The Cambridge trial had thirty-six active subjects, all with osteoarthritis but otherwise healthy. After fourteen months without incident, it was indeed remarkable that three had suffered similar cardiac irregularities across a span of only eight days. When the first two patients presented at the emergency department, attending physicians broke the blind and found that both were getting the actual drug, not the placebo. Fears spread quickly that Flexxene was the culprit. Gipson’s scientists vehemently disagreed, arguing that the drug’s active ingredients weren’t at all linked to cardiac function. That conclusion was bolstered when Niya, out of an abundance of caution, unsealed the record of the third emergency patient the following week to find that he was in the placebo group. The evidence came too late though, since news of possible adverse effects created public hysteria about pharmaceutical companies endangering patients for profit.
Gipson had no choice but to suspend the trial and send Lark to investigate. While a Phase II trial could survive the loss of thirty-six subjects, serious cardiac side effects usually derailed a drug’s development. Gipson needed a reason to strike the damaging Cambridge results.
Niya swirled her wine before taking a sip. “It drives me mad that I’m not allowed to look at our own data. I just need to see for myself if we did something wrong.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I’d be shocked to find anything that wasn’t by the book. Seriously Niya, there’s no one I’d trust more than you to run a trial. We may never know exactly what happened to those patients, but my job is to prove what didn’t happen.”
“This has been so stressful. I don’t even care if they fire me. I just want it to end.”
“You aren’t getting off that easy.” Lark clasped both of her hands. “Okay, that’s enough shop talk for today. I want to hear more about your granddaughter. You have pictures?”
They practically had the pub to themselves as they ate lunch and caught up. With Niya, a lapse between visits meant nothing. Their friendship always picked up the beat again as if they’d seen each other only yesterday.
“Any more news on the Bess front?” Niya asked.
“Nope, that’s definitely over. We sold the house in January. Last I heard she was seeing somebody.”
“Such a shame.”
“I used to think so but I don’t anymore.” Lark had grown ambivalent about Bess Oppenheim, her college sweetheart who’d broken up with her for good after living together off and on for the last eight years. Granted, she’d asked a lot of Bess, basically to put their lives on hold while she moved back home to help care for her mother. What Lark had thought would be a brief interlude had lasted a year and a half. Still, it wasn’t as if she’d had a choice. Her ma’s boyfriend Roger was all but useless, and Lark’s sister Chloe had small children she couldn’t leave. “I don’t blame Bess. She deserved a partner who’d put her first. But when Ma got worse, I felt like I had to be there with her. I thought I could fix everything between us before she died.”
“I’d say you did. Your mother needed you and you came through. As far as she was concerned, you were her doctor.”
“How’s that for irony?” Her ma’s first stroke was the main reason she’d bailed on her residency. That and her student loans, already in the six figures.
While they were talking, a group streamed in to fill the two long tables near the bar. Mostly men, older and dressed in stately black. Not at all the people Lark would expect in a working class pub on a Saturday afternoon.
Momentarily distracted, she turned back to find Niya’s dark eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re not your usual self, Lark. I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’re unhappy working for Gipson?”
“Ha! I know this trick of yours—you goad me into complaining about Gipson and next thing I know you’re floating another offer from PharmaStat.” Lark actually was flattered by their earnest attempts to recruit her away from Gipson. She was proud of the reputation she’d cultivated as a careful, competent director of clinical studies.
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Niya checked her watch and removed her wallet from her purse. “I probably should get going. Dev’s going to send out a search party soon. I told him I’d be home by three.”
“I’ll get the bill. Looks like our bartender’s going to be busy for a while. I don’t mind waiting.” In fact, a few extra minutes would do her good. The bitter ale was stronger than what she was used to, and she hadn’t planned on having two. “See you Monday at the office.”
