Christmas in the Snow

by Karen Swan

  ‘Right. Fine.’

  She hung up, irritated now as well as cold. She could see the taxi queue from here and there were at least forty people standing in line.

  Kicking her suitcase lightly so that it tipped back onto its wheels, she went to walk towards the queue, snowflakes landing conspicuously on her narrow, dark shoulders.

  She was almost there when she heard her name being called. ‘Fisher?’

  She turned. ‘Mr Crivelli.’

  A stocky man in his late fifties and wearing a heavy grey overcoat was striding towards her from a parked blacked-out limousine, pulling off one of his black leather gloves. He was the firm’s CFO and the only one on the board not absolutely behind her promotion proposal, possibly or possibly not related to the fact that she had unequivocally turned down his generous offer of letting her blow him when she had first joined the firm, straight from her role in prop trading at Barclays Capital. They had immediately and mutually behaved as though the proposal had never happened, but even though they had sat in hundreds of meetings together since and she was quite sure he now recognized her undeniable talents, the spectre of it still shimmered like a ghostly haze between them in certain lights.

  He stopped in front of her, his eyes hidden behind the glass of his spectacles, which were reflecting back the blaze of lights coming from the terminal building behind her. ‘Where are you going, Fisher? That’s the taxi rank.’

  ‘I know. But the outbound side of the A11 is closed due to an accident. My driver can’t get through.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Park Hyatt.’

  ‘Fine. I’m going there myself. You can come in my car.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Allegra nodded, thinking she’d vastly prefer to stand in sub-zero temperatures than share a confined space with the man, although she could see the obvious benefits of having twenty minutes of his undivided attention when she was here to clinch a big new deal just weeks before the promotions.

  She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to lead the way, but he just stood there, looking back towards the terminal building, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her clothes were better suited to a Paris autumn than a Swiss winter.

  She realized he was waiting for someone, and that he hadn’t come through the arrivals hall, like her. ‘Who are you waiting for?’ she asked after a moment, trying not to shiver. Why hadn’t she put on a scarf, at least?

  ‘Guy from the Manhattan office – Sam Kemp. You know him?’

  ‘I know the name. He manages the Besakovitch account, right?’

  Crivelli shot her a look. ‘Well, obviously he did. But now he’s pulling his fund, Kemp’s without an account and we don’t want to lose him. I expect you know the returns he brought in?’

  Allegra nodded. The stunning 64 per cent payday had been communicated in enthusiastic in-house emails by Pierre himself, much to her chagrin. She was their star on this side of the Atlantic, and her numbers weren’t much lower.

  ‘Well, Pierre thinks he’s been approached by Minotaur, so he’s ordered me to bring him out here to sweet-talk him.’ His eyes hovered over Allegra for a moment. ‘Have you ever thought about making the move to Zurich?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’d consider it if the right role came up.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Crivelli nodded, looking back to the terminal building with a knowing smile. For some reason, he regarded her ambition as a curiosity, whereas he wouldn’t expect anything less from someone like Sam Kemp. ‘Ah, here he is. Let’s keep him happy.’

  ‘Of course,’ Allegra replied, her eyes falling on a man striding towards them, following Crivelli’s driver, wearing a grey overcoat, a striped charcoal-grey scarf and leather gloves.

  It was only when he was a few feet away that she saw it was the smiling man from the plane. She saw the recognition dawn in his eyes too.

  Oh God. Those eyes. That mouth.

  ‘Sam, Sam, it’s good to see you,’ Crivelli sucked up, extending an enthusiastic hand upwards. The stranger was a good five inches taller than him, four inches taller than her. ‘I trust you had a good flight?’

  ‘Excellent, thanks,’ he said, his eyes flickering questioningly towards her.

  Allegra, surprised by his American accent, nervous at the prospect of shaking his hand, straightened herself up to her full height and pushed down her shoulders. They needed to reset the boundaries right now. If he thought their ‘moment’ on the plane was going to follow them out here . . .

