” came his voice behind me, as though I’d summoned him with my thoughts.

“Mmm, yes,” I said, without turning. “I love the room. Very homelike.”

I heard his footsteps behind me, creaking the floorboards, and then a glass of red wine appeared in front of me. The warmth of his body hovered over my skin. “Thank you,” I said, taking it, and held the glass in my hand for a second or two before lifting it to my lips. “Wow. Delicious.”

“What would you like me to play?”

“I don’t know. I loved that Chopin you were playing, when I came here at Christmas.”

He chuckled, close to my ear. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that I’m some sort of expert musician.”

“Aren’t you? You’re good at everything else.”

“I’m passable, but nothing like an expert.”

I turned to find his face inches from mine, looking down at me with amusement. “Don’t punk out on me, Laurence,” I warned.

He smiled and took a drink of wine. “Right-ho. You’ve asked for it. Have a seat,” he said, nodding at the sofa. I went over obediently and sank into the cushion, curling my legs beneath me, wineglass in hand.

Julian stepped to the piano, placing his glass on the edge before pushing off his shoes with his toes and settling his stocking feet on the pedals. “Chopin?” he confirmed, lifting his eyebrow at me.

“Yes, please. A nocturne, maybe. I like those.”

He nodded. The piano stood at an angle to me, so I could just see the
keyboard and the side of his face glowing in the dusky light from the nearby lamp. “I expect you’ll know this one,” he said. “The E flat.”

He closed his eyes, recalling the music perhaps, and a short silence filled the half-lit room, so dense I thought I could hear the hasty
thump-thump, thump-thump
of my own heart, anticipating him.

Then he looked at his hands, and the first few notes rose upward, poising languorously in midair, warm and flawless, perfectly familiar.

How often had I heard this music? It felt like an old friend, someone we’d both known all our lives, without realizing the shared connection. It hardly seemed like music at all: it stirred the intimate space between us, more like a question, an inquiry. As though he were reaching out tenderly to ask me something, to express the inexpressible.

And I wanted keenly to answer him, to tell him
yes! yes!
but instead I only studied him, enraptured; watched the lines of his face tighten in concentration as he sank into the notes, into the delicate cascades and passionate surges, his eyes following his hands on the keyboard.

He loved this piece. I could see that much. At certain points, points of what might be called suppressed fervor, his eyelids slipped down, sealing an intensity of feeling.
He’s sensuous,
slid the thought into my head.
A deeply sensuous man.
The way he kissed me, the way he touched me, the way his fingers traveled knowingly along the piano keys, coaxing out this living music: it was all the same.

His voice echoed in my ear:
If we do this. When we do
this.

He brought the piece to rest on its low final chord, ebbing into the ether. A moment passed of absolute stillness, and then he turned to look at me with a faintly apologetic expression, eyebrow raised in question.

I spoke with effort. “That was amazing. Thank you so much. I… wow. I don’t know what to say. Play another.”

He crossed his eyes comically. “Clearly no judge of music, for which blessing I’m extremely grateful.” He paused, and then started something else, restive and vibrant.

“What’s that?” I asked, watching his face.

“Beethoven,” he answered. “
Appassionata
. First movement.”

“Hmm.” I listened for a moment, until the melodic line surfaced briefly. “Oh, yeah. I’ve heard this one.”

“I should hope so.”

“Where did you learn to play?”

“Endless lessons as a child. My mother used to have me play for her in the evenings, when I was home from school.” A little pause. “And I practice a good deal, still. At night, when I can’t sleep.” He fell silent, working his way through a momentary elaboration, and then asked, “Where did you learn your Chopin?”

“Hmm?” The music wound around us; I couldn’t focus on his words. “Oh, my father used to play it on the stereo. He said it was good for the soul.”

He smiled, glancing over at me before returning his eyes to the keyboard. “I think I like your father.”

“Just an ordinary dad, really.”

“Not at all. He raised
you
, didn’t he? I imagine,” he continued, after a moment, “you grew up feeling as though you didn’t quite fit in with your surroundings. That you weren’t quite like everyone else you knew. Am I right?”

I shifted on the sofa. “Everybody does at some point. It’s part of the human conceit, isn’t it, to think we’re special somehow.”

“And now?”

“I guess I have trouble relating sometimes,” I said. “Not that I think I’m better than anyone else; usually the opposite. Not quite cool enough for Manhattan.”

He shook his head. “A rose among dandelions.”

“Hardly.”

He didn’t reply, only smiled and went on with the sonata, concentrating fiercely on its intricate pounding final minute, closing his eyes as it drifted into nothing.

“Oh, now you’re just showing off,” I told him, and he looked up at me
and winked. Without asking, he took a drink of wine and started something else, playing as though I weren’t there at all.

I must have begun to doze off at some point, because I opened my eyes to see Julian on his heels before me, easing the half-empty wineglass from my fingers. “You’re falling asleep,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “Let’s get you home.”

