Resurgence

by M. M. Mayle

  “If there was anything I could do, I would. I hope you know that,” he says in a rush of inadequacy.

  “Yeah, I know. Colin said basically the same thing when I told him last night and here I should be the one lending support, not the other way around.”

  “That sounds like Colin took it well, though.”

  “I don’t know about well, but I know he wasn’t surprised.”

  “I don’t want to come off insensitive or anything, but I have to wonder—”

  “You’re wondering what impact this news will have on the concert. Don’t think that hasn’t been heavily debated ever since we heard yesterday. That’s another reason I’ve become short-tempered and foulmouthed.”

  “Amanda . . . listen to me. First of all, don’t let this bring you down. It’s beyond your control. Second of all, you’ve got to focus on the positives, on the good. What you’ve accomplished so far is off the charts. You’re essentially managing a major rock star, and you’ve almost single-handedly pulled together the greatest assemblage of talent since last year’s Prince’s Trust concert. Since Live Aid, I could believe. As though that’s not enough, you’ve brought Verge back together, something they said would never happen, and I’m in fucking awe. No other word for it, and trust me, I am not easily awed.”

  He has her full attention when he runs propositions by her that have nothing to do with coroner’s reports or rock concerts. As he elaborates, her eyes go round and her cheeks develop spots of color like the Amanda of yore.

  “When your commitment to David is ended, I want you with me—what I mean to say, I want you to work with me. Something in research and development, I’m thinking. We can arrive at a title and more precise job description after we see how things . . . develop. You don’t have to decide right this minute,” he tacks on, “but I would like an answer before I return to New York.”

  She frowns at the remains of her coffee, pokes around inside her handbag without saying anything. She produces a tattered tissue that suggests what she’s up against. Now he’s the one on thirty-second delay for belatedly grasping that she’s struggling not to cry. If he were the gentleman he pretends to be, he’d be doing something about it.

  He rifles though the pockets of his blazer and khakis and the best he can come up with is a crumpled boarding pass. In desperation, he grabs a wad of paper napkins from a neighboring table and hands them over like a bedraggled bouquet. That makes her smile a little, but her eyes are still round and gleaming with unshed tears.

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea I’d upset you or I wouldn’t have brought this up in a public place,” he says.

  “No, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I mean, I knew you might want to hire me some day, you already said that, but I never thought in a million years you’d want me to—”

  “I think we need to get out of here. Do you have to go back to work right away?”

  “Yes, I do,” she says, her voice cracking, “I shouldn’t have been away this long.”

  He can’t go with her. He can’t even walk her to the door of David’s offices, a few blocks away. Not at this stage in the game.

  “Okay . . . I think I’ll drop in at my own office. Probably give the weekend staff heart attacks, saying they even recognize me. When can we get together again? Tonight? Tomorrow?”

  “I really can’t say. There’s never a time when I’m not on call, and I can’t chance being seen with you once Colin comes to town.”

  “Yeah, don’t I know.”

  “I’ll work something out, though. Promise.” She wipes her nose on the paper napkin bouquet, manages a shaky smile. They leave separately, as though constraints were already in place.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Afternoon, May 16, 1987

  Although Nate was only joking about being recognized at an office he hasn’t visited in weeks, the pared-down weekend staff does do a double take when he walks in unannounced.

  Daily fax updates and twice-weekly document transfers keep the Manhattan office in the loop, so the surprise visit is not apt to uncover any deficiencies. He nevertheless requests an on-the-spot summary of the past week’s activities—just for the hell of it, or maybe because the situation with Amanda combined with the onset of jetlag is bringing out the taskmaster in him. At the end of the impromptu briefing, he sends the three retainers home, locks himself in and retreats to his private office with no particular plan in mind.

  The desk is foreign to him; he can’t remember the last time he sat at it. The chair is the wrong height, he’s unfamiliar with the desk accessories, he doesn’t immediately recall how the intercom works, and, for a nanosecond, is unable to identify the muted double trill as coming from the phone when it rings.

  He picks up hoping Amanda is calling to say she’s cut herself some slack. But it’s Laurel, calling to say she’s just been told of his arrival and can meet with him as soon as Monday. They agree on a time that he jots down as though he’d otherwise forget about an appointment ostensibly the main reason for the London trip. Laurel attempts friendly small talk that he rebuffs by fibbing that he has someone waiting on another line.

  The office needs airing. It’s too small. It’s in the wrong part of London; this part of Chelsea’s become bourgeois while he wasn’t looking. King’s Road is not what it used to be, and probably hasn’t been for longer than he’d care to recognize. To be current, he should migrate to the more bohemian Camden Town or consider the opposite: operating out of some staid old mansion in Belgravia or a sleek floor-through in the burgeoning St. Katherine Dock area—something with a boat slip and an open view of the anchorage. He should be paying more attention to the financial services district under development on the Isle of Dogs—Canary Wharf, they’re calling it—or be looking into office space development within the boundaries of The City. He should be doing anything other than what he is doing, which is stagnating.