  ‘Sam, I want you to meet Allegra Fisher from the London office. She’s going to be riding into the city with us. Her driver’s been held up.’

  Sam looked across at her, extending his hand first. ‘Allegra Fisher? Head of frocks, rocks, chocs and clocks, right?’

  She nodded briskly as his hand held hers, determined not to betray the small shock that came with his touch, or even to smile at his insider’s use of the luxury goods market’s affectionate nickname. The stocks she traded in – everything from Rolex to De Beers to Burberry – filled the pages of Vogue and induced on-the-spot heart attacks in Isobel, but to her their sought-after products were just commodities that she rated on profit margins, not waiting lists.

  ‘Only female president in the company, prior to that head of proprietary trading at Bar Cap for four years, double first from Oxford. Magdalen, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Allegra replied, wishing he’d release her hand and grudgingly impressed that he even knew how to pronounce ‘Magdalen’ correctly – usually the leveller that separated the Oxbridge set from the non-O set, much less an American. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Understatement of the year.

  ‘And you.’

  She pulled her hand away firmly, hoping she’d reset the official tone between them.

  The driver opened the door. Crivelli stepped into the car, but Sam stood back, indicating for Allegra to go in before him – a chivalrous gesture that would never have occurred to Crivelli or any of the other men she worked with, and which was just how she liked it. She didn’t want to be treated as a lady, as a woman, especially not by him, and she reluctantly got in without either thanks or a smile. There could be no more smiles.

  They pulled away from the kerb smoothly, the engine as quiet as purring kittens, as Crivelli began bombarding Sam with questions about morale in the Manhattan office and whether Leo Besakovitch had given any indication as to where he was investing his money next and why he was really going.

  Allegra subtly dusted the snowflakes off her shoulders and onto the floor before they could melt into the fabric of her coat. She felt blue from the cold and pressed her legs as close as she could to the radiator vents beneath the seats. She had been hoping to speak to Bob when she got in the car but had to settle for texting instead. He was coming out on the red-eye in the morning and she wanted some more numbers from the analysts on the Moncler float.

  She tuned back in to the men’s conversation a few minutes later. Both were sitting with their legs splayed wide, their highly polished shoes shining in the glare of passing street lamps. Crivelli was saying something about the ‘nightlife’, and following it with a laugh that made her skin creep. Allegra recrossed her legs but angled her elbows out slightly, aware that, although tall, she took up only 40 per cent of the space they did and trying to look larger.

  ‘So, you’re considering a transfer to Europe too?’ Sam asked her, seemingly aware of her reintegration into the conversation and swinging it away from Crivelli’s ‘boys’ club’ path.

  ‘No. I go back tomorrow afternoon. I’m here for a meeting tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Has it been confirmed yet, the meeting?’ Crivelli asked.

  Allegra shook her head. ‘No, and I’m not expecting a confirmation before nine a.m.’

  ‘Chinese?’ Sam asked, clearly clued up that standard business practice with the Chinese was that they didn’t confirm a meeting until the very last moment.

  Allegra nodded. She wished this man, with all his
charm and good looks, wasn’t here. This would have been such a perfect opportunity to schmooze Crivelli, not him.

  ‘Do you come over a lot?’

  ‘Several times a month,’ she replied, catching his eyes on her ring-less hand. Pointedly, she covered her left hand with the right and he looked back up at her. ‘Why do you want to leave New York? Zurich’s a long way from home.’

  ‘Well, actually New York isn’t home for me. I’m Canadian, from Montreal.’

  ‘Really? An even longer commute, then.’

  ‘It suits me that way.’

  She knitted her eyebrows together quizzically.

  ‘Leo’s leaving and . . . well, I’m freshly divorced and want to start over,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Oh.’ Not what she’d been expecting. Allegra knew she should probably say she was sorry. That was what most people would say in the circumstance – Isobel would fall over herself to apologize for his marital predicament – but she wasn’t sorry; she didn’t know the man other than that he had a sexy smile; she didn’t care one way or the other if his marriage had broken down. ‘Bad luck.’

