“Was it expensive?” she insisted. That was usually my other argument when I refused to buy something for the girls.
“Uhm, actually, kind of - but I had to pay far less than it actually costs.” Nonetheless the price was equivalent to the monthly school fee. Something started to tug at my conscience.
“Then you saved money?”
“Exactly, my clever girl!”
I was relieved and pushed that nagging feeling aside. It made no sense to buy a new handbag and then spoil the pleasure of it by allowing feelings of guilt. A new Chloé handbag, and a bargain! I was floating. I felt like a whole new person and was looking forward to taking it into the office on Monday. My grey Escada skirt suit and a white T-shirt would go with it perfectly. And I had shoes in a similar colour. And Tracey would still be in London on Monday, thank god. Thinking about Tracey and my conversation with Isabella dampened my excitement. I had to find a way to improve the situation. I just could not think of any.
* * *
I tried. It was the sunniest June in years and the most amazing one I had ever experienced in Frankfurt. The city was full of friendly football fans from around the world visiting for the World Cup, and people were celebrating on the streets. Every time there was an evening match Hugo and I would be invited by friends hosting a world cup party. But I would stay in the office instead, leaving Hugo to go out without me and the girls to spend their going to bed hour with Jana, without them even having received a good night kiss from their mother.
I felt utterly miserable.
To make things worse, I tortured myself thinking of Lars. I wanted to see him. I just needed to know whether it had been the heat of the moment or whether it might be more - could he be the One? Oh grow up, Chloé! I was thirty-nine years old and nearly divorced, I had given birth to two children, I had had several suitors and I was still dreaming of the knight in shining armour. No man would think along those lines.
--- original message ---
From: Helman, Lars [mailto: [email protected]]
To: Krakowski, Chloe
Re: Dinner
Honey,
dinner this evening?
Thinking of you.
L.
--- original message ---
From: Chloe Krakowski [mailto:[email protected]]
To: [email protected]
Re: RE: Dinner
Doesn’t look good. I have a closing tomorrow. It’s going to be a late night.
C.
--- original message ---
From: Helman, Lars [mailto: [email protected]]
To: Krakowski, Chloe
Re: RE: RE: Dinner
Then come over after you have finished. No matter how late it is.
What are you wearing?
OK, I got it. He just wanted to get me into bed. The worst thing was, I had had similar phantasies of my own. There was no way I would give in to him easily though. Hold on, Mister. Lars knew a lot about fashion. I was sure he had also heard of a certain lingerie brand. I chuckled and typed my reply.
--- original message ---
From: Chloe Krakowski [mailto:[email protected]]
To: [email protected]
Re: RE: RE: RE: Dinner
A Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. The rest is my and Victoria’s secret.
--- original message ---
From: Helman, Lars [mailto: [email protected]]
To: Krakowski, Chloe
Re: RE: RE: RE: RE: Dinner
Wow!! Not sure I can hold out until later, honey.
L.
Bingo. Now I had him on the hook and therefore - at least for now - kept control. Perhaps he would now woo me and spoil me and treat me like a queen. I imagined what it would be like to be with such a successful, powerful and wealthy man. I could talk to him about work and he would be interested and understand. He would take the lead, make decisions, guide me and support me. I imagined a glamorous life with him in technicolour. I indulged in some more fantasies and then turned again to the draft contract on my desk, waiting to be reviewed. I didn’t go to see him that night. He sent me several emails but I just couldn’t get away.
I concentrated on what I was able to control, and worked like a maniac for the rest of the month. I also wanted to somehow justify my upcoming holidays. After only two months at Pratt & Wonkey I would not normally be entitled to take any time off, but it had been part of the deal from the start. Furthermore, I had been working nearly double time - on average over sixty billable hours each week.
The time keeping system at P&W was the same as at Solomons and Howard Hewitt: from Monday to Friday every lawyer (or so-called time keeper) had to enter at least eight hours into a time keeping system. The smallest time unit was five minutes. The activity code would be the file matter number and one would need to describe, in detail, the type of work undertaken.
The firm’s expectation was that each minute of these eight hours would be spent on working for a client, i.e. billable hours. If you had to speak to a colleague, consider issues or read some file, you could bill that time. If you really could not allocate every five-minute unit to a particular matter number, you could use non-billable codes for things like client marketing, know-how development or training. The value of a lawyer to their law-firm is however, primarily, based on the amount of their billable hours. The more of the lawyer’s hours the firm can bill to the client, the higher their profitability. So forty to fifty billable hours per week were normal, but the expectation was sixty, seventy or even more. In return, unless a specific bonus system is in place, a lawyer with that sort of performance may receive brief acknowledgement in his or her annual review - the firm considered the monthly pay cheque as sufficient compensation.
So, even with sixty billable hours per week, which meant at least twelve hours every day working for a client, I was about average. Therefore I knew how to interpret Tracey’s facial expression when one day before I went on annual leave she wished me ‘a lovely holiday’.
6. Holiday!
We left at 3 a.m. on the Saturday prior to the World Cup final. We drove through the night and morning to avoid the main traffic and arrived in the South of France around lunchtime.
