The Better Woman (39 page)

Sarah took the sandwich to the living area and switched on Sky News. A British reporter stood outside the Irish Central Bank, and discussed the imminent demise of the Irish pound.

‘The Irish pound ceased to be an independent currency at the start of 1999 with an irrevocably fixed exchange rate to the Euro, then a virtual currency, and all the other currencies of the participating member states. However, the general public are only now coming to terms with the fact that the notes and coins will no longer be accepted as legal tender from 1 January 2002 and the Euro will become real. The extent of the change covers the conversions of all bank balances, ATM machines, and ensuring that the retailers at the frontline of the conversion are properly equipped . . .'

Sarah listened carefully. Disappointingly, the reporter merely glanced over the issue and didn't address some of the more significant impacts. He made no mention of the monetary policy instruments that had to be brought into line with the other member states, or that inflation was going to be extremely hard to control. Sarah was very well read on the matter. She had to be. As general manager, she was fully responsible for the Irish profits of EquiBank and any impacts the currency conversion would have on those profits.

The phone rang again. Sarah bit into her sandwich. Chewed. Swallowed. Then finally got up to answer.

‘I've been worried sick about you . . .'

Sarah felt a twinge of guilt when she heard the concern in Tim's voice.

‘The weather is too bad for driving down to Cork,' she said. ‘The rain is torrential here.'

‘Why didn't you call to say so?' he asked tersely. ‘I've spent the last two hours imagining the worst.'

‘I got caught up in the office,' she replied lamely.

An awkward pause followed. Sarah suddenly wished that he wasn't at the end of the phone. That he was here, or she was there. That they could touch as they talked over their differences.

‘Look,' she heard him sigh, ‘I'm sorry I got so angry last weekend . . .'

She resisted the urge to rush in with an apology of her own.

Hold tight
, she cautioned herself.
You have the upper hand now
.

Marriages were fundamentally the same as business, she realised. Two people negotiating to get the best deal. If you showed too much softness, you lost power and respect.

‘But I felt you had been deliberately dishonest with me,' he went on, ‘that you've just been humouring me, that you're not really committed to the idea of having a baby.'

Sarah held her tongue. But it was hard. Every fibre of her being wanted to break down, apologise, tell him her terrible secret and seek his forgiveness.

No. You don't have to tell him everything. You're allowed secrets. He has no right to bully you into this . . .

‘This conversation is feeling rather one-sided,' he commented.

‘What do you want me to say?'

‘That you're sorry too?' he suggested with a hint of sarcasm.

‘No, Tim,' she said in her firmest tone. ‘I'm not of the opinion that this is my fault. You're the one who flew into a temper last weekend. You're the one who tried to force me to go to the GP –'

‘I did not try to force you,' he protested. ‘I was –'

She cut in over him. ‘I won't allow you to push me around like that.'

Once again there was silence. And once again Tim was the first to break that silence.

‘It makes me sad to hear that you think I push you around . . .'

There was something in his tone that chilled Sarah's heart. She felt his withdrawal and the balance of power tilt in his favour.

‘Look, Tim, I've had a long day. I'm tired. I just want to go to bed now.'

His response was resigned. ‘Goodnight, Sarah.'

Sarah put the phone down. She kept her hand on the receiver, as if she might pick it back up at any minute. She had a horrible feeling she'd crossed a line with Tim. Gone too far.

Despite her misgivings, Sarah didn't pick the phone back up. The dismal weather lingered on for the rest of the weekend. She slouched around the apartment and tried, in vain, to unravel her mixed-up feelings. About Tim. About having a baby.

She tried to visualise herself as a mother: nursing, feeding, changing nappies, singing nursery rhymes, pushing a pram around the local shopping centre. Which brought about the question of which shopping centre she'd be pushing the pram around. Would it be in Cork or Dublin? How could a baby fit into their current lifestyle? They lived separately for the greater part of the week. Who would the baby live with? Mum in Dublin, or Dad in Cork?