  She looked out of the window and saw they were driving through the old district, the streets already strung with lights, the shop windows filled with glowing lanterns, nativity scenes and gingerbreads, Christmas trees standing tall in every snowy square. They stopped by some lights and a yellow tram snaked past, lit up and filled with diners at tables, drinking Glüwein and dipping bread into warm cheese fondues as the windows steadily steamed up.

  Allegra envied them their warm, loose-limbed, sociable ease – friends out for dinner, while she sat like a pufferfish in a limo with two businessmen and enough undercurrents to drown a shark. She couldn’t wait to get to the hotel, hide out in the sanctuary of her room and take off these stiff, cold clothes. She had already booked a personal training session at 8 p.m., which was to be followed by a massage, both of which would set her up for several hours of reading through reports in bed.

  Traffic was light, for once, and it wasn’t long before they were pulling up outside the giant glass cube that was the Park Hyatt Hotel, the driver jumping out and coming round quickly to open their doors. Crivelli jumped out first. Sam waited for Allegra to get out before him.

  The three of them walked under the huge suspended lights of the courtyard and into the vast lobby together, their trousered legs moving in synchronicity. (Well, Allegra and Sam’s, anyway. Crivelli had to walk at a pace two steps to their one.) Inside was a symphony of caramel and coffee tones, the fire blazing in a huge chocolate granite hearth and well-heeled guests taking drinks or reading newspapers in the mocha and vanilla club chairs.

  Allegra walked up to the check-in desk, where she was recognized by sight.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Fisher. It’s a pleasure to have you staying again with us. Your room is ready for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Evolène,’ Allegra nodded, just as she heard the word ‘suite’ coming from Sam Kemp’s receptionist beside her.

  Suite? Pierre really was pulling out the stops.

  She looked across sharply at Sam checking in next to her, standing with one arm resting on the desk as he perused his messages on his BlackBerry. Crivelli was standing a small distance away, talking on his phone.

  ‘We’ve given you your usual room, Miss Fisher,’ Evolène said, holding out the key card.

  ‘What? Oh, thank you,’ Allegra said, turning away and taking it from her.

  ‘Would you like a porter to bring up your bags?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m quite capable,’ Allegra replied with a brisk smile, taking the handle of her carry-on and kicking it lightly with her foot again.

  She turned to Sam. Crivelli was still on the phone. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here, Mr Kemp. Zurich’s a fascinating city.’

  His brow furrowed slightly as he pocketed his BlackBerry and turned to face her. ‘You mean you’re not coming out with us tonight?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I have to prepare for my meeting tomorrow.’

  ‘But I understand we’ve got reservations at Kronenhalle,’ he said by way of enticement, an easy smile on his relaxed face.

  ‘Well, then the loss is certainly mine. Enjoy your meal.’ Her smile, by contrast this time, was enviably tight and insincere, a return to professional form after the laxity on the plane. And she turned and briskly walked away, her heels making sharp little tap-taps on the glossy floor.

  Two hours later, she was rather less sharp-cornered. Forty-five minutes of boxing with the trainer had depleted even her aggression levels (always at their highest in the hours before a pitch), and the subsequent sports massage – even with its deep-tissue kneading, which bordered on the painful for most people – had left her rosy-cheeked and heavy-limbed. Tightening the belt of the plush white hotel robe round her slim waist, Allegra stepped into the copper-tinted lift and pressed for her floor, hoping that at this time of night the lobby would be quiet and she would be able to get from the spa to her room without stopping.

  No such luck.

  She saw the ground-floor light illuminate and pressed herself into the rear corner, eyes fixed to the ceiling before the doors had even opened. Standing in front of strangers in just a dressing gown never failed to feel strange to her, even if it was an accepted hotel norm.

  It was the lack of movement that made her look across. The doors had opened, but no one had stepped in. She took her eyes down from the ceiling – and stiffened.

  Sam Kemp was staring back at her, still wearing the grey suit he’d been wearing on the plane earlier but his tie now rolled in one hand, his top button undone. Slowly, he stepped in, as surprised as she was.

