Summer in the City

by Robyn Sisman

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, nobody would give a serious job to a person who had leaked such important client information, would they?”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that someone else leaked that data and pinned it on me. If you’d just give me a chance to explain, I can prove to you that I didn’t do it.”

  “OK, prove it.”

  Lloyd slid the small cassette recorder out of his pocket and placed it on the marble top beside the washbasin.

  Harry’s face tightened with distaste. “I don’t like spies.” He took an angry step toward the door.

  Lloyd’s heartbeat was racing. Quick! He pushed the ON button.

  “Of course I hope we can keep Passion, but this way we’re covered, however Ross Bannerman jumps . . .” Sheri’s voice sounded tinny in the high, tiled room.

  Harry stopped. He shot Lloyd a sharp glance as Bernie’s reply rumbled out of the machine, then listened to the rest of the conversation staring impassively at his shoes.

  “If this thing with Stateside comes off, maybe I can get that asshole Fox off my back.” Lloyd switched off the tape.

  Harry raised his eyes to Lloyd’s. “Is there more?”

  “Nothing you’d want to hear.”

  “Who did the recording?”

  “That’s not relevant.”

  “You can fake these things,” Harry suggested.

  “You can. But I didn’t.”

  “Even if you didn’t, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Not by itself, no. But there’s more.”

  Lloyd could see that Harry was of two minds. “Hear me out,” he pleaded. “If I don’t convince you, then you won’t hear from me again. That’s a promise.”

  The silence that followed was broken by the squeak of the door and a sudden roar from the banqueting hall as a middle-age man entered the room. His eyes swiveled curiously to Lloyd and Harry, then he went into a cubicle and clicked the lock shut.

  Lloyd waited. There was no more to say. He had done his best.

  “Breakfast tomorrow.” Harry’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The Ritz, seven thirty. I’m flying to New York at midday. I’ll give you half an hour.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After the simmer of the streets, with their frenzy of after-work traffic, the hotel lobby was cool and civilized. Sheri led the way across the Aubusson carpet, her head held high. A handsome young bellhop stepped smartly out of her path and extended a gloved hand to open a door marked Hades Bar. Suze followed Sheri inside and found herself plunged into near-darkness. As her eyes adjusted, she made out a small zinc-topped bar illuminated by atmospheric blue bulbs, behind which a faceless barman loomed white. Tables hugged the walls, each surrounded by deep, plush chairs. Most were empty. There were no windows. It was the sort of place, Suze thought, where a rich woman might meet her secret lover—or her drug dealer.

  It was the evening before the presentation. Suze had been working late again when Sheri had breezed into her office, high on an adrenaline rush, and insisted they go out for a drink together. “Isn’t tomorrow your last day with us? Come on, let’s celebrate.”

  This was the Sheri who had dazzled Suze on her first day in the New York office—persuasive, impressive, irresistible. Caught on the hop, Suze had been unable to think of a reason not to go.

  They sat down opposite each other at a table furnished with a tiny domed lamp and a bowl of superior salted nuts. Sheri settled herself with a contented sigh. “I love this place. Hardly anyone in New York knows it’s here.”

  “It’s great,” Suze agreed, enjoying the feeling that she was one of a select few.

  “So, what do you say?” Sheri asked, when the Bloody Marys had arrived. “Are we ready for tomorrow?”

  Suze raised the chilled glass to her lips, feeling faintly treacherous. “Everyone’s worked very hard,” she parried.

  “You certainly have.” Sheri bobbed her head approvingly. “I congratulate you, Suzanne. I had the impression that English people took a lot of tea breaks and went home early.”

  “Actually, we have the longest working hours in Europe. It’s a matter of style,” Suze explained. “We like to pretend that our achievements are effortless.”

  “How peculiar! You English are a mystery to me. I wonder what else you’re hiding?”

  Suze fidgeted with the nut bowl. Was Sheri hinting at something? But Sheri smiled serenely, and changed the subject. “Tell me, when are you flying home?”