By Sunday night Sarah had reached only one conclusion: she'd spent the last three years trying for something she wasn't fully sure she wanted. Yes, she'd been all clucky with Nuala's and Laura's babies. But in hindsight that seemed like a flimsy basis
on which to proceed. Emma and Jason were at the other end of the spectrum. They had gone against popular trend and decided not to have children. They liked their lifestyle just as it was; no need for any complicated additions. Maybe she was more like them.

Finally, when she was ready for bed and exhausted from all the self-analysis, Sarah phoned Tim.

‘Hello,' she said warily.

‘Hi.'

She smoothed down an imaginary crease in her pyjama pants.

‘Tim, I'm not really sure what I want any more . . .'

He didn't comment, evidently waiting for her to continue.

‘Maybe you're right.' Her voice was hoarse. ‘Maybe I don't want a baby . . . I need time out . . . to think through what I really want.'

‘Okay,' was all he said.

That was the end of the discussion. And possibly the end of their marriage.

Jodi, London, 2001

‘Yes, the price does sound good.' Jodi tapped her pen on her desk, impatient for the call to end. ‘But let's give the company a closer look before jumping in . . .'

‘It's a guaranteed winner,' claimed the caller, Steve Sanchez, a hotshot trader who had come across from CorpBank's New York office a few months ago. ‘I'd only have to hold the bonds for a couple of weeks . . .'

Jodi's response was measured. ‘There are no
guarantees
in this business, Steve. You know that as well as I.'

‘Those bonds will be snapped up by someone else.' Frustration loudened Steve's voice. ‘Goddamn it, this is no time to sit on our ass . . .'

Jodi didn't as much as flinch. Sadly, she was used to it. Verbal abuse was part of the culture, all the way from the trainees to the executives, and Jodi had been well aware of this fact when she had been appointed as head of the capital investment division
eight months ago. She was quietly convinced that a positive, respectful, team-orientated environment would boost the profitability not only of her division but of the entire organisation, and had implemented some changes straight away to encourage that kind of behaviour. However, she was realistic enough to realise that it would take more than eight months to achieve such a fundamental change in attitude.

‘Let me check with valuations.' Her voice was cool. ‘I'll be back to you when I've established if the bonds are worth their money.'

‘When will I hear from you?' he demanded. With Wall Street under his belt, he was clearly very anxious to prove himself on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘Tonight? Tomorrow?
Next month
?
'

‘Shortly,' she replied and hung up the phone.

She sat still for some time after the call, lost in thought. Steve was only one of the two-hundred-odd staff under her management. He spoke with a different accent to the rest, but other than that he was, disturbingly, just the same as his colleagues: impatient, conceited, disrespectful and too used to getting his own way. Somewhere along the line someone had told Steve, and all the others, that a bad attitude was good. Now Jodi had an uphill battle on her hands to get them to change.

She sighed deeply and rubbed the stirrings of a headache from her forehead. Most days she didn't doubt her capability. But doubt was weighing her down today. Did she have the right to be sitting here in this ultramodern office? Was she correct in her assumption that the lack of teamwork and general respect was detrimental to the overall profitability? Was she tough enough to pull off such a mammoth change to the culture?

Yes
, she told herself as she straightened.
I can do it. I'm just feeling a little deflated after last night
.

Across the Thames, James would be in his office too. Was he, like her, not giving it his all today? Was he replaying their argument? Regretting what he'd said? Or, more worryingly, had he put it right out of his head, regarding the subject as closed?

Ten out of ten to Shirley, who had predicted this would happen. What words had she used? ‘He's had his family. He won't want to do it all again.'

James most definitely didn't want to do it all again; he'd been explicitly clear about that last night. Jodi had come home especially early to make beef bourguignon, his favourite dish. She'd uncorked a soft-bodied merlot and decanted it, allowing the wine to breathe amongst the mood-setting candles that flickered at the centre of the table.

