that before too long.”
“Anyway, keep cool,” were his parting words. “We miss you.”
“Miss you all too.”
*
She was standing under the shower, rubbing herself down with a body scrub, keeping an eye on the laptop on her bed in case Mimi called.
She found herself thinking about Barney and his ominous threat about Kramer at the end of the strategy meeting. Could DeKripps really ruin his life? In the light of the incident in the office, she saw a man who felt he was above the law. Look at Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky; lies, blustering and denial, in the face of unprecedented scrutiny and public censure.
In the case of Barney, he might just get away with it. What was it he had said to her? ‘Consenting adults.’ There went her defence. At least he hadn’t called her Peek-a-boo. Imagine that being mentioned in court.
Susan recalled a guy in the London office who managed to escape sexual harassment charges not long after she joined DeKripps. He would grope women at the Christmas party, and because of his senior position was quite open about it. One day, he was walking through the office, plopped himself down on the corner of one of the secretaries’ desks and said, “Have I fucked you yet?”
Susan would never forget the woman’s reply. She had looked up and said matter-of-factly, “I can’t remember.” Both had since left the company.
She stepped out of the shower and studied her thickening waist in the mirror. Time to get back into a fitness routine. She should ring Jessica and join her for a workout.
She was in her dressing gown, emptying the dishwasher, when her laptop brayed. She ran into the living room, and there was Mimi, her face distorted by her proximity to the computer screen.
“Hi Ma, what are you doing today? It’s 11 o’clock and you’re not dressed.”
“Well, it’s Saturday, I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. In any case,” she added, “it’s mosquito season. And they seem to have my address.”
She said she’d be staying in the cool, either at home or at a movie. In fact she had no plans for the entire weekend.
“No hot date on a Saturday night?”
“Give me a break. What’s happening in Wandsworth? Are books back in fashion?”
“At least Josh doesn’t kill people in his profession,” said Mimi. “But to answer your question, yes, he’s still job hunting.”
“And maybe now you could tell me what exactly Josh knows about Serge and Camus?” Her voice was cold. How could there be something new about someone she and Mimi had known so intimately?
“Well, he looked him up the Internet. And loads of links came up to articles about Camus he’d written. He was also on panels with top French academics.”
“Fascinating,” Susan said, relieved. “You know, Serge was at a conference on Camus the day we met?”
Mimi went on, “Anyway, it turns out that Serge was one of key figures who helped rehabilitate Camus. That was the word. Rehabilitate.”
“You’re kidding. Fancy that, he never mentioned it.”
She felt a pang of guilt for not having shown more interest in her husband’s academic activities.
“But why did he need rehabilitating? Serge always said he was a better writer than Sartre.”
“He suffered from negative comparisons with Sartre, mainly put about by Sartre himself, according to Serge. He told me that himself when I was doing my A levels.”
Susan recalled coming home from work to find her daughter deep in conversation with Serge - their ‘ messes basses ’ as the French say - at the kitchen table, where he would sit smoking a cigarette to unwind from school before preparing dinner for the three of them. She, the ‘Madame workaholic’, was always the last to arrive home on a weekday.
“It’s funny, I was thinking quite a lot about L’Etranger after he died. I’d fallen into a bottomless pit but I felt nothing at the same time.”
“Yes. Well you might find La Peste even more relevant then, in your new
“Anyway, keep cool,” were his parting words. “We miss you.”
“Miss you all too.”
*
She was standing under the shower, rubbing herself down with a body scrub, keeping an eye on the laptop on her bed in case Mimi called.
She found herself thinking about Barney and his ominous threat about Kramer at the end of the strategy meeting. Could DeKripps really ruin his life? In the light of the incident in the office, she saw a man who felt he was above the law. Look at Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky; lies, blustering and denial, in the face of unprecedented scrutiny and public censure.
In the case of Barney, he might just get away with it. What was it he had said to her? ‘Consenting adults.’ There went her defence. At least he hadn’t called her Peek-a-boo. Imagine that being mentioned in court.
Susan recalled a guy in the London office who managed to escape sexual harassment charges not long after she joined DeKripps. He would grope women at the Christmas party, and because of his senior position was quite open about it. One day, he was walking through the office, plopped himself down on the corner of one of the secretaries’ desks and said, “Have I fucked you yet?”
Susan would never forget the woman’s reply. She had looked up and said matter-of-factly, “I can’t remember.” Both had since left the company.
She stepped out of the shower and studied her thickening waist in the mirror. Time to get back into a fitness routine. She should ring Jessica and join her for a workout.
She was in her dressing gown, emptying the dishwasher, when her laptop brayed. She ran into the living room, and there was Mimi, her face distorted by her proximity to the computer screen.
“Hi Ma, what are you doing today? It’s 11 o’clock and you’re not dressed.”
“Well, it’s Saturday, I don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. In any case,” she added, “it’s mosquito season. And they seem to have my address.”
She said she’d be staying in the cool, either at home or at a movie. In fact she had no plans for the entire weekend.
“No hot date on a Saturday night?”
“Give me a break. What’s happening in Wandsworth? Are books back in fashion?”
“At least Josh doesn’t kill people in his profession,” said Mimi. “But to answer your question, yes, he’s still job hunting.”
“And maybe now you could tell me what exactly Josh knows about Serge and Camus?” Her voice was cold. How could there be something new about someone she and Mimi had known so intimately?
“Well, he looked him up the Internet. And loads of links came up to articles about Camus he’d written. He was also on panels with top French academics.”
“Fascinating,” Susan said, relieved. “You know, Serge was at a conference on Camus the day we met?”
Mimi went on, “Anyway, it turns out that Serge was one of key figures who helped rehabilitate Camus. That was the word. Rehabilitate.”
“You’re kidding. Fancy that, he never mentioned it.”
She felt a pang of guilt for not having shown more interest in her husband’s academic activities.
“But why did he need rehabilitating? Serge always said he was a better writer than Sartre.”
“He suffered from negative comparisons with Sartre, mainly put about by Sartre himself, according to Serge. He told me that himself when I was doing my A levels.”
Susan recalled coming home from work to find her daughter deep in conversation with Serge - their ‘ messes basses ’ as the French say - at the kitchen table, where he would sit smoking a cigarette to unwind from school before preparing dinner for the three of them. She, the ‘Madame workaholic’, was always the last to arrive home on a weekday.
“It’s funny, I was thinking quite a lot about L’Etranger after he died. I’d fallen into a bottomless pit but I felt nothing at the same time.”
“Yes. Well you might find La Peste even more relevant then, in your new
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