I had found a two-bedroom villa with a swimming pool and sea view in the hills north of St. Maxime. Hugo and I took turns driving during what was a rather long journey. I was in the driver’s seat for the last leg. It felt good leaving my foot on the accelerator and testing the speed of the car. Escaping from all that stress. I realised that the more distance we put between ourselves and home the more the stress and pressure was relieved.
I inhaled deeply. Finally, free. Finally, I would have some quality time with my family. I glanced at Hugo sitting next to me. He had after all been quite patient with me over the last few months. He was faithful and reliable - quite the opposite of me. I was upset with myself about my intermezzo with Lars and, at the same time, relieved that nothing further had happened. I had nearly put everything at stake. Now I was firmly resolved to ensure that we all would have a wonderful holiday.
“I can’t wait to see the pool!” I raved. “The house is supposed to have a lovely view of the valley. We should even be able to see the sea!”
“How far is it to the beach, mummy?” Noëlle enquired.
“Well, honey, I guess about forty minutes by car. If you and Marie want we could make a day trip to the beach. But we also have a large pool and terrace - you’ll see, you’ll like it.” I was content. The photos sent by the owner had been promising.
“Then we can teach Marie to swim,” Hugo interjected.
“That would be good - I am terrified she might fall into the pool and drown. Maybe you can help her,” I suggested.
“Of
course - we can manage, can’t we, Mariekins?” He turned around and held the palm of his hand towards her. “Gimme five!”
Marie leaned forward, giggling, and just managed to hit his wrist. “That’s too high!” she squealed.
Hugo leaned further towards her and she hit his flat hand with hers. “Excellent!” he praised her and turned back in his seat.
“In three hundred metres turn left.” The metallic female voice came from the sat-nav.
“The exit for St. Maxime is coming up,” I announced. “It’s not far from there.”
“Yippee! We’ll be there soon!” Noëlle shouted, jumping up and down on her child seat as much as the seat belt allowed.
I pressed the indicator. “C’est - les - vacances,” I started to sing. Noëlle and Marie continued “c’est - les - vacances - en - Italie”, as this is how the song went, but I quickly added, singing “c’est - les vacances - en Pro-vence”. The three of us laughed. Hugo knitted his brow.
“That’s a song by a French girl about the summer vacation,” I explained hastily.
“I see,” he grumbled, looking out of the side window.
I shrugged and winked at the girls in the rear mirror. They both grinned back and continued the song quietly.
A short while later we turned onto the gravel path leading to our holiday home, having passed through a charming little village and a pine forest. I turned off the engine and listened. The only audible noise was the chirring of the crickets.
“How gloriously quiet it is here! Come on, let’s go inside!” I took the key from the envelope that the owner had sent to me via DHL.
“You go ahead. I’m going to get the luggage out of the car,” Hugo said.
I unlocked the door and entered the house, the girls following right behind me. It was not luxurious but spacious and tastefully furnished. I opened the veranda doors and absorbed the spectacular view of the valley.
“Look, girls, you really can see the sea!”
Like two excited little puppies, Marie and Noëlle ran around exploring the surroundings. “Look mummy, there’s the pool!”
“Mummy, there’s a bedroom with two beds. Is that ours?”
“Probably, sweetie! I’ll be there in a minute!”
Hugo came into the house with the last suitcase. “Where shall I put them?”
“I don’t know yet. Just put them down and look around! Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s all great, angel.”
“What’s up? You seem annoyed.”
“Nah, I’m not. I - uhm - I just think it’s a bit quiet and isolated. And this steep pine forest - well, the surroundings are not quite ideal for running. I’ve got to go for my run every day, otherwise it’ll really get too boring for me.” He snorted.
That hurt. I averted my eyes. Why could he not share my enthusiasm? I had made such an effort to find something nice. Why then did he leave all the organisation and decision to me? I tried hard to suppress my rising anger.
“Maybe you will give it a try. And also, you can go swimming.” I pointed to the pool. The water was glistening in the sun.
“Oh well, the pool is a bit too small for me - three strokes and I’m already on the other side.”
I could feel my anger now flaring and decided that it was better to ignore his objection. “I saw a sign for a supermarket down at the big intersection - if you don’t mind, I will go and get us what we need for today and tomorrow.”
“Uh, yeah, great. With my non-existent French, shopping could become a bit of a problematic experience,” he joked.
“You don’t really need to speak French in order to go food shopping at the supermarket.” I could not help my sarcasm. “Anyway I love going food shopping in France.” Just thinking of olives, air-dried salami, unpasteurised cheese, and wine from Provence already made my mouth water.
“Come on, girls, we’re going shopping!” I called outside. I took my handbag and calmly looked at Hugo. “I have been really looking forward to our time here and I think we both deserve a rest.”
The girls ran into the room. “Mummy, the pool is great!” Marie exclaimed.
“Can we go in later?” Noëlle added.
