London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  She let him up when he buzzed at the intercom, but he found the door on the latch when he reached the flat. Cautiously he entered.

  The low pulsing thrum of electric bass filled the interior as music poured from a small set of speakers in the living room. He paused at the edge of the kitchen, a smile twitching his lips as he watched Grace stir something at the stove while she sang along with “Bullet the Blue Sky.”

  “U2, huh?”

  She glanced over her shoulder with a mischievous expression that melted his insides. “They’re Irish. Which automatically makes them brilliant.”

  He stepped up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She shivered as he dropped small kisses from her ear to her shoulder. “Hold that thought,” she said. “The risotto’s almost done.”

  He leaned against the counter while she added grated Parmesan and gave it a final stir. “There. Mushroom risotto with sautéed shrimp.”

  He stepped closer. “Am I allowed now?”

  “No.” She stretched up on tiptoes to snatch a light kiss and then darted out of reach. “Risotto is only good while it’s hot. Take a seat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He watched her while she served their food, every bit as comfortable in the kitchen as she was with a camera. “You know, a man could get used to this.”

  “Don’t get too used to it. I’m not exactly the domestic type.”

  “You could at least let me dream.” He dug into the risotto—a touch gummy but still delicious—and asked, “What did you do today?”

  “Very little, actually. Had breakfast with Asha and spent the afternoon with Melvin at the gallery.”

  “Lady of leisure.”

  “Indeed. It was nice. What about you?”

  “I found an assistant. Assuming she accepts my offer.”

  “Oh? Is she pretty?”

  “She’s very professional.” Ian studied her. Was Grace jealous? That was completely unlike her. Then she broke into a grin and he relaxed.

  “Just having a laugh. And I’m sure she’s pretty, but I also know that you are far too serious to notice those things.”

  “Am I?” He grabbed the support rail beneath the seat of her chair and dragged it over to him to put her lips within reach. Only when she wrapped an arm around his neck to steady herself did he draw back. “Because I noticed that you’ve gone shopping, and you look pretty fantastic in those jeans.”

  Pink tinged her cheeks, but she held his eye. “Risotto, remember? Getting cold.”

  “Right.” He hid his smile when she scooted her chair to its proper place. “I do love risotto. It’s a little labor intensive for a weeknight, isn’t it?”

  “I needed a distraction. I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

  “With CAF? When did that happen?”

  “I finally dug up the business card and called Kenneth DeVries today. He wants to see me tomorrow morning.”

  “So you’re really doing it.” Even though it was just a preliminary interview, the decision had significance, especially coming on the heels of their tumultuous weekend.

  “I’m not entirely sure CAF is the right fit for me, but staying in London? Yes. I’m giving it a go.” She looked at him, breath held, and he realized she wanted his approval, an acknowledgment of the decision she was making.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it hard. “They’d be lucky to have you. If they’re smart, they’ll make as good a case for the organization as you will for yourself. And it doesn’t hurt to be in a relationship with a member of the board of directors.”

  She laughed, her green eyes sparkling in a way that made his chest clench. “Is that what this is? A relationship?”

  “What do you think?” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, gratified by the sudden quickening of her breath.

  “I think someone is trying to wheedle seconds from me.”

  “Well, if you’re offering . . .”

  Grace laughed and took his bowl back to the range. “Any tips for tomorrow?”

  “Grace, you’re a shoo-in. You impressed everyone at the benefit—and don’t think winning over their wives doesn’t work in your favor. All you have to do is reiterate what you already told them, and I suspect the job is yours.”

  She nodded, but the way she worried her lower lip was a sign of anxiety. Surely a simple job interview didn’t make her nervous. Maybe she wasn’t sure CAF was the right place for her.

  It was far more comfortable to believe her uncertainty centered on the job rather than on him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHY ARE YOU NERVOUS?”

  Grace didn’t meet Asha’s eye as she discarded the third blouse of the morning. Ninety minutes until the job interview, and she still hadn’t decided what to wear. She reached for choice number four. “I’m not nervous exactly, just . . . Okay, fine, I’m nervous. What if I completely muck it up?”

  “What if you do? It’s not like you need the money right away. And you can still set up shoots for the autumn if you need to.”

  Grace slid a white silk blouse over her head, noting the wrinkles across the front, and slipped her black suit jacket back on. “It’s not that, Ash, it’s just—”

  “You’re making an effort for Ian. Isn’t that what this is about?” Asha slid from the bed and came up behind her in the mirror.

  Asha was always too perceptive to slip anything by her. “His life is here in London. If we’re going to make a relationship work, it would help to spend more than a few days at a time in the same city. And that means I get a real job. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life shooting weddings. I want to be involved in something that makes an impact. CAF seems to be the best of both worlds.”

  Asha put both hands on Grace’s shoulders. “They would be crazy not to take you. But this blouse? It’s not happening. You might as well go in with a noose wrapped round your neck.” She bent and rummaged through the open duffel bag that still served as Grace’s wardrobe and pulled out a plain green T-shirt. “Here.”