  “Saturday morning.” Suze felt a flutter of anticipation.

  “You’ll be back,” Sheri assured her. “There’s no place in the world like New York. I could help you find a job here, if you wanted.”

  “I’d love that.” Suze leaned forward eagerly. Then she remembered why this would be impossible. “At least, one day, perhaps.”

  Sheri wagged a finger at her. “ ‘One day’ is a phrase I do not allow in my vocabulary. Opportunities don’t come around twice. You have to grab what you want off the candy tray.” She threw out one arm imperiously. “Waiter! Two more Bloody Marys over here.”

  Suze saw with surprise that Sheri’s glass was already empty. It seemed that tonight, for once, Sheri was declaring herself off duty, off the leash.

  “So many women flunk out of their careers,” Sheri continued. “They get pregnant, or they can’t take the responsibility, or they watch with big doe-eyes while some man grabs the big job.” Her voice sizzled with scorn. “Look at me. I have a great job, a good address, money in the bank. You could have the same. The secret is knowing what you want, and not letting anything—or anyone—stand in your way.”

  Suze tried to picture herself in a sleek penthouse in New York or London with an important job, a large income and a huge designer wardrobe. Was that what she wanted?

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those ‘feminists,’ ” Sheri said scornfully. “I just know what I want out of life.”

  “What about men?”

  “Sure, they can be a help—especially the older, married ones who don’t get laid often enough.” Sheri winked.

  “No, I mean ‘relationships.’ ” Suze grimaced apologetically at the word. “I mean love.”

  “I don’t love, Suzanne, I fuck. That’s what men want, and I do it well.” Her face twisted. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “And you’ve never wanted to get married?”

  “Why buy when you can rent? With marriage all that happens is that you stop doing what you want and start doing what your husband wants you to do—going to the supermarket, entertaining his friends, fixing up his home, moving to a strange city for the sake of his job. That’s all on top of your own job, of course. Then when you’re all worn out he tells you you’re not as much fun as you used to be and moves on to wife number two. Who needs it?”

  Suze nodded. She had often expressed similar views herself. “I dread being married to a man with his jacket hanging up in his car,” she confessed.

  “There are worse things.” Sheri’s voice hardened. “Like men who beat up their wives, then leave them in some trailer park with a bunch of kids and no money.”

  “Still, I suppose marriage doesn’t have to be like that.” Suze was thinking of her own parents. “Two grown-up people can simply like being together.”

  “Sure they can. It’s called sex.”

  “No. I mean—” Suze stopped, confused by her own thoughts. She had a private image of herself, curled up in an armchair reading a book, with unwashed hair and wearing an old pair of jeans, and having a man look across at her and say, “I love you,” and mean it. This was too corny for words. Instead she asked, “Haven’t you ever wanted children?”

  Sheri waved a dismissive hand. “My apartment’s so small. Where would I keep them? Take my advice, Suzanne. If you want to be successful in this world, like me, you can’t afford to waste time on relationships.”

  Suze thought of the years wasted with Lawrence—wasted not because he had ma
rried someone else but because he had kept her bound within his own limitations for so long. She’d never seen it quite that way before. And after Lawrence had come Nick. Where she had expected romance, she had found hurt and humiliation.

  The darkness made her bold. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is it true that you asked Nick Bianco to take me out?”

  “Didn’t you like him?” Sheri looked surprised. “I can tell you, in some circles he’s regarded as one of the most desirable men in town.”

  “He’s very charming,” Suze admitted. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.”

  Sheri gave a full-blooded laugh. “I wasn’t expecting you to marry the guy. Every girl deserves a fling now and then.”

  “Nick implied that asking me out was a kind of favor to you.”

  “Men are such blabbermouths.”

  “So it’s true?”

  A gleam of private amusement lit Sheri’s face. “Sort of. You have to remember I didn’t know you so well then. Maybe I didn’t want you asking too many questions about your work.”

  “Why would you worry about that?”