W
E WALKED BACK SLOWLY
, hand in hand, to my apartment building, not talking at all. So much had been said today, and our brains were too busy processing it all to think of anything new. It was only when the dark green awning above the lobby entrance loomed ahead that I spoke up.

“So. Should I wait out front in the morning?”

“Actually, I’ve got to fly up to Boston first thing,” he said, a little wryly.

“Oh, no. Not Boston again. I guess this is really good-bye, then.” I stopped in the shadows, just outside the glow of light from the lobby, and turned to face him.

He leaned forward, cupping his hand around the curve of my skull, and kissed me, hard. “This is
not
good-bye,” he said fiercely.

“Can you blame me? You gave me a pretty good scare tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes closed, leaning his forehead against mine. The words brushed against my mouth. “Forgive me, darling. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Not another private jet, I hope. Flowers are okay this time.”

“No. I’ve got something else for you, at the moment.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a small folded envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning it over.

“Now, don’t
freak out
, as you Americans say,” he warned. “I don’t mean to frighten you off with it.”

I looked up at him from under my lashes, and then popped open the envelope to find a set of keys and a piece of paper.

“To the house,” he said.

“Whoa.”

“Just for emergencies,” he said quickly. “If I’m at the office, or out of town, and you need something.”

“Oh.”

“This one’s the knob; the other two are the deadbolts. The alarm code’s written on the paper. You needn’t ask me first, of course. Borrow a book, if you like.”

“Oh,” I said again. I risked a glance at his face. His eyes shone down at me, wide and vulnerable. “Julian, thank you. I’m very touched. I mean, you can trust me. I won’t, like, invade your privacy, I promise.”

As I watched, his expression opened into a smile, and he began to chuckle. He lifted one hand to brush against my cheekbone. “Darling girl, don’t you understand? That’s
exactly
what I want you to do.”

10.

Clouds billowed in overnight, coating the sky like a blanket and turning the balm of the previous day into a broad muggy warning of the summer to come. I trudged through the heavy air from the subway stop on Broadway to the Sterling Bates building on Wall Street, scrolling through my BlackBerry for Julian’s latest e-mail. It had been sent while I was swaying down the subway tracks, pressed against the sweaty armpit of some massive guy with a Hitler-style mustache and a cheap suit.

I typed back.

I pushed through the revolving doors and swiped my security pass to activate the lobby turnstile.

It stuck, nearly breaking my ribs.

I swiped again impatiently. Still stuck.

I sighed and turned to the security guard. “Sorry,” I said, “I must have demagnetized my pass somehow.”

He took the card from me and looked at it. “Just a moment,” he said, and reached for the phone.

I stood there, tapping my foot. Julian would be flying back this evening, and we had tentative plans—contingent on my finishing up work on
time—to grab a bite somewhere. Or else order in Chinese. Either way, I wanted to clear my desk quickly.

“Yeah. Katherine Wilson,” the security guard was repeating into the telephone. He listened for a moment, nodding, and then hung up the phone. “Wait here,” he said. “Someone will come down to bring you up.”

“Can’t you just swipe me through?” I pleaded.

He shrugged. “That’s what they said.”

I sighed and switched my laptop onto my other shoulder. Minutes passed, as I stood there awkwardly next to the security desk, checking my watch. My BlackBerry buzzed.

I smiled at the screen.

“Kate?”

I looked up at Paul Banner.

“Oh my gosh,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry you had to come down. You should have sent one of the interns.”

He cleared his throat. “Come along with me, Kate.” Not Katie.

I felt a twinge, a warning light flashing on in my brain.

He swiped me through the turnstile with a visitor pass, and I walked with him to the elevator bank. He didn’t say anything, just pressed the up arrow and waited next to me. The doors opened, and we went in with about three or four other people, that bulky elevator silence crowding us awkwardly. He reached out and pressed number 18.

Capital Markets was on 23.

I stood there with my palms growing moist and my heart beating
thump thump thump
against the wall of my chest. I felt a strain behind my eyes and blinked hard.
Do not show weakness
.

On Wall Street, when they fired you, even if it was just a layoff and not your fault, someone escorted you up to a room in Human Resources. There, the terms of your severance were announced to you in an arid voice, and you were required to sign a paper renouncing any legal claims on the firm, in exchange for your financial package, which usually amounted to a week of salary for every year you’d worked there, plus 50 percent of the cash portion of last year’s bonus, all paid in a lump sum by direct deposit. You then handed in any electronic devices owned by the firm, and a security officer escorted you out of the building. You were not allowed to stop at your desk. You were not allowed to say good-bye to your colleagues.

Talk about the walk of shame.

I wasn’t expecting Banner to stay in the room. I’d heard operating managers usually disappeared, leaving the unpleasant bloodletting for the HR representative to oversee. But when we arrived, Banner came right in behind me and motioned me to a seat at a long narrow table, at which Alicia Boxer, along with one or two managing directors, filled a side. A woman in a cherry-red suit presided at the head. She rustled her throat. “I assume you know why you’ve been called in today,” she said.