  Even the material on the desk is stagnant. The collection of prospectuses has been picked over multiple times, with recommendations already phoned or faxed to him in New York. He leafs through a tray of memos, most of them investment-related, and all of them marked as having been transmitted. Some are over a month old. The one describing Anthony Elliot’s bogus fax to the Wish Upon a Star Foundation goes back at least that long. Another, outlining ideas for a confab with like-minded venture capitalists, is from mid-March. A standout dated April 13, 1987—the day he was found dead—details what was then known of Rayce Vaughn’s death. That would be the memo received over a payphone outside the Sea Grill in New York, the one stating that Rayce had taken a massive amount of unusually potent product by mouth.

  Nate separates this memo from the pile, rereads key words that didn’t fully impact until now because, at the time of the announcement, all the emphasis was being put on the means of intake.

  “Jesus,” he says softly, almost reverently. Is it any damn wonder he reverted to the practice of linking coincidences and stretching similarities upon hearing how Rayce died. And could he be more appalled for now having to admit—even if only to himself—that the most critical part of the memo must have registered on an intuitive rather than intellectual level. This admission is far more disturbing than viewing himself as out of step with current London real estate trends and fallen behind on the investment front.

  Suddenly he can’t get out of the office fast enough. When he hits the street, afternoon traffic is such that the quickest way back to the hotel is on foot.

  When he enters the hotel suite this time, he takes in more than the location of the nearest phone. The understated décor is to his liking: Walls, draperies, and upholstery rendered in taupes, greys, and ivories; dark polished wood, gleaming glass, and chrome furnishings accented by calla lilies, moth orchids, and globular Asian pears. But the atmosphere is better suited to meditation than seduction. And probably just as well.

  Even though he finishes with a cold rinse, a long shower is more sapping than revitalizing. He takes his time shaving, then dresses as though he has so
meplace to go when he might be wiser to forget about merging with the time zone and just give in to sleep. He’s on the way out the door when the phone rings. He chooses not to answer. Amanda won’t be available anytime soon and no one else knows he’s staying here. He’s left the suite and locked the door behind him before he spots the flaw in that thinking.

  “Shit!” He fumbles the keycard into the lock, but the phone stops ringing before he can get to it. He picks up anyway, listens for a moment as though for an echo, fixes on the message light as though willing it to activate. Still behind the beat, unsure which of Amanda’s numbers to call first, he draws a blank when he finally decides it should be the one for her service. It’s written down somewhere and damned if he can remember where. Then, when he does surface it from memory, it’s the procedure for getting an outside line he can’t remember. The very instant he replaces the receiver and squints into a bound directory of calling instructions and in-house numbers, the instrument trills to life.

  Breathing like he just ran up three flights of stairs, he clamps the phone to his ear. He may or may not have said hello when she starts talking.

  “I probably shouldn’t have arrived here unannounced but I couldn’t very well announce myself when I couldn’t track you down by phone so I thought I’d take my chances but you must have been in the shower when I called earlier or taking a nap or something because neither the concierge nor the doorman saw you come out and they both said they know who you are and what you look like when I asked them,” Amanda says.

  “Concierge? Doorman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here? Here at my hotel?”

  “Yes, your hotel, if your hotel is the one just down Park Lane and around the corner a ways where you said it was and if you are, in fact, staying at the Westerly on Willow Place instead of the Dorchester as you explained before we parted, and if you’re registered here under your own name and answering your own—”

  “Amanda,” he interrupts a partial reprise of the vaudeville routine that prefaced their earlier phone conversation. “Slow down. You’re in the right place. There’s no rush, I’m not going anywhere. Stay right where you are, I’ll come find you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Just tell me your room number and I’ll come up. I have something important to discuss.”

  He complies and steps into the hall to wait for her. If she’s unsteady when she comes off the elevator, he won’t be surprised. Nor will he fault her if she’s as tipsy as she sounds. She’s overdue for release of some sort—way overdue—and if the impending announcement from the medical examiner caused her to take on a little extra wine at lunch, who is he to point a finger?

  But she’s beautifully pulled together when she gets off the elevator. Her hair and makeup have been redone since he last saw her, and she’s replaced the forgettable skirt and sweater she had on this morning with a knee-skimming black jacket dress that flatters her figure and emphasizes her delicate coloring. There’s nothing drunken or ditzy about her explanation regarding an oversight.

  “I simply wasn’t thinking when I said earlier that I had to remain chained to my desk,” she says. “There’s so much I’m not used to yet, so it was easy to forget that I can always check with the answering service if something seems to be brewing.”

  She’s confessing the equivalent of the lapse he had only minutes ago when he couldn’t remember how to get an outside line, and now he—the teacher—could learn from her about dismissing the occasional tendency to drift.

  He shepherds her into the elegant suite, where he expects a standard “omigod” or at least a gasp of amazement, and gets only an approving glance targeting him as much as the surroundings.

  “I see you’re dressed to go out, so I won’t take long,” she says.

  “I’m not going anywhere, take as long as you want. Have you reached a decision about my offer?”