“Of course, my darlings. We’re just quickly going to get some things from the supermarket.” I turned to Hugo. “See you later,” I said sweetly and kissed him on the cheek. I was determined not to let anybody spoil my good mood. I was on holiday!
“Have fun!” he called after us.
* * *
We spent the remainder of the day in the villa. The weather was gloriously warm - the girls and I were in our bikinis all afternoon. I read my book in the sun, played board games with the girls, served all meals on the terrace - chicken breast with tomato salad for lunch and grilled fish for dinner.
That evening, having put Marie and Noëlle to bed after their shower, I got myself a glass of rosé and went to join Hugo on the sofa in front of the TV. He was watching the third place play-off Germany vs. Portugal. I sat down next to him and snuggled up to his shoulder. He briefly turned his face towards me and pressed a quick kiss on my forehead. “Shh, Schweinsteiger has the ball.”
Hmm, it seemed I had to remind him of the ball we could have together. Within a few hours he had already tanned and looked delicious. I thought of Lars and asked myself which of them I would prefer to be here with me. Either a beautiful and sexy man or a witty and sophisticated one. I guess one could not have both. Neither could I expect Hugo suddenly to be somebody else. He was, for sure, not unintelligent but we always communicated best at a physical level.
I slid upwards and began gently to kiss his ear. He groaned. I fondled his ear lobe and then wandered down his neck. He bent his head back, groaning again. I started slowly to unbutton his shirt. I stopped thinking, leaving free reign to my instincts. He inhaled deeply through his teeth.
“Okay, that’s it,” he spluttered.
He got up and pulled me from the sofa to sweep me into his arms. From the corner of my eyes I could see the TV screen showing a slow motion repeat of the goal that had just been scored by Bastian Schweinsteiger, the French commentator shouting ‘Oui, oui, oui!!’
Who the hell cares about the match now, I thought as Hugo carried me to our bedroom and closed the door behind us. He placed me gently on the bed.
He tore the shirt over his head, kicked off his shorts and just stood there for a moment. Then he bent over me and pulled off my dress in one short movement. When a groan escaped me, he grinned and held his hand over my mouth. I bit his finger and giggled. Yes, this was indeed the way we communicated best. I didn’t need, nor want, to talk anymore. I just repeated, in my head, the last words I had heard coming from the television - oui - oui - OUI!
* * *
The next day I was lying in the sun on the deckchair watching my belly getting tanned. I tensed my abs and critically pulled at the skin fold that remained. I sighed. I could do as many sit-ups and diets as I wanted - two pregnancies would leave their trace. I knew that considering my age my body was fine, but I wasn’t content. I did what my time and budget allowed - expensive anti-wrinkle creams and dermatologist appointments for the face, sports and a healthy diet for the body. I was lucky though - I had little cellulite. On the other hand, I got more and more freckles - really everywhere, except my face. I was used to them. But I so wished for a milky, spotless skin and for physical beauty that wouldn’t ever give cause for a man to be critical of me - not in the manner in which my father was to my mother, when her once thick raven hair became thinner and grey, after years of trying so hard to be perfect for him had left wrinkles on her face. I could still hear him telling her: Look at you. You’re getting old. Everything is getting saggy. Look at those wrinkles.
Well, you cannot have it all, I thought wistfully. But I did want it all - career and children, beaut
y and brains, and then maybe a fantastic man, who is good-looking, respects my independence and, at the same time, adores and cares for me. Yes, dream on.
Above all a man who loves my children, right? Was that not the most important thing? I sat up and watched them playing in the pool. Hugo helped Marie learn how to swim by establishing the basic swimming motions. Noëlle was also demonstrating how it was done. I smiled happily. Hugo was fond of the girls after all. They were fond of him. I didn’t want to be a single mother. My other personal needs would have to take a back seat.
I startled when the aggressive ring tone of my blackberry penetrated my thoughts. It was a P&W landline number. I pressed the green button.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Chloé. It’s Tracey. I am so sorry to disturb you on your holiday.”
My insides churned and my heart starting beating faster. That was not a good sign. I cleared my throat and concentrated on letting my voice sound friendly. “Oh, hello, Tracey. No problem at all. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’ve had a call from William Hacker at Holman Bank, about a new property deal. It’s nearly the same as the one you’ve just closed, except it’s industrial not residential property.”
“U-huh. OK?” I tensed up. A new deal on a Sunday? What on earth could she want from me?
“Yes, well, we’re a bit stretched here for capacity and I have a meeting in the office all afternoon today, so could I fax you the term sheet for you to have a look at and mark up with your comments? The client wants a call at three.”
I knew that her question was a rhetorical one. Of course she expected a positive answer. I had to submit to my fate.
“Yes of course, Tracey. There is no fax here but you can send it by email - I’ll read it on the laptop.”
“Oh, I see. I always make sure I have at least a fax machine in the vicinity when I go on holiday.” That’s because you are completely gaga, I thought.
“Yes, that’s such a good idea,” I said sweetly. “Would it be okay if I send my comments in an email before the call?”
“Alright, then,” she agreed reluctantly. “I’ll send you William’s vcard with his phone number.”
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