  Sheri paused to consider. Then she leaned across the table toward Suze. The lamplight sharpened the shadows under her strong cheekbones and the thrust of her chin. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve been developing a little insurance policy in case Passion decides not to stay with us.”

  Suze opened her eyes wide. “I don’t understand.”

  “The fact is, I happen to have some good contacts at Stateside.”

  “So?” Suze tried to sound casual.

  “And I’m sure I could swing that account on board if Passion doesn’t come to the party,” Sheri finished smugly.

  “So you win either way. How clever. I don’t think I’d be brave enough to try anything like that. Weren’t you worried about client conflict?”

  Sheri’s nostrils flared with disdain. “Rules are for little people. You have to see the big picture.”

  Despite everything Suze couldn’t suppress a flicker of admiration for Sheri—a lone woman, manipulating these large companies for her own ends. There was an ingenious symmetry about her plans. Suze felt a lurch of guilt about what she was plotting with Lloyd. It was still not too late to ally herself with Sheri and a glittering future in New York.

  Sheri pressed home her point. “Suzanne, if you want something, you have to reach out and grab it. Why not? You have talent and you have guts. You don’t want to be Miss Ordinary, do you?”

  “No,” Suze replied uncertainly. She looked away. More shadowy figures had gathered in the small bar. She watched them murmuring to each other in the gloom, like priests and sinners at the confessional. Sly shafts of light flashed on a signet ring embedded in a man’s hairy hand and lingered on the curve of a glossy, stockinged calf. Suze blinked and stretched her eyes, feeling half blind.

  “You have to go for what you want, Suzanne.” Sheri’s eyes glittered with zeal. “And remember, we girls have an advantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We can make men do what we want.” Sheri smiled lasciviously. “I remember when I was a little kid, maybe nine years old, and a fair came to town. I didn’t have any money to go, but I found a place where you could squeeze through the fence. And there it was! All these lights and glamour and bright costumes. What I absolutely craved was a beautiful doll that was the first prize in the shooting gallery. She had real hair and a big stiff skirt with sequins and lace. She was so perfect, so clean. I’d never had a brand new toy in my life. I used to go every night and stare at her. On the last night of the fair, the man running the booth told me I could keep her if I gave him a kiss. Well, he was kind of dirty-looking, and it turned out to be a little more than a kiss, but it wasn’t so bad. And he gave me that doll! I couldn’t believe how easy it was.”

  Suze stared, too shocked to comment. She had been to fairgrounds too, and had coveted the fluffy vulgar prizes, but she had always gone with her hand held tight, or high on her father’s shoulders. “Where’s your family now?” she asked.

  “Who knows?” Sheri knocked back the last of her drink. “The point I’m making is that deciding what you want is the key to success. While other people are hesitating about the right thing to do, you can snatch the prize from under their noses.”

  “Like Lloyd Rockwell, for example?” Suze asked daringly.

  “Lloyd?” Sheri screwed up her eyes as if she could barely remember him. “He wasn’t so bad, in a WASPy kind of a way. Those polite, preppy types are always the biggest pushovers. I even maneuvered him into making a pass at me once.” She chuckled. “It lasted all of sixty seconds, but after that I pretty much had him by the balls.”

  A wave of revulsion broke over Suze. And when she surfaced, it was as if all her illusions had been swept away. For the first time she saw Sheri clearly: how she fed off the power and talent of others. The image of Sheri astride Bernie on the black sofa arose in her mind, filling her with disgust. Sheri was a parasite, with no ideas or creativity of her own; at the center of her being was a void.

  Suddenly Suze wanted to get out. She made a show of looking at her watch. “Gosh, I must go.”

  Sheri didn’t seem to hear. “Winners and losers,” she murmured, “that’s what it’s all about.” She gripped Suze’s arm. “You can be a winner—like me.”

  Suze held herself still. She could feel Sheri’s moist palm, warm on her bare arm. She saw the manicured perfection of her pink, polished nails, the expensive elegance of the watch that trapped her slim wrist in a chain of gold. Sheri was lonely, Suze realized, with a twinge of pity.