  The cotton replaced the silk, with the jacket over top. Asha handed her a necklace made of multiple strands of glass beads. “Jewelry, then roll up the sleeves so you can see the watch.”

  “Don’t you think I should cover up the tattoos?”

  “That ship sailed at the benefit.” Asha grinned and smoothed down the necklace. “There. Now you look like the artistic type who’s going to take them into the twenty-first century. I’d say it’s an improvement.”

  Grace glanced in the mirror and blinked. Asha was right. She looked more casual, but still put together, a conservative black suit paired with the T-shirt, Asha’s fashionably chunky watch, and the flashy necklace. She reached out and slid her arm around her friend’s waist. “Thanks, Asha. I probably should go. Being late won’t make a great impression.”

  She slid her feet into her single pair of dress shoes, low-heeled patent leather, grabbed her oversize bag and portfolio, and headed for ground level. She found herself praying as the heels of her shoes clicked against the concrete of the road outside.

  God, please don’t let me mess this one up. You know how hard I want to make this work. Please, just . . . help me get through this with my dignity intact.

  She chuckled as she descended the stairs into the Tube station, realizing that not once had she asked God to help her get the job. If that wasn’t ambivalence toward the situation, she didn’t know what was. She needed this job, of course. It was an essential step in making a more settled lifestyle work, in making this relationship work. She would not be the bohemian photographer wife of a rich executive—

  Wife? Where had that come from? She and Ian had been back together for less than two weeks. They’d done some kissing and catching up, but they hadn’t delved into anything more serious. After what she had put him through, she wouldn’t blame him if he never fully trusted her again.

  And yet that single word—wife—could fill her with a longing for something she hadn’t even known she wanted. For a lifestyle she wasn�
��t sure she was capable of maintaining.

  She plugged in her headphones while she waited for the train, the platform filling in around her. At a high-enough volume, the Ramones worked well to drown out the thoughts in her head. Before she could think better of it, she pulled out her phone and texted Ian: On my way to interview. Think I’m gonna be sick.

  Make sure you sick up in the potted palm then. Kenneth DeVries wears expensive shoes.

  Grace grinned at Ian’s complete lack of sympathy. Thanks so much for the support.

  No problem. You’ll be brilliant. I promise. Just tell him why this means so much to you.

  She bit her lip against her smile and tucked the phone back into her pocket, his support—flippant as it may have been—thawing the cold lump of anxiety in her chest. When was the last time she’d had someone in her corner? Someone who was as invested in her happiness as he was his own? She’d had relationships over the years, but they’d been more out of convenience and mutual necessity, formed in the chaos of conflict when the only thing that had anchored her to reality was a warm body next to her in bed. War photographers could be an odd lot, alternating between solitary and overly trusting, but they were terrible at commitment when they knew each assignment could be their last.

  Maybe that’s why Grace made a phenomenal journalist but a crummy fiancée.

  She let the flow of people carry her onto the carriage when the train stopped at the platform and wrapped her fingers around a sticky rail as it jolted forward. Things were going to change. She could get a job that utilized both her experience and her passion and put behind her the nomadic lifestyle that had made attachment so difficult.

  At Westminster, she made the change to Jubilee, which dove beneath the Thames and emptied out at her destination, Canary Wharf. As she rode the escalator up to street level, her heart started thumping again. Even now, she thought she would be less nervous in the deserts of Iraq than in this jungle of concrete, steel, and glass that made up London’s second-biggest financial district.

  But the bright sunlight streaming in through the arched glass canopy of the Tube exit comforted her, as did Jubilee Park’s unexpected swath of green. When she at last reached her destination—an enormous, intimidating skyscraper in Canada Square topped with a pyramidal glass roof—she was a full twenty minutes early. She took a moment to gather herself on the pavement outside before pushing through the glass doors into the building.

  Acres of marble, glass, and brass surrounded her. She didn’t look around, just made her way steadily through the trickle of suited businesspeople to a bank of lifts, where she climbed on and punched the number for her floor. It seemed odd for a charity to be housed in one of the premier business buildings in the financial district, but considering the amount of money that flowed through the organization each year, perhaps it made sense.

  CAF’s bright and open reception area, however, was far less posh than the building itself would have led her to believe. An Asian woman with a long ponytail draped over one shoulder smiled at her as she entered. “May I help you?”

  “Grace Brennan to see Kenneth DeVries.”

  “Of course, Ms. Brennan. If you’ll take a seat, Mr. DeVries will be with you shortly.”

  Grace nodded, then wandered back to a comfortable grouping of armchairs, but she didn’t sit. Her insides were still too jittery to trust. When her eyes lit on a large palm in a ceramic planter, she barely stifled her grin. So Ian wasn’t just having a laugh at her expense.

  “Grace!”

  She turned. Rather than Mr. DeVries, it was Henry Symon who came to greet her, positively beaming.

  “Good morning, Henry. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I’m joining you and Kenneth today. Make sure he knows exactly why he needs to hire you.” He shot her a puckish grin, and Grace laughed, her nervousness dissolving as he beckoned her. “Come on through to the back.”

