Overseas

by Beatriz Williams

  It would have been easier, in a way, if something had happened; if there had been anything between us other than a few words, a few intense looks, a sense of dawning understanding. I could be angry with him then. I could wallow in self-righteous bitterness, label him a heartless bastard, throw a few darts at his photograph, and move on. It was infinitely more difficult to have no one to blame. He had behaved impeccably, really. After that graceful good-bye, he hadn’t tried to reach me again, not even after the ChemoDerma deal fell apart in February. Humiliating, of course, but better than having the agony drawn out with sporadic impersonal contact. All communication between the two firms had gone instead through Geoff Warwick and Banner.

  I’d heard a rumor, a few days ago, that Southfield was winding down its remaining positions, cashing out, and even closing down. Rumors like that were running about Wall Street like frightened rabbits these days. A feeling had seeped into the air, the faint frisson of a market on the point of turning, if you listened to the whispers. Housing market, mortgage-backed securities, write-downs, bank capital ratios. Not stuff you really wanted to think about, but looming there in the background, hard to ignore completely.

  Twilight had settled in by the time I crested the hill and began descending through the shadowed woods, green sunk into black. The busy swarm of runners around the Met had thinned out into almost nothing; I heard only a hint of movement from behind, someone pounding against the asphalt like me, breathing hard and steady with the effort of climbing the hill. A bicycle swept by, and another.

  The transept approached through the trees on my left, and a man flashed into view between the branches, running hard into the merge with the West Drive. He was big and lean, radiating belligerence. Manhattan was bursting with them: aggressive animals who took out their frustrations on the park loop, creating impromptu competitions that might last fifty yards or five miles. I hung back, not wanting to take up any fresh challenges at the moment, but then changed my mind and drove on. I was in good form. I could handle it. A blowout would do me some good: push myself just a little too hard, crash the barrier.

  He reached the merge just before me, but instead of banking left onto the drive, he made a hard right, without even looking. His heavy arm smashed into my shoulder, knocking me sideways into the pavement.

  I felt the hard thud of impact with shock. I’d been running fast, and so had he. He still was. He hadn’t even slowed down to see if I was okay.

  “Watch it, jerk!” I yelled after him, without thinking. I could feel pain begin to gather in my limbs. Definitely needing Band-Aids. Crap. And then I began to shake with rage. “I said watch it, jerk!” I yelled again recklessly, as the adrenaline hit my blood.

  All this happened in about three seconds. In the next, he turned around.

  “What the fuck, bitch!” he shouted. “What the fuck!”

  “You knocked me down!”

  “You got in my fucking way!”

  “Asshole,” I muttered, picking myself up.

  He rushed me.

  I braced myself an instant before the crash, closing my eyes and twisting to spare my soft underbelly. This was going to hurt. This was ambulance time. Stupid, stupid Kate. Sorry, Mom.

  But the impact, when it came, glanced right off me. I staggered backward a few paces, astonished to find myself still standing up, and opened my eyes.

  Two men were rolling on the pavement in front of me. The runner, I remembered. The runner behind me. Or maybe a passing bicyclist. Some freaking hero.

  The rolling stopped. One of them straddled the other, throwing punches like a machine, swift and expert. Something dark splattered against my leg. “Oh my God!” I choked out. “Stop it! Somebody help!”

  Nobody came. A bicyclist flashed by without stopping; maybe he didn’t see us in the shadows, maybe he just thought we were a bunch of drunk teenagers. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  “Stop it!” I screamed again, louder, frantic. “Stop it! You’re killing him!”

  Suddenly the man on top jumped off, wiping his right hand on his shorts. The man on the bottom lay still.

  “Oh crap,” I whispered.

  The victor turned to me. “Are you okay?” he asked urgently, holding out his arms.

  I couldn’t discern his face in the near-darkness, but I knew his voice.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Julian?”

  “Christ, Kate.” His hands were running down my arms, my legs, checking for injuries. “Does anything hurt?”

  “Everything hurts,” I said, and then my nose crashed against his clavicle, and his arms bound like steel around my body.

  We said nothing, only breathing against each other, shuddering, until he pushed me away suddenly, gently.

  “You’re shaking. You’re in shock.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “No, you need a blanket. Some kind of… hell.” He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Don’t worry. I’m okay. What… what are you doing here?”

  “Out for a run.” His voice was grim.

  A groan escaped from the man on the ground. “Let’s get going,” Julian said.

  “And leave him here?”

  “He’s all right,” he said scornfully. “Arsehole.” The word sounded especially crude in his cut-glass British voice.

  “What if he, like, dies?”

  “He’s not going to die, Kate, I assure you.” He met my eyes and drew in a heavy breath. “All right. I’ll call 911 and leave a tip.”

  “We have to stay. We can’t just walk away. It’s, like, a crime scene. Sort of.”

  His knuckles rested on his hips. I could feel his frown, though I couldn’t quite make it out in the gloaming. He looked at the body on the pavement, and then turned back to enclose me in a long silent stare. “Fine. But it’s going to get messy. You’ll have to give a statement, maybe appear in court. He’ll probably sue me, once he knows who I am.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Not your fault. I can afford a lawyer, for God’s sake.” He drew out a phone from the pocket of his running shorts and punched the keypad. “I suppose it’s the right thing, anyway,” he said. “Not that he deserves it, mind you.”