Waiting for a lull in business to signal the bartender, she noticed a maroon sports car squeezing into the space next to her tiny Skoda. The couple inside, a man and a woman, were distinctive through the glass, considerably younger than the others at the bar but also dressed formally for a casual pub. Discouraged perhaps by the persistent drizzle, they made no move to exit the vehicle.
There was something familiar about the woman in the passenger seat. With her reddish hair swept into an elegant updo above a knotted rope of pearls, she was as striking a woman as Lark had ever seen. Much like—in fact, quite a lot like—Channing Hughes. Make that Lady Channing Hughes.
* * *
Before she could go inside and put on a cheery face, Channing needed to finish her epic rant. “…and then she screwed me over again with another Satisfactory evaluation. Three years in a row. Why not Superior? Because she was paranoid someone would think she was showing favoritism. I wonder what she’d think if I referred her to my attorney for comment on why I left the company.”
Kenneth Hargreaves was an unapologetic fop whose family money and pedigree assured him of a perpetual stream of marriageable women vying for the chance to produce his titled heir. He’d been Channing’s best friend since childhood when they were packed off together to boarding school at Aldenham, one of Britain’s most exclusive coed academies. Though mildly delinquent as teens, they’d both managed to skirt serious trouble to become respectable adults—he a solicitor like his father, and she a valuation analyst at one of the world’s most respected insurance firms. Mutual friends had assumed they’d marry someday, despite their repeated insistence that they felt not a scintilla of romantic attraction.
Sitting outside the pub in Kenny’s Jaguar coupe, they watched as some of Poppa’s closest political associates dodged rain puddles to hurry inside. Right-wingers, the lot of them, but Channing was touched by their respect for one of their own.
Kenny offered a hit of weed from a small pipe.
“No, I said. I can’t believe you haven’t outgrown that. Don’t they drug test at your firm?”
“Oh, be serious. You can’t ask the Viscount Teasely to piss in a bottle.”
“Cheeky bugger. You’ve always gotten away with everything.” She cracked a window to allow the smoke to escape. Best not to go into a crowd of semi-dignitaries reeking of marijuana.
A handsome couple, mid-forties and less formal than the others, emerged from a white Maserati sedan. Apparently unfazed by the rain, they walked inside at a leisurely pace.
“Who are they? I remember seeing them at Poppa’s funeral too.” He was lanky and professorial in his jumper and sport coat with brushed leather shoes. She was on the curvy side, fetching in a tightly fitted chocolate-brown suit and silk blouse. Her hair was a vibrant blond, thick and bouncy.
“The Eastons, Spencer and Vanessa. Friends of Oliver’s as well, coincidentally. They came to a party at our flat. I rather like them…though I’m shocked they were on Dad’s short list for the pub since they’re both Labour.”
“Poppa is officially spinning.”
“No, they probably got on. Spencer teaches at Cambridge too. Whereas Vanessa comes from money.”
“All I know is I want to look that good in another twenty years.”
“What is this fixation of yours on older women? Sounds like mummy issues.”
“Please say that again after I’ve had a gin so I can bloody slap you.”
“I believe you, Miss Hughes. Though I’m so glad you’ve
quit your job. Now you can move back to Penderworth.”
“And do what exactly? Horningsea isn’t exactly a corporate hub for economists.”
“No, but London is. How hard could it be to find a lover with a cozy flat in the city? It’s what I did. And you with a country home, it’s a perfect tradeoff.” He pensively stroked his smooth chin. “Though I’ll not be sending friends your way until your mood improves. Wouldn’t want their heads back on a plate.”
Why did everyone think she was such an arsehole? “Here’s what really winds me up about Payton—she was so apologetic about not coming home with me for Poppa’s funeral. She promised I’d never have to travel home alone again, that she was ready to file for divorce. Then not a week later—when I’m still grieving, mind you—she says forget it, that our relationship is over and she’s not even gay. I beg to differ.” She heaved a frustrated sigh, embarrassed to have been played for a fool. “If you’re searching for the proper response, that would be an expression of outrage, seeing as how you’re supposed to be my best friend.”
