“YOU FUCKED IT UP! YOU REALLY HAVE FUCKED IT UP!”
“Again, I am so sorry! I was sure you told me to send it - I can send an email to all saying that it was sent by mistake if you want.”
“IT’S TOO FUCKING LATE, YOU HAVE FUCKED IT UP AND THAT’S ALL! NOW I HAVE TO SEE WHAT I CAN DO TO GET US OUT OF THIS SHIT!” He hung up with a bang.
My body was shaking. I felt sick - I was in shock. In my entire career nobody had ever spoken to me like that. Apart from the fact that no damage had been done - the letter had not been signed by the bank and I knew it did not contain anything to the bank’s disadvantage. Maybe there was something I didn’t know. Of course we were all overtired and Deepak, particularly, was under enormous pressure to get the deal done. Above all it was about huge sums of money. Just think of the fees that the bank would receive, not to mention there was the important business relationship between HOLREF and Francobank. Still. Nearly all conditions precedent - CPs - for the drawdown had been fulfilled. The conditions which the borrower was allowed to fulfil later were set out in that CP letter. The bank was not yet obliged to pay out the two and a half billion Euros. The letter set out all the points that Deepak had instructed me on.
My telephone rang again. Deepak. I tried to calm down and stop my hands from shaking.
“I spoke to HOLREF and told them the letter was fine as it is but they really need to make sure to fulfil the outstanding CPs next week.”
What???? So where had the problem been? “Right, Deepak, understood. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Yeah. So we are going to transfer the money now. Thanks.” He hung up again.
I left my office to go to the ladies’ to wash my hands. I looked in the mirror and saw my pale face with the deep dark circles around my eyes. Now I definitely looked older than forty. Was this job really worth it all? Was all the money really worth being screamed at and working yourself half to death whilst neglecting your children?
I had no answer.
10. Wherever I Lay My Hat
Finally the wandering years were to come to an end. I had stopped counting how many times I moved house in my life. It is one of the most stressful things to do yet, to look for a new home is so exciting. It was new for me to look at the “For Sale” listings and to calculate what I could afford. Even though our real estate finance transactions were usually commercial investment properties, I had an idea what to expect from the bank in terms of mortgage and equity requirements. I also realised that I was about to make an enormous commitment. First, this was to be the permanent home for my family, and that included Hugo. As the ultimatum was still not yet overdue I assumed we would continue as we were. He would hardly leave me just because I might not be ready to have another child. However, if for any reason things didn’t work out, in the long run, I would be independent and the girls would not have to move house. Secondly, I would always have to have a job that was so well paid that I could afford the mortgage payments. That part was scarier. The cost of maintaining a house would be so much higher than just renting a place. I would have to stop going shopping. As that made me depressed, I decided that I should give myself a monthly allowance.
I checked the estate agents’ website daily and viewed all properties that were remotely appropriate, but one, or more, things were wrong with each property. I looked at a house where the only bathroom and toilet was en suite to the master bedroom; a house where each room was as small as a rabbit hole; a house where the garden was the size of a doormat; a house that reeked of the twelve cats and seven dogs that inhabited it. Then, one sunny Saturday afternoon in late autumn, the girls and I went to see a house that was in the right area, large enough and affordable. I had not received any photographs in advance and when we pulled up in front of it I knew why: from the outside it rather resembled a barrack. I was about to restart the engine and just drive away when the estate agent spotted us and waved us in.
The house was a relic from the 1960s which was when it had been built: it had avocado green bathrooms, partly ancient felt carpet or lino floors, internal flower beds integrated in the floors - I had never seen anything like it - and glass brick components around the main entrance door. But when I stood in the enormous living room, looking through the terrace doors onto the unmown lawn, strewn with dry leaves, and listening to Noëlle and Marie running through the spacious rooms, my instant thought was: Christmas. This house deserves to be filled with warm light and children’s laughter.
So I did it - just before Christmas I actually closed on the acquisition of this huge vacant house, which was in dire need of complete refurbishment. It had been the ultimate shopping experience. A new handbag at Louis Vuitton, shoes at Prada or a cashmere coat at Chloé - that was exhilarating but there was no comparison to buying a house. A detached, real house. With a large garden and old trees. I would not be able to wear it but maybe that was exactly why the feeling of happiness lasted longer than a week. It would be our home. No annoying and loud neighbours anymore, just peace, light, harmony, permanence, stability. For the girls and me - as well as Hugo, of course.
So I rolled up my sleeves, hired a builder friend of Hugo’s, gave him a carefully calculated budget and nine weeks, starting in January, and we got to work on my project. Tiles, bathtubs, wash basins, taps, flooring, windows, radiators - every Saturday I would spend hours on the building site and in the home improvement store. Over two hundred and fifty square metres had to be completely refurbished, three bathrooms had to be re-built and re-designed - in spite of a three-star budget, I wanted them to look like those in five-star hotels: brick and tile washing stand, mirror embedded into the tiling, brick and tile walk-in shower. My biggest challenge was to compose a kitchen at Ikea (after all for which I already had 400 Euros thanks to Hugo’s romantic birthday present...!). How am I supposed to know how many cupboards and drawers I needed? In the last twenty years I had always somehow managed with every kitchen I moved into. However, I knew I definitely wanted a freestanding oven integrated into a counter in the middle where one could sit on bar stools. There was just enough space for that purpose. Everything else would sort itself out somehow.