  I felt my muscles begin to tremble now, breaking past my determination to stay calm. I wrapped my arms around my middle. Julian was talking on the phone, rapid and calm, facing the prone man, but he saw my movement peripherally and his eyes flicked over to me. He reached out his left arm and drew me in. “She seems all right,” he was saying, “but she’s beginning to go into shock. I’m trying to keep her warm. Yes. All right. Two minutes. Thanks very much.”

  He slid the phone back into his shorts and put his other arm around me. “They’ll be here shortly. Try to breathe slowly.”

  “Really, I’m okay,” I insisted, forcing down a sob. I’d never had hysterics, and I wasn’t going to start now, with Julian Laurence holding me in his arms. His thick heather-gray T-shirt felt soft against my face, slightly damp with sweat; his chest radiated with lovely heat. “So how did you happen to be out running just now?” I demanded.

  “Ruddy good luck, I suppose,” he said.

  I turned that over for a few seconds, and then something occurred to me.

  “And where did you learn to punch like that?”

  “Hmm. University.”

  “They teach boxing at college in England?”

  “The sweet science. Feeling better?” His arms began to ease.

  “Yes, a little. What if he wakes up?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said darkly, and I shut up. I could hear a siren now, at the outer fringes of my hearing.

  “I guess this isn’t the right time to talk…” I began.

  “Hush,” he said, running his palms along my back. The siren was getting louder. “We’ll talk later.”

  THE POLICE TOOK ONE LOOK at the situation—my scrapes and bruises, the groaning figure on the pavement, our forthright explanations, Julian’s knuckles—and didn’t give us much
trouble, beyond taking down our statements and names and addresses. They’re pretty smart, the NYPD. They can tell the good guys from the bad.

  Still, it was late when I got back to my apartment. One of the policemen gave us a ride to the East Side in his cruiser, and dropped me off first.

  “You’re really all right?” Julian asked, as I put my hand on the door handle.

  “Nothing a little Neosporin can’t cure,” I promised. “Um, thanks, by the way. I’ve never been rescued before.”

  “I could have lived without it.”

  “Of course. Bad joke.” I hesitated. “Sorry about the trouble. I mean, I really am.”

  His voice went soft. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, and paused. “Take care.”

  Was that it? Take care?

  “You too,” I said, and got out of the cruiser. It sped off down Seventy-ninth Street and turned right on Lexington, down the five short blocks to Julian’s house.

  PHONE. PHONE RINGING. I scrabbled at my bedside table for my BlackBerry and pressed the green button. “Hello?”

  The ringing kept on going. Must be the landline.

  I rolled out of bed and squinted at the clock. Six-thirty in the morning. Who the hell could it be? I couldn’t even think straight. Where was the phone? Somewhere in the living room, right? We almost never used it.

  I found it at last. “Hello?” I mumbled.

  “Is this Katherine Wilson?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Amy Martinez from the New York Post. I understand you were involved in an incident in Central Park last night with Julian Laurence of Southfield Associates?”

  The handset slipped from my fingers to crash on the floor.

  My thumbs flew. Julian, the Post just called. What should I say? Call me. I don’t know your number. Kate. P.S. So, so sorry.

  The phone rang a minute later. “Kate?”

  “Julian. I’m so sorry.”

  “Enough of that rubbish. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

  “You’re right, we should have left him there. I’m so stupid. I didn’t think about what it all meant for you.”

  I heard him sigh. “Kate, it’s irrelevant. I can handle a bit of press.”

  “But you hate publicity.”

  Silence. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re never in the papers. You never give interviews. And now Page Six is calling me and drawing God knows what conclusions…”

  “Calm down, darling. What did you say to them?”

  “Um. I said no comment,” I mumbled. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say? I mean, I’ve never talked to a reporter before…”

  “What was her name?”

  “Amy something. Menendez?”

  “Martinez. I’ll call her and sort things out. Go back to sleep.”

  “Sleep? I have to go to work. Oh, crap. Work. What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them the truth. If they ask.”

  “Which is?”

  He laughed at that point. “Which is that we were running in the park, and some rotter tried to attack you.”

  “Oh, sure. That will shut them all up.”

  “Look, I don’t mind. Tell them whatever you like, whatever sounds right to you. Let me handle Miss Martinez. We’ve spoken before.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Okay. Gladly.”

  “And don’t apologize,” he warned, just as I opened my mouth to do it.

  “Right,” I said. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Good. How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Sore. You?”

  “Right as rain. Now take some aspirin and go to work. I’ll handle it.”

  “All right.” I paused. “Thanks, Julian. I mean that.”

  “Good-bye, Kate. I’ll ring you later.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at it. Aspirin? Who the hell took aspirin anymore?

  6.

  By lunchtime, the word was out.

  Charlie cornered me in one of the unused conference rooms in the far corners of the Capital Markets floor. I hadn’t turned on the lights. I was hoping no one would notice me there. “Dude, what the fuck?” he asked under his breath. “You’re all over the Internet.”

