Overseas

  “That was different. That was about Alicia.”

  “Dude, it’s like he’s trying to take the whole fucking bank down. It’s messed up. He must really have a thing for you.”

  “He’s not trying to take the bank down, Charlie. They’re handling that part by themselves.”

  “Well, someone at Southfield has it in for them. The shit I’ve heard…” He shook his head and drained his coffee.

  I frowned. “Like what?”

  “Like that huge position, the one I told you about, before you bit it last May, was mostly fed to them by Southfield.” He leaned forward. “And it’s total shit. Like, it’s still sitting on the books. They can’t unload it. All fucking leveraged and shit. Bad news.”

  “Wait a minute. What kind of securities are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of CDO. I’m guessing mortgages.”

  “So maybe that was Alicia’s deal,” I said slowly. “She got one of our traders to buy up their stuff in exchange for Southfield agreeing to set me up…”

  “Laurence set you up?”

  “No, one of his traders did.” I snorted. “One mystery solved.”

  “And Laurence didn’t tell you?”

  “I didn’t ask. I just assumed she was blackmailing the guy. That’s her usual MO. Jeez, no wonder they fired me. They must’ve thought I was trying to blow up the bank.”

  “Well, I hear they’re meeting at headquarters right now.”

  “Who?”

  “All the swinging dicks. Treasury. The Fed. Bank CEOs. Trying to save the sinking fucking ship.”

  My mouth dropped open. “That’s the big meeting? Saving Sterling Bates?”

  “Why? What?”

  “Nothing.” I shifted in my chair, feeling its hardness through the thin cotton jersey of my sundress. Was this why Julian was so paranoid about my safety?

  “So Laurence’s in it too, huh? And he didn’t even tell you?”

  I jumped to Julian’s defense. “He couldn’t, idiot. It’s not public.”

  “Yeah, well, I heard about it,” Charlie said. “So someone’s not keeping the secret very well.”

  “Well, it’s not Julian. He’d never put me in that position.”

  Charlie sat back and looked at me curiously. “What does that mean?” he asked. “You’re not getting back in the game, are you?”

  “Of course I am. I’m not retired, Charlie. I have ambitions.”

  “Seriously. Wow.” His head tilted. “Well, you’re set now, right? You could get any job you want.”

  “Oh please. I’ll have to reapply to Tuck…”

  He laughed aloud. “What the fuck are you talking about? You don’t need business school anymore, dude. You’re Laurence’s chick; you’re fucking hired.”

  “I’m not going to have Julian pull strings for me!”

  “You won’t have to. Everyone knows who you are. Everyone wants an in with him.” Charlie shrugged. “You could do whatever the fuck you want now. If he lets you.”

  An unexpected breeze ruffled the wisps of hair at my temples, punctuating his words, and I thought, incredulous, He’s right. I’d been drowsing away in Connecticut all summer, living so simply, basking in the vibrant glow of Julian’s love. I hadn’t even thought about how something so personal could affect me professionally; it hadn’t even occurred to me that of course everyone on the Street would be begging to hire Julian Laurence’s fiancée. I could do whatever I wanted, which really meant I couldn’t do anything anymore.

  Not on my own merit. Not as Kate Wilson.

  Nothing would ever be the same, would it? I’d never be normal again. Never be just myself again. My brain ground slowly to a halt, trying to process this information. “You know,” I said numbly, looking down at my BlackBerry on the table, “I should probably check in now.”

  “Check in? Dude, so this is a jailbreak.”

  “It’s not like that. He’s just protective.”

  “Fucking paranoid.”

  “Well, put yourself in his place. He’s got money; someone could, like, kidnap me. I’m just lucky he hasn’t posted a bodyguard on me.”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?”

  “Be serious. He’d tell me. Ask me first.”

  Charlie laughed and sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs. “Well, he will now, if he finds out where you are.”

  I shot him an annoyed look and picked up my BlackBerry. Just checking in. Miss you. When are you coming home? I was about to press Send when a twinge of curiosity stopped my finger. I hear from Charlie you’re meeting about SB. True, false, no comment?

  The reply flashed back.