  Grace followed Henry through the reception area and down a plainly decorated hall to a large office. Behind a gleaming wood desk piled high with folios and stacks of paperwork sat Kenneth DeVries. After their introduction at the benefit, she’d been anticipating a suit, not this ordinary-looking man in chinos and a windowpane-check dress shirt.

  “Ms. Brennan, welcome.” He rose to shake her hand, then gestured to one of the seats opposite his desk. “Have a seat. You too, Henry.”

  DeVries studied her for a moment and then smiled. “I’ll admit I never thought we’d succeed in getting you here.”

  “That makes two of us. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Of course. Now, what do you have for me?”

  Grace reached into her bag for her book and handed it over. He flipped open the cover and immediately his eyebrows rose. “This is gorgeous. Until I did my research, I hadn’t realized how many of your photographs I’d seen. These were where, Nigeria?”

  “Cameroon.”

  He kept turning pages. She watched his facial expression and body language until he finally closed the book. “There’s no doubt you’re an extraordinary talent. You’re still in high demand for conflicts. Why work for an NGO now?”

  A loaded question if ever there was one. But he wanted the surface-level answer. “Times change. People mature. Quite frankly, I’m feeling like it’s time to settle down, but somehow shooting weddings and births doesn’t feel like a viable option.”

  “I’d think not. Well, there would be some travel involved, but the creative director primarily works with our marketing and publicity team, reporting to Henry here. I trust you had a chance to review the job responsibilities my assistant e-mailed you?”

  “I did. I’ve worked with publications in one capacity or another for fifteen years, even if it was from the other side of the desk, so I’m familiar with the process. I’m certain that I’m more than capable of doing the job.”

  “I have no doubt that you are.” DeVries set her book aside. “Do you have your CV?”

  She found the double-sided sheet inside a folder in her bag and handed it to him, cursing the little tremor in her hand. It was not that she was ashamed of her life’s work—quite the opposite, in fact—but her qualifications were much better displayed in a portfolio than on a sheet of paper.

  “Ah, it says here you attended Leeds College of Art. Good photography program. No graduation date, though?”

  “No. I left to work as a photographer’s assistant in Los Angeles. It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.” He didn’t need to know that leaving school to travel with her photographer boyfriend was the thing that had separated her from her family, and that the “job” had lasted as long as it took for him to find a new assistant/girlfriend once they reached California.

  DeVries nodded slowly, but the way he didn’t quite meet her eyes made her heart sink. “I must level with you, Grace, this could be a problem. I know you’re more than qualified, but when I invited you to come in, I thought you’d completed university.”

  “Kenneth, you’ve seen her work.” Henry leaned forward in his chair. “You don’t learn those skills at uni. Which would you rather have: someone with a brilliant eye and an understanding of what we do here, or a piece of paper?”

  “I’m not the one we have to convince,” DeVries said. “This is a management position, and all London managers have to be vetted by the board. There are a few members who might balk at the fact Grace is a woman, let alone one who dropped out of university.”

  An ache began in her temples. This was why she hated office jobs: the politics, the prejudices, the ridiculous rules. Up to this point in her career, no one had cared where she went to school. No one had even asked. You earned your stripes by doing, not by writing papers and taking exams. But she had committed to Ian, and to herself, that she would make a go of London. That meant she couldn’t let this slip away without a fight.

  “They would be making a mistake then, Mr. DeVries. I’m the best person for this job, and I am one of the few people who has seen firsthand the
needs that this organization addresses. It’s easy enough to spout platitudes about Christian charity and feeding the hungry, but when you’ve seen mothers fall weeping in the dirt because their children will have full stomachs for the first time in months—that’s what people need to see. That’s what will move them to action. Not pretty designs or feel-good slogans. If a diploma is the most important thing to your board of directors, there’s not much I can do about that. But you’re looking for something that can’t be taught in any school.”

  DeVries stared at her for a long moment, then gave a nod. “All right then.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said all right. I’ll put you through for consideration at the board meeting next month. Your passion is what we need here. I suspect you won’t have any trouble winning over the board with a speech like that.”

  Relief rushed through her, followed by a giddy sense of victory. “Thank you.”

  “There is one thing.” A smile tipped up the edges of DeVries’s mouth. “Exactly how close are you and Ian MacDonald?”

  She felt a flush creep up her neck. Apparently, they hadn’t been as discreet as she thought. “We’re currently dating.”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “I suspected as much. Best we keep that little detail between the three of us, though. There’s nothing in organization policy against board members dating employees, but I don’t see the need to muddy the waters further.”

  “You want me to lie?”

  “Of course not. Just don’t bring it up unless you’re asked.” DeVries rose and offered his hand again. “Next board meeting is set for the end of August. One of us will call you to confirm the exact date and time.”

  “Thank you.” She shook his hand vigorously, unable to hold back her smile. “I appreciate the chance.”

  “You’re welcome. One more thing.” DeVries leaned over and shuffled through paperwork on his desk until he found a single form. “I need your approval to conduct a background check.”

  “Background check?”

  “Strictly routine. It’s mostly to assure ourselves that you haven’t been involved in any financial impropriety or committed a felony. That sort of thing.”