  ‘Hello again.’ Allegra inhaled sharply, feeling distinctly at a disadvantage. ‘How was dinner?’ she asked, her voice clipped.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Only fine?’

  He glanced across at her. ‘Well, you weren’t there, so . . .’

  ‘Hmm.’ Allegra shrugged, dismissing the attempt at chivalry.

  He pressed for his floor, the one above hers. The doors closed and they slowly began to climb. In silence.

  Allegra shifted her weight, wishing she wasn’t wearing these stupid hotel slippers either. They were so demeaning somehow. She may as well have curlers in her hair and a gin and tonic in her hand. And muesli on her face. And a Yorkshire terrier under her arm.

  She slid her eyes over to him. He was standing fractionally in front of her, his eyes dead ahead – still smarting from her brush-off earlier? She watched the expansion of his shoulders in his jacket as he breathed, noticed the tan line at the nape of his neck by his hairline . . .

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he shifted, moving his head towards her slightly but still not quite on her. He turned away again, as though thinking better of it.

  Allegra stared back up at the ventilation grille on the ceiling. Was it working? The space felt airless – and smaller too, with him in it. She wished he would say something. Anything. Silence wasn’t really an issue for her normally. She wasn’t like other women who always had to keep talking lest an awkward silence should ever bloom. And yet . . .

  ‘Meetings tomorrow?’ she asked.

  He shifted position. ‘Countless. They’re terrified I’m going to go.’

  ‘Huh.’ Allegra tried not to roll her eyes. He should see the panic that would ensue if she threatened to leave. They’d have to issue a profits warning. ‘Have you been approached?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gave a tiny shrug.

  ‘Crivelli won’t make it easy for you to leave.’

  He cast a small grin her way. ‘I’ve been getting that.’

  The doors pinged open at her floor and she wished she didn’t have to walk out in front of him wearing these ridiculous clothes. ‘Well, goodbye again.’

  He nodded, stepping back slightly so that she could pass, eyes averted as though recognizing the indignity of the European head of luxury goods shuffling past the US head of commodities in a
dressing gown and slippers.

  She walked down the hallway, ears straining for the little bell that would tell her the lift had departed and she was safely out of sight. It didn’t come until she was at her door, fiddling with the key card with trembling hands.

  The shower was running when she heard the knock at the door a few minutes later.

  ‘“Bad luck”?’

  Allegra swallowed. Sam was leaning against the door frame, one arm above his head, his blue eyes glittering with irritation. She – in a classic case of bad to worse – was wrapped in just a towel and she swallowed hard at her earlier diffidence to his divorce. Isobel was constantly on her case about having to at least pretend to care about other people’s personal lives. ‘With hindsight, I realize that was an unfortunate choice of words on my part.’

  ‘I thought about nothing else through that damn dinner.’

  She swallowed again. ‘And for that I apologize,’ she murmured, watching as his eyes traced the sweep of her bare shoulder up to her neck, before coming back to her eyes again. A shiver rippled up and over her skin.

  Seven months and thirteen days. That was the answer to Isobel’s question on the cafe. The one she deliberately hadn’t given because it was too humiliating to say out loud. But she wasn’t going to make it to fourteen. They both knew there was only one reason why he was here.

  ‘I’d be happy to make it up to you,’ she said, taking a step back into the bedroom, and letting the towel drop.

  Chapter Four

  Day Three: Angel Gabriel

  Allegra inspected the boardroom one final time. Mr Yong and his contingent were on their way up and it was vital everything was absolutely correct. Beside her, Bob was doing a quick run-through of the latest figures on the Dow Jones, and Derek, from legal, was switching his phone to silent. There were eight others from the Zurich team in with them, but that was mainly to match the Chinese group’s numbers as a matter of respect. It was only Bob, Derek and the interpreter, Jo, that she really needed, the interpreter already having been briefed to report back later not the minutes of the meeting – Yong’s son had been educated at Harvard Business School and his English, at least, was commendable – but the private asides and comments made between the team.