Oddly, she found herself voyeuristically intrigued by the particulars of Channing and Payton’s affair. “It must have mattered a lot to both of you if you were willing to risk so much.”
“Who thinks about consequences when all those brain chemicals are exploding? Payton once said we were like a pair of cats climbing a tree. They ascend quite easily but most have no idea how they’re going to get down. I always had this sort of vague fantasy that eventually she’d leave Ben and come to live with me in my apartment. I failed to grasp all the obstacles in her path, since there weren’t any in mine. She wasn’t married only to Ben. She also had a whole extended family and way of life, and I don’t think she ever saw me as being an accepted part of that. And I didn’t exactly pine for it either, all the brothers and sisters, the grown children. If I’m honest, I only wanted her.”
“So you were stuck in limbo waiting for her to decide. I can’t imagine anything more frustrating.”
“It was far worse than frustrating. When she wasn’t there it was bleak, always bleak.” Channing pushed her empty plate aside, and with her elbows on the bar, cradled her wine. “I probably shouldn’t admit this…a part of me was actually relieved when she broke it off because I could never have done it. I’d said so many stupid things, like how I’d wait for her no matter how long it took, that I’d rather have stolen moments than not have her at all. Being pigheaded, I was determined to keep those promises, all the while growing more miserable every day. She absolved me from all that.”
Lark found that oddly reassuring for a couple of reasons. First, it was the most convincing statement to date that Channing’s romantic feelings for Payton were indeed a thing of the past. And second, Channing obviously possessed a strong sense of commitment. Lark needed both of those to be true for this relationship to feel like a possibility.
“Channing Hughes, I find you kind of fascinating.” She dropped her hand to Channing’s thigh and slowly walked her fingers underneath the nightshirt. “Maybe you noticed that earlier.”
“You mustn’t do that while I’m drinking, remember? I could choke and you wouldn’t be allowed to help me because you’re not a doctor.”
“Bloody awkward,” she said in her best English accent. “So tell me…what would I have to do to get you to feel all pigheaded about me?”
“I suppose that depends. You don’t have a spouse tucked away somewhere, do you? That would certainly take the biscuit, now wouldn’t it?”
“I have nothing tucked away anywhere.” Lark pretended to pat her pockets. She didn’t want their conversation to take a heavy turn. What if Channing—consciously or not—was drawn to women she knew would leave her eventually? She’d likely known Payton’s family would ultimately claim her, whereas Lark came with a built-in expiration date. “I hope you’re serious about coming back to Boston. Even if Albright doesn’t work out, someone with your résumé could get a job practically anywhere. A whole different industry so you aren’t in competition.”
“Funny, Payton said the same thing, as long as I stayed in England. Though I’m not keen on starting at the bottom again. It’s bloody hard climbing over all the whiz kids with their algorithms and game theories. What I’m best at is sitting down with clients, presenting the economic side, and making them feel confident.”
Given Channing’s handling of their tiff on the ship, it was easy to imagine that she set clients at ease. “How’s this for an idea? If you want your job back at Albright—and it sounds like you might—make peace with Payton. Convince her that you aren’t a threat, that you can put on your game face in the office and let the past be the past.”
After a long silence, Channing abruptly picked up her glass and retreated to the couch. Her expression was hard to read, but the twist of her mouth hinted at an edge. “I’m not dismissing that, but I have to ask…what sort of sacrifice are you prepared to make?”
“What do you mean?”
“You asked what it would take for me to feel pigheaded about you. But you then proceeded to suggest that I swallow a rather bitter pill and crawl back to Albright, where I’d not only have to deal with Payton but also that Boyd Womack prat. I’m asking if there’s another plan that doesn’t involve me making all the sacrifices. What are you prepared to do?”
Before Lark would even attempt to answer, she needed to understand where Channing was coming from. Was this an actual negotiation or merely the voicing of a grievance? By her placid tone, she wasn’t irritated or upset. Nor was she particularly inviting.
“You’ve got such a panicked look about you, Lark. I’m not asking specifically.” She snickered and patted the space beside her on the couch.
“It’s not panic. I’m trying to figure out where you’re coming from so I’ll know how to answer.”
“I’m only raising the question because Payton asked quite a lot of me during the course of our relationship. We had only our secret trysts when we traveled together. Scraps, really. Never just a simple museum outing in Boston, and no holidays at all—ever. She would ring me occasionally when Ben was out but I wasn’t to ring her. Meanwhile she had an entire other life that probably included having sex with her husband.”
“In other words, all the hallmarks of a secret affair.”
“Precisely, and it was even worse because she was my boss. I sucked it up while she screwed me financially, all so we could keep traveling together.”