When all that was left of the house was a shell, all the flooring and bathrooms having been ripped out, the walls and ceilings stripped, all wiring and pipes laid bare and fifteen windows removed, I experienced a flash of panic. How on earth would we be able to live here in a few weeks’ time?
But we managed it. The paint on the wall was just about dry when the removal van arrived. Nearly one hundred packing boxes were unloaded, the furniture roughly placed in the rooms into which it belonged. Hugo got to feel and hear a lot of my tension, because, in my view, he had avoided all the hassles and trouble.
It so happened that we did, after all, address the topic I was dreading. One night, not long after my birthday, I announced to him that there was no way I would have any more children or get married again. I don’t know what kind of reaction I expected - maybe something like ‘it does not matter, my angel. I love you more than anything else and the most important thing is that we are together. Besides, you already have the cutest children in the world’.
But, no. He tensed his shoulders and answered very soberly. “In that case it would be better if I don’t move into your new house properly. I will keep the basement flat here and just have a cupboard at your place.”
I felt stunned and deeply disappointed. Three years into the relationship the moment of truth had arrived. I actually never thought that he had seriously imagined taking the conventional path with me - a middle-aged divorcée with two children, having a full-time and demanding job. I just thought that he really loved me and that we’d just continue as we were.
“I guess,” I replied. I was hardly going to beg. What did I expect after all? I was not able to give Hugo what he wanted. However, a potential separation in instalments did not promise to be less painful. Somehow I could not imag
ine our life without him.
I didn’t have much time, however, to dwell upon it. After the pre-Christmas all-nighters the New Year 2007 didn’t get off to a slow start either. Since the closing of the Holman deal had been done so quickly, and with so many items left open, it meant that the credit agreement, despite running for over two hundred pages, was incomplete. It would now need to be amended (Tracey had been right of course - we should have drafted the agreement from the start). In addition, numerous conditions precedent had not been fulfilled but turned into conditions subsequent. Even for the seven lawyers involved on our side this financing of more than one hundred properties for thirty borrowers had been too much to get done properly in such a short timeframe.
It was precisely at that hectic time that I received an invitation by email.
Dear Oxonian, you are herewith cordially invited to the first dinner of the Oxford Society in Frankfurt. Our guest speaker will be Professor...
The invitation was for the coming Tuesday at 7.30 p.m. I was at first tempted to ignore the email. I had not been back in Oxford since our very pompous graduation ceremony in the Sheldonian Theatre. Having spent only one academic year in Oxford, most of which I had spent practically chained to my desk in the Law Bod, trying to prove that even as a non-native speaker and without a first class undergraduate law degree I deserved my place on this prestigious course, I had managed to convince everyone that I was bright enough. I felt immensely privileged but I never felt that I really belonged there. It was the hardest time, but it had also been the most wonderful and special time. So why not revive some of that? It might lift my mood. I would manage somehow to get out of the office in time. I knew a few lawyers at Howard Hewitt in Frankfurt who had also studied at Oxford University. If they also attended it might be fun and if not, I could always leave early. The guest speaker was not uninteresting either. Apart from that, I had no expectations.
* * *
Our eyes entangled at first sight.
He was tall, with short blondish hair, alert blue eyes and a face somewhere between innocent and dangerous. He approached me and introduced himself in the finest Oxford English.
“Good evening. I am Thomas Adorno.” He tilted his head slightly, indicating a bow.
“Adorno? Like the philosopher?” I raised one eyebrow.
“Yes, but no relation.”
“I see.” I shook his hand. “My name is Chloé. Chloé Krakowski.”
He shot me an amused look. “Krakowski? Like Krakow, the city?”
“Indeed, but no relation,” I grinned.
He laughed, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “Touché! So, you studied in Oxford?”
“Yes. Postgraduate law.”
“B.C.L. or D.Phil.?”
“I see you do know your degrees. B.C.L. One year.”
“Wow. I am impressed. It usually takes two years, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. And you? No, let me guess.”
He had a very self-confident demeanour. That could only mean two things: (i) he had attended one of the rich, large colleges and (ii) he had read PPE - Politics, Philosophy and Economy - a degree for which Oxford is particularly renown.
“PPE. And you were at St. John’s.”
“Not bad! PPE yes, but at Wadham. And you?”
“Exeter.”
“Lovely chapel and gardens. Awful food.”
“I know. But I lived outside - just up the Iffley Road.”
“And what do you these days, Chloé?”
“I’m a lawyer. At Pratt & Wonkey.”
“Hm. Good firm. I myself had a brief career at Howard Hewitt but left to set up my own management consultancy with my old college friend Sebastian over there.” He pointed to a man with dark hair and glasses standing nearby.
“Really? Interesting. Talking about food - I think we have to join the others for the dinner. Shall we go inside?”