James was surprised and pleased when he came in from work.

‘She's home before me!' he exclaimed, looking upwards, as if to thank the gods for their benevolence. ‘And cooking dinner!' He planted a kiss on her lips. ‘What's the special occasion? Another promotion?'

‘No. I still have my hands full with the last one.' She smiled and threw him the oven mitts. ‘Just make yourself useful by getting the casserole dish from the oven.'

During the meal he told her about his day and she told him about hers. The beef was tender and the sauce rich. Jodi resolved that she would do this more often: come home early and cook. James usually made dinner. In fact, he did most of the domestic chores around their chic two-bedroom apartment. His job was less demanding than hers.

‘My career is in decline as yours is on the rise,' he would often joke. ‘But it's nice to know that you'll have the means to keep me in style in my old age.'

He always made disparaging remarks about his age. He didn't listen when she said he looked much younger than his years. His hair was still mostly black and his face relatively unlined. He was far more attractive than any of the younger men Jodi worked with.

Now, his plate scraped clean, he looked relaxed and open to wherever the conversation might take them. Still the academic at heart, he was very well informed about current affairs and their dinnertime conversations often became hearty debates. He had no idea that world news was far from Jodi's mind this evening.

‘James, what do you think about us having a baby?'

A frown instantly descended on his face. ‘Are you saying you're pregnant?'

‘No,' she laughed uneasily. ‘I'm just thinking about it, that's all.'

‘I'm fifty-four years old, Jodi.' His tone was as austere as his expression. He looked every bit the professor he used to be, and she felt like the wayward student. ‘Too old for bawling babies and tantrummy toddlers.'

Jodi set down her cutlery and reached across the table to rest her hand on his. ‘But I'm only thirty-three, James . . .'

His frown only deepened. ‘I already have two children. My age aside, I have no desire to be a father again.'

‘Please, James,' she beseeched him in a tone that would usually have him acquiesce to whatever it was she wanted. ‘Can't you just consider it? Is that too much to ask?'

He shook his head with unnecessary vehemence. ‘I'm quite clear on this and it wouldn't be fair to pretend otherwise. I'm sorry, Jodi. I really am.'

He rose and began to clear the table. Jodi stayed sitting,
swirling the wine in her glass, unsure for the first time in their three-year relationship, and trying not to think of Shirley saying, ‘I told you so.'

Later on in bed, James's hand circled her waist and pulled her close. His other hand began to stroke the line of her breast. She pushed him away.

‘How can you?'

‘Because I love you. But if you're not in the mood, then that's okay.'

‘You bet I'm not in the mood!' she retorted. ‘Don't you realise how much you've hurt me? How little you must think of me to say you won't even consider what I want!
What any woman of my age would want!
'

His voice, unemotional, cold, sliced through the darkness. ‘If a baby is what you truly want, Jodi, then maybe you should find a man of your own age to father it.'

‘You're a prick,' she spat. ‘Do you know that? A hard-hearted prick.'

He rolled over on his side, obviously not thinking her worthy of a response. Seething with fury, she faced her back to his, forming a chasm through the centre of the bed.

James was still asleep, or pretending to be, when Jodi got up for work. She disguised her puffy eyes with concealer and left without saying goodbye. She slammed the door of the apartment, and immediately felt immature and childish, the last way she wanted to feel given the issues at stake.

The day passed with the usual stream of meetings and phone calls.

Jodi called Steve Sanchez back to her office at four.

‘Sit down.'She nodded towards a seat.

He did as she requested. They were eye to eye.

‘You picked well,' she said in a level voice. ‘Those bonds are undervalued.'

‘I knew it!' He sprang up and punched a victorious arm into the air. ‘How much can I buy?'

‘Let's leave the buying aside for a minute.' She nodded again to the seat he had just vacated in his excitement. ‘Sit down.'

He remained standing, ignoring her request. ‘The markets will be closing soon. I need to get on the phone –'