  “No, not yet, but there is something else I want to go over with you.”

  “Won’t you please sit down?”

  “I don’t want to keep you.”

  “You are not keeping me. When you called I was going down to the bar for a drink, that’s all.”

  “Well, still . . .”

  “Dammit, Amanda, will you just light somewhere and tell me what’s on your mind?”

  “Okay, okay,” she says and sits on the very edge of the only straight-backed chair in the room. “This Rayce business. I got thinking about it during the night and realized I never put that much importance on the quality of the cocaine he consumed. All I ever thought about before was him drinking it instead of snorting. I never thought about the coke being so freaking pure that even a little bit would have killed him—would even have killed him if he’d taken it the usual way.”

  She continues with this thrust, enunciating the exact same thoughts he’s had since reviewing an old memo from a new perspective.

  “The coke found in Rayce’s pocket needs to be compared—”

  “With the drugs found on Jay Howard’s body, which we already know match traces found at Gibby—”

  “Omigod! You too?”

  “Yeah, Amanda, me too.”

  He fills her in about the quiet revelation at his Chelsea office, “It’s all I can think about . . . that and what to do about you.”

  “Me? You mean about whether I’m willing to accept your offer?”

  “No, about whether you’re willing to go against conventional wisdom regarding employer-employee relationships—potential employer-employee, in this instance. If you are, then call your service and tell them you’ll be at this number until further notice.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Afternoon, May 18, 1987

  The last minute change of venue delays the Monday afternoon meeting with Laurel for only the length of time it takes Nate to walk from his hotel to the Dorchester, where Colin and company are installed for the duration. He gives no thought to taking a cab; he’s been in London forty-eight hours and hasn’t required one yet. But he hasn’t been out of his hotel suite for the last day and a half, so it’s not like he’s used up a lot of shoe leather.

  At the Dorchester, he goes through the motions of announcing himself on a house phone, pretending he doesn’t already know he’s headed for a choice suite overlooking Hyde Park—one with two extra bedrooms, according to Amanda who made the arrangements.

  Laurel answers the door and welcomes him with open arms. “Look at you,” she says after seizing him in a full embrace and kissing him on both cheeks.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking better.”

  “I can certainly say the same of you.” This is no perfunctory response he delivers. She does look better than remembered; radiant wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

  “I’m so sorry about having to ask you to come here,” she says as they move from the foyer through a richly paneled atmosphere reminiscent of his Fifth Avenue library. “The baby sitter is delayed and I didn’t think you’d appreciate me showing up at your office with a couple of kids in tow.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve no problem coming here as long as I can be sure Colin won’t walk in.”

  “As I said on the phone earlier, he’ll be tied up all day and probably half the night with an assortment of glitches they’ve run into. Something about lighting and stage setup, I think he said.”

  Something else he knew about in advance.

  “Have you talked to Amanda today?” Laurel asks. “I tried to reach her a few times over the weekend, but I only ever got her service. Nothing important, so I didn’t leave word.”

  That he did not know but could have surmised. Just as he could have anticipated an encounter with the children inasmuch as the nanny hasn’t shown up yet. He feels as much as sees Anthony staring at him from behind one of the pillars separating the dining room from the sitting room.

  “Come here, dear.” Laurel beckons the boy to her and he grudgingly obeys. “I’m sure you remember Mr. Isaacs.” She smoothes the boy’s cowlick and gives his shoulder a
n affectionate squeeze.

  “I guess,” Anthony says.

  “What did we decide about that expression?” Laurel says.

  “To stop using it.”

  “That’s right. So again, please.”

  “Yes. I remember Mr. Isaacs. But when he lived with us I got to call him Nate. Is he gonna live with us again?”

  “Never happen.” Nate steps forward and extends a hand to Anthony who gives it a limp shake. “Absolutely no danger of that now that your dad’s back and you have a new mom.”

  “She’s not my mum yet. Not till August when she gets married to my dad and adopts me and Simple Simon.”

  “Is that really what you meant to say? Laurel lifts an eyebrow and gives his shoulder another squeeze.

  “Adopts me and my brother,” Anthony says and wriggles away from her touch.

  To ease around the unpleasantness, Nate pretends the wedding announcement isn’t also old news and gets ready to set up shop. He’s about to open his document case when he’s ambushed by little brother, who attaches to one of his legs making accordion pleats of the crease the valet service so recently accomplished.

  “Up me!” Simon demands and even a dedicated child-phobe would find him hard to resist.

  Nate lifts him up and accepts a wet kiss. At this range the changes in Simon would be hard to miss. In six months he’s grown a lot taller and his present chatter is much more articulate than when last confronted. And he’s not screaming, thank god. But he is still ninety-nine percent Aurora in appearance and the remaining one percent could as easily be attributed to the milkman as to Colin.

  If Laurel is consciously aware of this, she’s never given any indication other than during that difficult session in his New York kitchen when she chose to look the other way—as has everyone else. Right now, she’s only noticing his discomfort and relieving him of the clingy child.