  No comment. Strongly suspect I miss you more.

  Charlie’s voice cut through the happy haze. “Look at that love-struck smile. You’ve got it bad, dude. What did he say?”

  “None of your beeswax, dude.”

  The phone buzzed again. I looked down.

  What else does Charlie say?

  I typed rapidly, chuckling.

  That I must have it bad for you, because I’ve got a big stupid grin on my face.

  Oh wait. Oh crap.

  The phone rang.

  “Where exactly are you, Kate?” asked a crisp British voice, deceptively mild.

  A taxi honked, ten feet away. I cleared my throat. “Um, Broadway and One hundred and sixteenth. I just have things to take care of, and I was going a little nuts by myself up there. I thought I might surprise you.”

  “I’m surprised.” Still way too mild.

  “Julian, it’s all right. Charlie’s with me. We’re at a coffeehouse, hundreds of people in view. Totally, totally safe. More safe than Lyme, where no one can hear me scream.”

  Silence.

  “Julian, please say something. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m thinking.”

  “Look, I just didn’t want you to worry. It isn’t as though…” I glanced at Charlie and checked myself.

  Julian seemed to read my mind. “Hmm. Is Charlie still there?”

  I looked across the table. “Yes.”

  “Put him on.”

  I held the phone out to Charlie. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Charlie turned white. “Fuck, dude,” he hissed. “What do I say?”

  “Come on, Charlie.” I smiled. “Strap on a pair of balls, for once.”

  He glared at me evilly and took the phone. “Um, sir?” he asked. He listened closely for a few seconds. “Um, no, not yet… Nope, no plans… Yeah, I could do that… No problem… Like glue, I swear… Every hour… Eight o’clock, yeah… Okay, bye.”

  He handed the phone back. I put it to my ear, but Julian had already hung up.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  He folded his arms with a grin. “I think the big guy just hired you a bodyguard for the day.”

  “SO WHAT WAS that about eight o’clock?” I remembered to ask Charlie half an hour later, as we were rattling down the subway to Seventy-ninth Street to catch the crosstown bus to my apartment.

  “Not sure, but I think that’s on a need-to-know basis only,” Charlie said.

  “And you don’t think I need to know?”

  “Dude, I answer only to Laurence now,” he said. “So are you guys, like, engaged or whatever?” He nodded at my left hand where it gripped the pole.

  “Kind of,” I said, switching hands.

  “Jeez. Not much bling for a billionaire. You should have held out on him.”

  “Not my style.”

  He nodded sagely. “That’s probably why he’s so into you.”

  The train slammed into the Seventy-ninth Street station, and we got out. My phone buzzed as soon as the cell signal hit.

  Would you like to stay here tonight?

  Well, that was something. “Hold on a sec, Charlie,” I said, and sat down on the bench to reply.

  Of course. Where else?

  “Come on, dude,” Charlie said. “The bus doesn’t care who your boyfriend is.” r />
  I followed him up the stairs to the M79 bus stop on Broadway, where the next e-mail came in.

  Did you bring your key?

  The bus roared up and pitched to a stop; we climbed on and sat down.

  Me: Yes. I told you, I was going to surprise you.

  Julian: Then make yourself at home. Charlie’s supposed to stay with you until I can get back. Where are you now?

  Me: The M79, crossing the park.

  Julian: Please inform Charlie you are not to board any further damned BUSES. Call Allegra at once and arrange for a car.

  Me: Aye aye captain.

  Julian: Will you be serious. She’s also making dinner reservations for 8pm at Per Se. Will try to make it there myself, otherwise take Charlie.

  Me: Will you be home tonight?

  Julian: Not sure. Going back in now. Please be safe, beloved. You’ve my life in your hands. XX

  “Love sucks, huh?” Charlie said.

  “No, it doesn’t.” I slipped the phone into my bag. “It’s wonderful. You should try it sometime.”

  A grin flashed across his mouth. “I’ve got to admit, it’s working for you. Look at you, dude. All glowy and shit. Like, you are getting some sweet-ass lovin’ up there.”

  “Okay, thanks, Charlie. That’ll do.”