“Very well, she’s a horrid slag.”
Women especially fell victim to Kenny’s dimpled cheeks, which Channing found quite hilarious since he was as gay as a sequined hat. His long, thin face kept him from being classically handsome, but his sense of men’s style more than made up for it. Always on the vanguard, he dressed impeccably and wore his thick lock of blond hair sharply parted and combed back from his forehead.
In all her years of living in Boston, no one had ever come close to being the friend Kenny was. Her secrets about Payton had walled her off from everyone.
“We probably should go in now,” he said, nodding toward the pub. “Not that anyone will notice either of us. It’s just another occasion for Dad to rally the Tory cause.”
“I thought it strange your father invited me to this. Surely he knows I’m not a Tory.”
“Always assume he has ulterior motives. This circus probably has nothing to do with you or your grandfather. I suspect he’s laying the groundwork for my political future. That’s probably why the Eastons are here—he’s hedging his bets on both sides of Parliament. For whatever reason, he’s convinced you ratchet up my seriousness bonafides. He’s probably right, you know. Plus you’re eye candy, and that makes you doubly good for my poofy reputation…which is likely to persist regardless, what with me shagging Oliver and all. We can skip this little soirée if the idea of being my afternoon whore offends you.”
She blew out a miserable sigh. “I suppose I can be your whore for an hour or so.”
“There’s the spirit. It could make me prime minister someday.”
“A gay nobleman as prime minister?” Channing scoffed. “It’s never enough with you people.”
“I’d renounce. But then I could anoint you Duchess of Horningsea.” He got out and dashed around the car with an umbrella to escort her into the pub.
With Lord Alanford looking on to make introductions of both Channing and his son, she dutifully greeted each of the guests and thanked them for coming out to honor her grandfather. Yes, he’d inspired her to study economics. No, she hadn’t decided on a permanent return to Penderworth. Yes, Kenneth was a longtime friend of exemplary character. The last one she even managed with a straight face.
At a tap on the shoulder, Channing turned to find the Eastons, who eagerly introduced themselves. Spencer not only worked at the university, he’d taught economics with Poppa. Vanessa though was even more interesting.
“I do capital investing here in the UK,” she told Channing. “We look for inefficiencies, places where we could benefit from economies of scale, then we try to create entrepreneurial opportunities. We’ve had some success.”
“She’s being modest,” Spencer added, clearly proud of his wife. “With the right touch, some of those entrepreneurs become huge corporations.”
“What I wanted to say was that your grandfather’s theories of labor were the basis for starting the firm. I took his class over twenty years ago.”
Since Channing was already primed to like the Eastons, especially Vanessa, it pleased her immensely that they’d respected Poppa. “I’m so glad to have met you both. Thank you for honoring my grandfather by coming to the dedication.”
Kenny joined her the second she found herself alone. “I’ve done quite enough knob polishing for one day. Grab a table. I’ll fetch us a gin.”
“Make mine a tea, please. I’ve a bottle of Poppa’s cognac waiting at home. I think I’ll wait and get thoroughly pissed later. You’re welcome to join me.”
“There’s the Channing Hughes I know and love. But alas, I can’t. I’m heading back to London after I drop you off. Oliver’s making supper.”
Turning away from the crowd that milled around the bar, she eyed a small table in the row by the window. While waiting for her tea, she obsessively checked her phone messages—another from Payton insisting she get in touch with HR. Channing had refused her calls, but what did it say about her that she hadn’t blocked the texts or emails? That she was pathetic. If she called HR on Monday with a sob story of being homesick, Payton would leave her alone. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
“Here’s your tea,” he said as he delivered a tray. “I need another moment, luv. Dad wants me to meet Smith, the Lord Justice. One can’t have enough friends on the Court of Appeal.”
Channing didn’t mind as long as she didn’t have to indulge anyone else. Penderworth was only five minutes away, practically walking distance if it weren’t raining. She could always call Cecil to come for her…
“You need to let that steep for four and a half minutes,” a woman’s voice advised. “No more, no less.”
