‘Anyway, how’s things? Good week?’
‘Just another takeover at the office. Still, at least the weekend is looking pretty safe—although I’m still standing by for final instructions from an American fund on an acquisition. Fancy a bit of supper tomorrow? It feels like ages since we last actually saw each other.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ The more distractions the better.
‘Excellent.’
‘Maybe we could squeeze a film in too?’
EJ watched the young man smooth the final sheet down with his low-tech broom, finally revealing the release date of the film his handiwork was promoting.
‘How about Taking Stock?’ Never underestimate the power of advertising. He wasn’t exactly the Diet Coke man, but it was quite refreshing to see muscles, jeans and Timberlands…and a full head of hair—a pretty rare sight at Greenberg Brownstein, where, it would appear, the success of male employees was intrinsically linked to their being follically challenged.
‘Taking Stock?’
‘Yup.’ EJ squinted at the billboard. ‘“Jim Stock, Wall Street whizz kid, goes missing”—and by the look of the ad campaign it’s going to be big budget and totally unrealistic.’
‘Perfect. Nothing I like more than a bit of global financial meltdown on a Saturday night.’
‘Great, because it’s finally happening. I’m losing touch with popular culture. We so need an extra day in the week. Just imagine—three-day weekends every week, only forty-five weeks a year… It’d be a hell of a lot more popular than the Euro. You sure you’re Okay? You’re very quiet. Unless, of course, you’re just using me as filler while you go through your inbox…’
Sam took her finger off her mouse button. She’d only been skimming a few. Meanwhile the clock on her phone was silently baiting her. 13:36. 08:36 in Manhattan, and they’d promised they’d check first thing. Sam didn’t care about interrupting the sleep of guests who’d paid over five hundred dollars for a night of luxury. Plus it was Friday; most of them were bound to be jogging around the reservoir or knee-deep in a breakfast meeting by now.
‘Did it all go well?’
‘I’m just tired.’ Finally it would appear her physiology was starting to limit her once indefatigable attitude. One of her school reports had called her a human dynamo; now she needed a jump start. Sam rested her forehead on her fist and exhaled.
‘What’s with the yawning? Didn’t you sleep at all?’
‘Hmm?’ To her annoyance, Sam was feeling worse since she’d got to the office.
‘Sleep…on the plane?’
‘A bit. Well, I pretended to so I didn’t have to small-talk my way home, but I had a lot on my mind…’ Her masochistic self wanted to confess, but EJ wasn’t really listening. Sam didn’t begrudge her. They were both experts in self-absorption—plus, since their law school days they’d had an unwritten rule that governed their friendship, outlawing negativity and insecurity. Together they perpetuated strength and success. And Sam hadn’t granted this situation crisis status yet.
‘I know what you mean, honey. What are we like—? Oh, my God!’ EJ interrupted herself. ‘I just have to tell you about last night.’ EJ dropped her voice to an almost whisper. ‘Let me tell you there is only one thing worse than a dinner party full of couples at our age, and that is a singles dinner party thrown charitably by a couple of cohabitees attempting to streamline their Christmas card list. I seriously thought about stabbing myself with a fork during the main course so I could pretend I was coming down with meningitis. Seventy per cent of the men were called Ed, only fifty per cent had hair, forty per cent had talked about their serious ex before dessert and, at a guess, one hundred per cent of them would like to screw a thirty-year-old lawyer, if not marry one.’
‘Well, I’m safe for a few more weeks, then.’
‘Why is it now that we’ve hit our thirties we’re suddenly expected to be grateful for any male attention that comes our way? If it wasn’t so fucking hilarious it’d make you want to cry. It’s all about older men. Obviously it’s better if they’re not married, but…’
Sam’s focus returned. ‘Elizabeth-Jane—you’re not, are you?’
‘No…afraid not. Even though it was the best sex I’ve ever had.’
‘La-la-la. Fingers in ears. Not listening.’
‘Oh, yes, you are. Prude. Just because you haven’t had sex in…’
‘Hey, that’s harsh.’
‘Anyway, Nick’s ancient history.’
‘Just ancient.’
‘He’s only forty-eight…and I haven’t seen or spoken to him in weeks…’
‘Weeks? I thought it was January when you…’ Conscience more stabbed than pricked, and Sam swallowed hard as her error dawned on her.
‘Hey, a girl’s got to live a little…’
She’d had nowhere else to turn. But now, thanks to the blank page and Bic biro approach to secret-keeping, it wasn’t only her personal life currently out there on a pale blue feint line. Sam shook her head as her Friday feeling hit an all-time low. She envied EJ. Having a therapist was no stranger than having a hairdresser if you were American. And you couldn’t accidentally leave a therapist in a desk drawer.
‘I really better get on, honey. I need to sort some stuff out before my tele-con with the LA office. I promise I’ll give you the rest of the story tomorrow. I’m planning to run Hyde Park first thing—call me if you’re interested. Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.’
Sam was miles away, torturing herself silently with details. Now the phone had gone quiet. Bugger. And she hadn’t actually heard EJ say goodbye.
‘Look forward to…’ Sam stopped herself when the dialling tone cut in, confirming that she was talking to herself. Cupping her chin in her hands, she stared at her computer screen, seeing nothing except imaginary tabloid headlines. Despite her desire to come up with a proactive master plan, all roads currently led to Wait Patiently. Not something Sam Washington had been designed to do. Losing things coming a close second.
As if she’d been waiting for a silence, Mel popped her head round the door. Apparently privacy was an outmoded concept.
‘Three file notes for you to proof, and I’ve brought you some tea. Thought you might need pepping up before your meeting.’
Sam was about to request a herbal alternative, but from the wafts of minty steam knew her secretary had anticipated well.
‘Thanks. Meeting?’
‘Your two o’clock. Fifth floor. Conference room 1. Just thought it might have slipped your mind, what with the not having been to bed thing. I mean, I know your seat practically turns into one, but I imagine it’s not the same.’
‘Right. Yes. I’ll be there…thanks.’ Sam picked up a pen and stared at the papers on her desk. She’d been counting on losing herself in a drafting but the words were just taunting her. As for a meeting…
‘No problem.’ Mel turned as she got to the door. ‘Oh, and your mother rang. Please call her when you get a chance. She said it was fairly urgent.’
‘Will do…’
Sam suppressed her irritation. Despite repeated briefings on the subject, her mother still hadn’t grasped that phoning the office was best kept for emergencies and that organising Sunday lunch didn’t deserve ‘fairly