  He snorted. “You are, right? Man oh man. Dude’s a fucking stud.”

  FRANK WAS ON THE HOUSE PHONE when I waltzed through the lobby of my apartment building, and he just about dropped the receiver. “Hold on a moment, please,” he said to the person on the other end. “Kate! Long time no see!”

  “Hi, Frank. Just came by to pick up a few things. Is Brooke around?”

  “Haven’t seen her leave. You still got your key?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. See you later.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but then gave a little shrug. “Let me know if you need something,” he said, and put the phone back to his ear.

  No sign of Brooke in the living room, though her bedroom door was tightly closed. Sleeping it off, probably. I looked around, thinking about the last time I’d stood here, and everything that had happened since. “Wow,” I mumbled to myself, tossing the keys in the basket.

  “Do you mind if I turn on your TV?” Charlie asked.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll just go get my things,” I said, and went into my bedroom.

  I’d left in a hurry. A few drawers were still askew, as though someone had slammed them shut in haste. The file boxes with my papers inside were still on top of the bed; how had I been so careless?

  I frowned and went over. Strange. They looked as though they’d been rifled through.

  I tried to remember exactly what I’d done that afternoon. It had passed in such a blur of activity and emotion, and everything overshadowed by what had come after, but still. I knew I hadn’t gone through my student loan records, or my college transcripts, or my few old handwritten letters.

  But clearly someone had.

  Swiftly I stuffed the papers back in the file boxes and went to straighten the drawers of my bureau. I paused. A note had been taped to the mirror above, the scrawled handwriting barely legible. Doctor called re missed appt.

  Doctor’s appointment? How had I missed a doctor’s appointment?

  Oh yeah. Because my calendar was in my old BlackBerry. Oh well. Reschedule that. It would be just about time to renew my Pill prescription…

  Oh. Holy. Crap.

  My fingers went cold. I sat down, trying to stop my brain from spinning. How long had it been? How the freaking hell long?

  I’d left my overnight bag in the hall, with my travel kit inside. I walked back out in a daze to the living room, where Charlie was standing in front of the TV, watching CNBC. “Dude,” he said, not looking up, “the cameras are already camped outside. They had a shot of your guy a second ago, walking in.”

  “Oh, really?” I picked up my bag and took it back into the bedroom and unzipped it. My travel kit sat at the bottom, under the bit of lacy underwear I’d packed, just in case.

  I opened it up and began sifting, thorough and methodical. Yes, there it was. My round pink pill case. I always got the twenty-one-day pack, because I found it annoying to take the blank pills the other seven days, knowing they were just placeholders.

  Except it was so easy to forget about starting the next pack that way. You just kind of… forgot. Got out of the habit. Especially when you were so dizzy in love, your brain wasn’t always functioning properly, anyway.

  Okay, stay calm. When was my last period? Not that long ago, right?

  The second week of August. I knew exactly, because it had ended with such perfect timing, the day before we sailed to Newport for the long-promised weekend away. I’d been free to indulge a sense of delicious naughtiness as Julian had slipped the key into the hotel room door, even though I bore his ring on my finger, even though by August we were so wholly knit with one another that a marriage ceremony seemed a superfluous formality. Julian had booked us the most luxurious suite in the building, with champagne and chocolate truffles and ripe red strawberries cooling on the nightstand; he’d swung me into his arms and begun kissing me almost before the door had closed.

  Yet my clearest memory of those few days came not from any particular encounter—the intensity of emotion blurred the details for me, in recollection—but during a tranquil hour late Saturday afternoon, as the honeyed sunlight slanted through the window onto Julian’s sleeping face.

  I’d hardly ever seen him sleep. We drifted off together every night, and he always woke before I did, stealing away at dawn with one of his tender notes left behind on the pillow. So I’d watched him that afternoon with minute fascination. He’d slept on his stomach, an expression of utmost peace relaxing his features; his naked back, crossed by a white sheet just above the curve of his buttocks, rose and fell with the slow patient rhythm of his breathing. On his right forearm, lying palm-down alongside his face, I could just discern the erratic line of his scar as it trailed through the pale fine hair, glinting in the sun.

