smile and nod and not have to excuse herself from the table too often to sneak out the back door to the dark garden and fill herself full of night air, enough to get her through the rest of the evening.
It might all have seemed real if she weren’t watching so closely and if she hadn’t known what had come before. She noticed the telltale way he shifted his weight and how stillness seemed to elude him. He was acting. Pretending. And although he was better at it now than he used to be, there remained a lingering suggestion of volatility about him. He seemed to be actively restraining himself.
She was embarrassed for leaving the gallery the way that she had. Seeing him in a crowd like that had been so unfamiliar. In all her memories of him, it was always just the two of them. As if there hadn’t been anyone else in Paris.
And the paintings. She remembered living with them while they were drying. How they had surrounded them. And she realized at once just how rare that intimacy was. How it was almost impossible to achieve, in a museum or even in the smallest of galleries. How even the most hallowed of spaces were haunted by the footsteps and whispered incantations of others.
She caught a cab on Park Lane. As it cut through Hyde Park, her mobile rang. Jonathan.
“Darling—where are you?” His voice was muffled.
“Hello. Just in Mayfair.”
“Right—the Cancer Foundation ball, it’s tonight?”
“No—not yet. Just a gallery opening. With Jorie.”
“Ah, Ms. Thibaud-Paxton-Bowles…” Jonathan always included all of Jorie’s surnames. “Any eligible bachelors there then?”
Kat winced. “Not for long.… How are you? How’s everything?”
“Moving forward. Omega starts diligence tomorrow.”
Her confusion lasted for just a beat. “Oh. Are we at the code-name stage?”
“We are. Especially on phones.”
“I hadn’t realized.”
“You haven’t said anything to Jorie, have you?” His voice rose suddenly in panic.
“Jonathan. Of course not.”
She knew better and he knew that she did. She knew how information moved in their circles, functioning as currency, as entertainment, as proof of status. Even more literally in this case, as any information about the impending sale was insider information. There could be no confidences.
“Sorry. It’s just that the press is all over this. I’m pretty sure that someone has been following me since I got here.”
“Really?” She could not help the incredulous tone in her voice and immediately regretted it.
“Yes. Really.”
She heard the thin thread of his voice pull taut across the miles and she spoke quickly. “Don’t be cross with me. I know this is serious. It just seems so absurd.”
“Do you remember that bastard, Warre, the one who wrote that hatchet piece in the Mail ? Apparently, he has started calling our analysts and some major shareholders, inquiring as to their opinions on the impending sale of the company to a foreign firm.”
The article, which had appeared more than a year ago, prompted by a photograph of Jonathan having dinner with executives from the Chinese company, had been a vitriolic nationalistic tirade. Citing the usual long list of venerable British institutions that had been recently sold off to foreign interests—the Savoy Hotel, Fortnum & Mason, Harrods, Cadbury—the reporter had cast Jonathan as the latest in a long line of money-hungry CEOs, cashing out after bleeding Britain dry of talent and resources. The piece had served as a nasty surprise to Jonathan, who was accustomed to a rather different sort of coverage.
A photo of the columnist, Alistair Warre, had appeared beside the article. A small black-and-white rendering of a hirsute, slack-jawed man peering through large horn-rimmed glasses. Since then, Kat had seen him at events occasionally and even on the street once or twice. He had a distinctive, scurrying gait that suited a person much younger. A kind of eager, halting pace that gave the impression he
It might all have seemed real if she weren’t watching so closely and if she hadn’t known what had come before. She noticed the telltale way he shifted his weight and how stillness seemed to elude him. He was acting. Pretending. And although he was better at it now than he used to be, there remained a lingering suggestion of volatility about him. He seemed to be actively restraining himself.
She was embarrassed for leaving the gallery the way that she had. Seeing him in a crowd like that had been so unfamiliar. In all her memories of him, it was always just the two of them. As if there hadn’t been anyone else in Paris.
And the paintings. She remembered living with them while they were drying. How they had surrounded them. And she realized at once just how rare that intimacy was. How it was almost impossible to achieve, in a museum or even in the smallest of galleries. How even the most hallowed of spaces were haunted by the footsteps and whispered incantations of others.
She caught a cab on Park Lane. As it cut through Hyde Park, her mobile rang. Jonathan.
“Darling—where are you?” His voice was muffled.
“Hello. Just in Mayfair.”
“Right—the Cancer Foundation ball, it’s tonight?”
“No—not yet. Just a gallery opening. With Jorie.”
“Ah, Ms. Thibaud-Paxton-Bowles…” Jonathan always included all of Jorie’s surnames. “Any eligible bachelors there then?”
Kat winced. “Not for long.… How are you? How’s everything?”
“Moving forward. Omega starts diligence tomorrow.”
Her confusion lasted for just a beat. “Oh. Are we at the code-name stage?”
“We are. Especially on phones.”
“I hadn’t realized.”
“You haven’t said anything to Jorie, have you?” His voice rose suddenly in panic.
“Jonathan. Of course not.”
She knew better and he knew that she did. She knew how information moved in their circles, functioning as currency, as entertainment, as proof of status. Even more literally in this case, as any information about the impending sale was insider information. There could be no confidences.
“Sorry. It’s just that the press is all over this. I’m pretty sure that someone has been following me since I got here.”
“Really?” She could not help the incredulous tone in her voice and immediately regretted it.
“Yes. Really.”
She heard the thin thread of his voice pull taut across the miles and she spoke quickly. “Don’t be cross with me. I know this is serious. It just seems so absurd.”
“Do you remember that bastard, Warre, the one who wrote that hatchet piece in the Mail ? Apparently, he has started calling our analysts and some major shareholders, inquiring as to their opinions on the impending sale of the company to a foreign firm.”
The article, which had appeared more than a year ago, prompted by a photograph of Jonathan having dinner with executives from the Chinese company, had been a vitriolic nationalistic tirade. Citing the usual long list of venerable British institutions that had been recently sold off to foreign interests—the Savoy Hotel, Fortnum & Mason, Harrods, Cadbury—the reporter had cast Jonathan as the latest in a long line of money-hungry CEOs, cashing out after bleeding Britain dry of talent and resources. The piece had served as a nasty surprise to Jonathan, who was accustomed to a rather different sort of coverage.
A photo of the columnist, Alistair Warre, had appeared beside the article. A small black-and-white rendering of a hirsute, slack-jawed man peering through large horn-rimmed glasses. Since then, Kat had seen him at events occasionally and even on the street once or twice. He had a distinctive, scurrying gait that suited a person much younger. A kind of eager, halting pace that gave the impression he
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