  “Oh God. Seriously?”

  “Julian Laurence really laid some guy out for you?”

  “It was all just a big misunderstanding,” I said.

  “Some fucking misunderstanding. It’s on Gawker, dude.”

  “Gawker? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “Serious as a fucking heart attack. Links to the Smoking Gun.”

  “What’s that?”

  He pulled my laptop over and began typing a new URL. “It’s this Web site that posts public documents. Divorce filings and police reports, shit like that. And there! Boo-ya!” He turned the screen so I could see it.

  “Wow,” I said, impressed. There was last night’s police report, every livid detail.

  “So is that pretty much how it went down? And why were you out running with Julian Laurence, anyway?”

  “I wasn’t. He just happened to be there when the guy ran into me.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows lifted. He was no idiot. “Just happened to be there, huh?”

  “Yeah. Wild, huh?”

  He shook his head. “Full of shit, Kate. Full of shit. I thought we were friends.”

  “Charlie, I swear to God, I did not go out running with Julian Laurence last night! I was totally shocked when he came up and laid into that jerk.”

  “Shocked, shocked,” he said, like the guy in Casablanca.

  “Seriously, Charlie. I wouldn’t lie to you. Alicia and Banner, maybe, but not you.”

  He sat down in the chair next to me and swiveled for a moment. “All right. Fine. So do you think it was a coincidence? Or was he following you?”

  “I don’t know.” I turned back to my computer and propped up my chin with one hand.

  “It would be some fucking coincidence,” he offered.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Are you okay? You’re not, like, hurt or anything?”

  “Oh, now you think of my well-being. Once all the gossip is cleared away.”

  He flashed me a smile. “Hey, priorities! Seriously, though. You’re all right?”

  “I am totally all right. Just a couple of scrapes.” I pointed to my right arm. “Band-Aid stuff.”

  “Awesome. So have you had lunch yet?”

  “Charlie, there’s no way I’m poking my nose out of this conference room.”

  He considered this for a second or two. “I can bring you back something.”

  “Why are you being so freaking nice?”

  “Fucking nice,” he corrected me. “Because you’re famous now, and our celebrity-obsessed cultural imperative makes me, like, want to suck up to you. Reuben, maybe?”

  “Too greasy. Maybe something from that soup guy around the corner?”

  He stood up. “Done.”

  “And a Diet Coke?”

  “Don’t push it. You’re not that famous. Oh, fuck me. I’m outta here.”

  He dashed out of the conference room like I’d stung him, brushing past Alicia Boxer with a muttered “Hey, dude.”

  She frowned at his disappearing figure, and turned back to me with a broad grin. “Wow, Kate! You dark horse, you! Now I know why you jumped at the gala invitation like that.” She sat down in the chair Charlie had just left. “So what happened?”

  “Oh, it’s totally blown out of proportion,” I told her. “I was out for a run, and some guy tried to get all macho on me, and Julian sort of punched him.”

  She tilted her head speculatively. “So you two are, like, together?”

  “No, we’re just friends.”

  “Wow.” She smiled. “Some friend.”

  “He’s a good guy,” I said.

  “Hmm.” Her lips pursed. “So are we still on for dress shopping today? I can, like, sneak you out the back way if you like.”

  I opened my mouth to decl
ine, but then an image crossed my mind: me, in some devastating black gown, sweeping through the doorway to an admiring crowd. Which included Julian Laurence.

  I stood up. “Let’s go.”

  WE WERE deep inside Barneys before I remembered Charlie and the soup.

  “Oh, he can eat it himself,” Alicia said. “What about this one?” She held up a long red dress with a V neckline cut down to the navel.

  “Um, I was thinking of maybe an empire waist,” I said. “It kind of suits me.”

  She frowned and looked me over. “You have to have a certain kind of body to wear that well, Kate,” she said.

  Whatever that meant. “Well, I still like it,” I insisted.

  “O-kay,” she said. “What about this one?”

  “I’ll try it.” I had just caught sight of something a few racks away and began threading my way warily around the swinging hangers.

  My phone rang.

  My heart leapt at the sound, but when I took my BlackBerry out of my pocket, the number on the screen wasn’t Julian’s. I sighed and popped the Bluetooth into my ear. “Hi, Mom,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Honey, are you all right?”

  “Oh, Mom, you’re not crying, are you?”

  “Mary Alice called me with the news. What happened? Were you… mugged?” She said it in a hissing kind of whisper, like raped.

  “It was nothing. Some guy ran into me in the park, and a friend stepped in to help me out.”

  “Well, who’s this friend? Mary Alice says he’s some kind of… billionaire.” Again, the hissing whisper. For God’s sake.

  “Mom, he runs a hedge fund, that’s all. He’s like a client.”

  “Like a client? Or is a client?” Mom was invariably at her sharpest when it was least convenient.

  “It’s hard to explain. Wall Street stuff.”

  “Oh, honey. How badly were you hurt?”

  “Hardly at all. Just a few scrapes.”

  “But you must have been traumatized!”

  “Mom, the police took care of everything…”

  “Police!”