“Of course. Please - may I?” He led me to the room next door where people had sat down at a large dining table. He found the nearest unoccupied chairs, pulled one out for me and then sat down himself. While I was studying the menu, he leaned to me and whispered.
“You know, I nearly did not turn up tonight. But now I am very glad I did.” He looked into my eyes with a slight smile.
Whoops. My heart sank somewhere into my stomach. It was really amazing how one single sentence could create an erotically tense atmosphere. After a while the man on my right started trying to engage me into a debate about Einstein - which was the topic of the after dinner speech. I could hardly concentrate, as I could sense Thomas was watching me throughout the entire meal, even whilst he was engaged in conversation with the person on his left. When the guest speaker stood up after desert, Thomas leaned towards me.
“Did you know that Einstein’s theory of relativity is all about energy? If you think about it, any communication between two people is just a form of exchange of energy.”
I glanced at his mouth. I imagine the energy with which I would kiss those lips of yours, I thought. He had followed my glance, guessed my thoughts and now curled his lips. I sat up straight and cleared my throat a little too loudly, turning the irritated speaker’s eye on me. I gave Thomas a meaningful look and put my index finger to my lips. “Shush.”
Thomas winked with amusement and, demonstratively, turned his attention to the speaker.
I didn’t listen to the speech. Instead, I honestly wondered what I was about to get myself into. Again. When the speaker had finished I immediately rose from my chair.
“I’ve got to go.”
Thomas seemed surprised. “How unfortunate. I was hoping we could continue our discussion at the bar.”
“I promised my babysitter not to be too late.”
“You have children?”
“Two girls.”
“How lovely, and you work full-time. Amazing.”
He didn’t ask whether I was married but, after all, I did no wear a wedding ring. Neither did he, by the way. “In that case, please let me make sure you get to your cab safely.”
“That’s very kind. I am fine though. My car is just outside.”
“I insist.”
He accompanied me to my car and waited until I had unlocked it. I turned around to find him standing very close.
“Good night.” I elongated a little so as to give him a kiss on the cheek. He pressed me softly against the driver’s door, took my face between his hands and kissed me passionately. I went all weak at the knees and for a moment my mind was blank, save for my mouth melting into his. It took me enormous discipline to disengage myself from him.
“Stop - somebody could see us!” I panted. It just occurred to me that Patricia and Michael lived around the corner.
“I’ve got to see you again. Soon. Here’s my card. Call me.” He kissed me again. Oh God.
“I really have to go.” I pulled away and got into the car. “You can find me at Pratt & Wonkey. You know where that is.”
“I do know where that is. I will find you. Drive safely.”
He was still standing where I had left him as I drove away. I chuckled, shaking my head. What on earth was that about? I really had a talent for getting myself onto this kind of situation - like that evening with Lars. Why was I not adored and courted like a coy princess? How come every man I found attractive (and there weren’t that many!) immediately wanted to strip off my clothes? Did I give off any obvious signals? For sure this was not to be mixed up with romance. Even if a man was as charming and eloquent as Thomas. As well as being such a fantastic kisser! I knew I wanted to see him again, but there was no way I would initiate it.
* * *
I did not have to. Nine days, four emails and two telephone calls later I saw him again.
We had arranged to meet at Bar 22 - almost equidistan
t from both our offices. I only had to ensure not to wear the same black Max Mara skirt suit, that I had worn at the Oxford dinner. Since, in the meantime, it had become nearly as warm as in spring, I wore a Chloé light linen skirt suit with a white T-shirt and brown Jimmy Choos, plus my most recent purchase: a chalk white to light grey ombré beautifully soft deer skin Prada handbag. Which had come with the matching wallet. I had not been able to resist buying the bag, but I would and had to be able to resist letting things go any further with Thomas. After all, there was Hugo. Still. One - albeit very passionate - kiss was not sufficient to throw all that aside.
He sat at the bar, a glass with what looked like whiskey on the rocks in front of him. He rose from the bar stool when he saw me. “Hello, gorgeous you.”
Gorgeous? I thought: you are divine! I had not remembered him being that handsome, still I was firmly resolved not to flirt with him, let alone do anything else. I ordered a Vodka Martini.
He looked at me in amused surprise. “That’s quite a strong drink, young lady!”
“I know, but it’s so delicious and I need to unwind. I just had a discussion with my builders and have been told that we won’t have a front door for another week.”
I told him about my house, mentioning in passing that I had a boyfriend who was ‘sort of’ living with us. I told him about Tracey, my career plan and my past career. Maybe the vodka loosened my tongue. On the other hand he really seemed to listen and to know what I was talking about. He finished my sentences and uttered my thoughts. It was almost creepy. It turned out that he was half German and half English and, like me, had spent half of his life living in various countries. English came as naturally to him as speaking German.
“As you know, I did the whole lawyer thing, too. I worked for the same partner at Howard Hewitt that you had worked for - it was after you had left to go to Solomons. They were still talking about you - you left quite an impression there.”
“What a coincidence! But I really don’t see you slaving away at the sweatshop - you seem so unspoilt! Not at all like the typical big city lawyer!”
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