  Thank you, I’d prayed in wonder. Thank you so very much. I’ll take good care of him, I promise.

  Eventually I’d risen, reminded by our location of the dangling question of the mysterious book sender’s identity. Julian hadn’t ever pressed me on it, and after trying the phone number a few times and getting nothing but voice mail, I’d given up and moved on to far more agreeable activities. But it was still saved on my BlackBerry, and with Julian dozing peacefully away on the bed, I’d slipped away to the sitting room and tried again. It rang once, and then someone answered.

  “Warwick,” he’d said gruffly.

  I’d hung up.

  Later that night, I’d settled into Julian’s arms and asked quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Geoff Warwick who sent the book?”

  He hadn’t answered at first, only stroked my arm the way he often did. Finally, after a long interval of silence, he’d kissed my temple and said, “Because he’s my closest friend, and I want you two to get along.”

  “You should give me more credit.”

  He’d let out a little snort. “To be perfectly honest, once I knew it wasn’t someone dangerous, it didn’t matter anymore. I more or less forgot about the whole thing.” He’d dropped his lips against the round ball of my bare shoulder. “Are you angry?”

  “Sort of. Though I guess it’s ancient history now, isn’t it?” I’d turned in his arms and faced him. “But tell me next time, okay?”

  He’d kissed my nose. “Okay.”

  We’d gone to sleep, and left the next morning to sail back to Lyme.

  Where I had not started a new month of pills.

  I sat down on the bed now, staring at the empty case in my hand. No need to panic. Let’s see, statistics. Wasn’t there only one chance in ten per month, even without contraceptives? Or was it one in three? Holy crap. I put my hand on my belly. Surely not. And oh my God. Julian would kill me. Or no, he wouldn’t. He would pro
bably be delighted at the excuse to haul me before the altar, posthaste. But I wouldn’t forgive myself, for trapping him like that.

  How the hell had I forgotten? Just forgotten? Just like that? All freaking month? Me, so organized and methodical? Were my brains that scrambled? The thought had never once entered my head: Gosh, Kate, have we been taking our pills lately? Never once. Almost like I’d wanted to get pregnant. As if I’d been in the grip of some sort of brazen subconscious urge.

  No. Impossible.

  My fingers began to shake. What was today? August twenty-ninth, right? How many days was that? I tried to count and gave up. Enough that the deed, if it was done, was already done. So just wait. Forget about it for a week, until I could find out for sure. Too much other stuff to worry about.

  I stood up and began to throw things into my overnight bag. Some shoes I’d missed. My favorite headscarf for bad hair days. A few shirts. Jeans. Then I zipped up the bag, shoved the file boxes back under the bed, and walked back out to the living room.

  “Dude, this is wild,” Charlie said, still staring at the TV screen. “Bartiromo’s out there, trying to interview people. They keep showing the clip of Laurence walking into the building. Look, there it is again.”

  I squinted at the screen and saw Julian, his dark blond hair gleaming in the TV lights, dressed in a navy suit and red Hermès tie, striding confidently into the revolving doors with a brief wave to the phalanx of reporters screaming questions at him. Terribly photogenic. No wonder they kept replaying it.

  “What are they saying?” I forced myself to ask. To even care.

  “The big question is whether they let it fail or not.” Charlie folded his arms.

  “Fail?” That penetrated the mist. “Fail? For real?” I’d tossed the concept around before, of course, but without truly believing it. Without thinking Sterling Bates, the august and admired Sterling Bates, would actually and for real blow up. It was unthinkable. Had Alicia really done that? Had one thoughtless petty vengeful bitch brought down Sterling Bates?

  “Yeah, that’s what they’re saying,” Charlie said. “Gasparino was on a second ago, talking about Southfield—well, not naming it, just saying ‘certain hedge funds’—and the rumors that it had, you know, put Sterling Bates in the crapper with those bad assets. The whole SEC complaint they filed in May, all that shit. He was like, ‘and there’s Julian Laurence, head of Southfield Associates, walking into the building, wonder what that’s about…’” Charlie shook his head. “Don’t let him off the hook, dude. Get the full story. Work your wiles. This is, like, historic.”