Doubting her own ears, she timidly peered over her shoulder. Surely her trans-Atlantic seatmate hadn’t randomly popped into the Crown and Punchbowl.
Yet there she sat—Dr. Lark Latimer, her quirky smile indicating she was every bit as surprised as Channing to see her there. “Did I get that right?”
Channing eyed her dubiously, ultimately deciding she didn’t care if Lark’s presence was coincidence or not. She was delighted.
“Why Lady Hughes…I do believe you’re glad to see me.”
“Oh, I am—especially if you have a car.”
* * *
Lark felt conspicuous in her jeans and Patagonia rain-jacket among the sea of dreary black suits. She learned from Channing that the somber group had come from a ceremony to honor her late grandfather, apparently a bigwig at the university.
Channing looked especially elegant in a simple black dress that hugged her from hips to mid-thigh and showed a trace of her now-notorious cleavage. In her high heels, the very ones she’d worn on the plane, she towered over half the men in the room.
“Let me see if I understand this,” Channing said. “You set up drug trials, hire other companies to run them, and then check their work to make sure they aren’t cheating.”
“Close enough.”
“And you do that here in Cambridge?”
“This particular trial happens to be based at the Science Park.” Recalling Channing’s admonition, she resisted the urge to swirl her teabag through the pot as it steeped. “But we do them all over the world using the same protocols. It’s all very scientific and methodical.”
“So do you come here often?” She paused and cocked her head. “My God, I’ve just uttered the lamest of all pickup lines.”
…which Lark wouldn’t even have noticed had she not pointed it out. She was pleased by Channing’s interest in her work, but it didn’t strike her as flirtatious. “I get to Cambridge once or twice a year, but usually just for a few days. This one’s going to take a while.”
“So it’s a clusterfuck after all, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Channing had managed a transformation overnight, from self-absorbed cynic to affable pub mate. Clearly being home in England brought out her best side.
“I’m here to look for problems,” Lark went on,
“all the while hoping I don’t find them.”
“Hmm…I would think it incredibly tedious to spend one’s time searching for mistakes with no results. The joy isn’t actually in the hunt, it’s in the kill.”
“Not the best metaphor for a drug trial. We try diligently not to kill.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” A few feet away, the man who’d arrived with Channing was waving for her attention. “Excuse me a moment, would you?”
As Channing stepped away, Lark marveled again at what Fate had practically dropped in her lap. She’d squandered yesterday’s opportunity to ask Channing out—she wasn’t going to waste another.
“Lark Latimer, meet my oldest and dearest friend, Kenny Hargreaves.”
Kenny cleared his throat and glared at Channing pointedly.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, seriously? Americans don’t give a bloody damn about your silly style.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Very well. Doctor Latimer, please meet my incredibly pretentious friend, the Viscount Teasely. But do call him Kenny…or Lord Twit, if you prefer. He’s only here to collect the political blessings of my grandfather’s associates. And to support me at my hour of need, of course.”
“Stop saying that. It’s only ninety percent true.” He smiled warmly, revealing prominent dimples on both cheeks that rendered him more boy than man. And from the campy way he’d swatted at Channing’s hand, Lark was almost certain he was gay. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Dr. Lark Latimer. Channing has so few friends. And yes, do call me Kenny. I only insist on that other bit from her because she finds it humiliating. She says you met on the flight?”
“That’s right, about eight hours together. I guess that makes me her newest friend.”
He pretended to whisper. “Then you probably know her as well as anyone. She’s deeply shallow.”
“And he’s obviously an oxymoron.”
Lark liked his dry sense of humor, inappropriate as it was for a memorial observance. Actually what she liked was the two of them playing off one another. They obviously were close, as familiar as siblings. She envied that. Her friendships with men usually fell apart once they realized she was never going to sleep with them.
A Proper Cuppa Tea Page 5