  She stood up abruptly. “Thank you for the drinks. I still have work to finish,” she explained.

  “Attagirl.” There was the faintest slur in Sheri’s voice. “That’s what I like about you, Suzanne. We’re two of a kind.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Market indices show that forty-two percent of married couples plan to visit Europe at some stage in the near future . . .” Sheri tapped the bar-chart on the screen with a stick. This morning she was dressed in fire-engine red. She looked marvelous.

  Suze gripped the edge of her chair, her heart racing. She had lain awake most of last night, worrying. Since six o’clock this morning she and Dee Dee had been in the office, making the preparations. What if it didn’t work? What if they were wrong? What if—? Suze forced herself to concentrate on the man at the center of the boardroom table. Ross Bannerman, the founder of Passion, had a face more familiar than the president’s: you could barely open a newspaper or magazine without seeing his cheesy grin somewhere. It was an odd sensation to see him here now, in the flesh, with Tucker, the marketing director, and another Passion colleague, whose name Suze didn’t catch. She wondered what they were making of Sheri’s presentation.

  From the start Sheri had been in overdrive. She had insisted on conducting a rehearsal beforehand, and now that Suze saw her in action for the second time she realized that every word Sheri mouthed was scripted. Suze almost felt sorry for her: Sheri was trying so hard, but Suze could tell that her whole approach was wrong for Passion. Even her swanky suit jarred with the casual wear of Bannerman’s tieless team.

  Harry was looking cool, as he always did. He had nodded a greeting to Suze as he entered the room, but had said nothing.

  Bernie had opened the meeting by referring to the “Rockwell Incident.” It was regrettable, Bernie had said, but Lloyd had been fired; the incident was closed. Today’s meeting was to plan the future, not to dwell on the past. Schneider Fox had devised an entirely new campaign, which would fuel Passion’s drive to replace Stateside as the market leader in the transatlantic airline business. Spear-heading that campaign would be Rockwell’s replacement, Sheri Crystal.

  After a good half hour of guff, Sheri presented a sixty-second film showing a businessman shaking hands with a colleague outside an office building; relaxing in the care of an attractive (but not too at
tractive) flight attendant; and then being welcomed by his wife and children in an airport arrivals lounge. A woman’s voiceover boasted breathily, “We look after you better”; the same copyline accompanied stills from the film in a series of print and billboard mock-ups.

  It was well produced—Suze had done much of the work herself—but the content was uninspiring. When the tape ended, there was dead silence.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Bernie said, with grating bonhomie.

  Sheri had resumed her place at the table and was staring down, twiddling a pen in both hands.

  Bannerman and Tucker exchanged a look. Suze held her breath. Then Bannerman spoke. “I have to say that it’s not what we’ve come to expect from Schneider Fox. In the past, you’ve always created something that traded on Passion’s distinctiveness. We’ll have to think about it.”

  “It’s bland.” Tucker was blunt. “It might as well be an advertisement for Stateside.”

  Sheri opened her mouth to say something, then shut it again. Bernie put on his most ingratiating smile. “Well, we certainly appreciate your frankness,” he said. “I guess we’ll need to do some more work.”

  “I think we’ll need to explore our options,” said Tucker brutally. He began to gather up his papers.

  Suze swallowed. She must speak now, before it was too late. “In that case I’m sure you’ll be interested to see our alternative presentation,” she said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she felt. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Bernie look inquiringly at Sheri, and Sheri shake her head. She prayed that Dee Dee was ready. “It won’t take very long,” she continued. “I want to show you a rough video mock-up, just to give you an idea.” Before anyone could tell her not to, she slotted another tape into the machine.

  The tape she had spent hours preparing took one minute to play. After twenty seconds Bannerman was smiling; after fifty he was laughing. “That’s more like it!” He slapped the table. “It’s much more us than the first presentation, much more like what you did for us way back.” As he was saying this, his eyes turned from Suze to where Harry was sitting. There was a pause.