“And you got jack shit for it. See, this is why people who care about you despise that woman.” It was difficult to reconcile the spirited, confident person sitting beside her with the passive mistress she’d just described. Even more curious was Channing’s conciliatory acceptance of how Payton had ended their affair. “If you ask me, it’s a miracle you didn’t burn the whole house down, Channing. I’d have gone all Charlize Theron on her ass. How can you be so calm talking about all the crap she put you through?”
“That’s my point. Not that I’m saying you’re anything like Payton, but I can’t go into another relationship in which I’d be expected to make all the sacrifices in order to keep it going. If I can’t bring myself to go back to Albright…if there’s nothing in Boston for me…”
“You’re asking if I’d give up my job and move to England?”
“Or perhaps—and I’m totally making this up—setting out for someplace new in Europe or…or…California, somewhere we both could find jobs we enjoy. I’m not saying, ‘All right, here’s what I demand.’ But if our relationship were to become serious, what’s not on the table?”
It was thrilling just to hear Channing acknowledge their potential. “Obviously this needs to be said—our relationship is already serious as far as I’m concerned. My goal right now is to be with you as much as I can so we can figure this out. The answer to your question is nothing. If we decide we want this”—she clutched Channing’s hand and squeezed—“everything’s on the table. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.”
“All right then, lots of possibilities.” Channing slid her hand inside Lark’s shorts, going straight for the prize. “Perhaps now we can get back to shattering that record you were boasting about.”
Chapter Sixteen
Channing swiped a band of steam from the bathroom mirror to inspect her neck for signs of excessive enthusiasm. All clear. Fresh from their communal shower, she called out, “I can’t recall ever feeling quite so clean. I applaud your thoroughness, you little scrubber.”
“I was looking for an earring.” Lark appeared behind her in briefs and a crisp blue shirt, and carrying two cups of tea.
“My, this really is a full-service establishment.”
“Don’t forget to post a review. I love this, by the way,” Lark said, bending to plant a kiss on the strawberry-shaped birthmark on Channing’s hip. “If you believe the old wives’ tale, your mother craved strawberries when she was pregnant with you.”
“I’d totally believe that had it been a dollar sign.” She relinquished the mirror and got dressed, noting that Lark had bui
lt a tower of sheets and towels for the housekeepers who would come through her apartment and refresh its appointments. “Does my invitation to return this evening still stand?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it?”
“No reason. I just find it’s always good to check the veracity of propositions uttered during sex.”
Joking aside, she had every reason to trust where they stood. They’d circled seamlessly through heated sex, self-appraisal, silliness and now everyday routine like a couple who’d been together for months, perhaps years. Channing’s only concern, oddly, was her lack of concern. The morning after her first night with Payton had brought a storm of anxiousness. She’d talked herself into believing Payton would regret what they’d done, that she’d renounce her feelings and leave her to sort herself. Why wasn’t she equally panicked about Lark’s imminent return to Boston? Either she’d bought into the future of their relationship or her subconscious had already accepted its demise.
“Such a serious face,” Lark said as she pulled on a pair of trousers.
“I’m pondering my feelings for you.”
“Okay, you have my attention.”
“I’m feeling quite at ease.”
Lark gave her a puzzled look and returned to the bathroom to finish her face and hair. “Is there any reason you shouldn’t be?”
“No, it’s very nice actually.” With most of her life in limbo, Lark was a stabilizing force. “Kenny will be happy to hear that, since it gets him off the hook for spoiling our weekend. Should I tell him I had eight orgasms? He’d be positively green with envy.”
“I always say there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Have you decided what you’re going to tell the Brownings?”
“Not about the orgasms…unless you think I should.”
Lark gave her an incredulous look on her way to the kitchen. “Something for breakfast?”
If she’d had it to do over she’d have come out to Poppa as a teenager, and the Brownings too. Those were the years of Thatcher’s Section 28, when most Britons considered gay life a “pretended family relationship.” As her lies and deflections piled up, the topic grew more difficult to broach.
Following Lark to a perch on the kitchen stool, she sighed dismally. “I avoided them all day yesterday. Considering the fact that they avoided me too, I almost think they’d prefer I didn’t say anything at all. Frankly I don’t see the point in confronting them over it.”
“It doesn’t have to be a confrontation. You are who you are. They’ve loved you for thirty years…surely this won’t change that.”
“That remains to be seen, but I appreciate your optimism.” More than anything, she was hurt. How could Cecil have looked at her with such contempt? “It’s likely to hasten their retirement…which means I’d probably have to hire someone else to oversee the manor while it sits on the market waiting for a buyer.”
“That’s just sad if you ask me.”
“I wish I knew what Maisie was thinking. Divide and conquer, you know? At least I don’t have to feel bad about firing them, since they were leaving anyway. That would have been even more devastating.”
When Lark presented her with toast with jam and sliced banana, Channing noticed a wry smile.
“All right, what have I said that’s funny?”
“I was thinking of when we were walking through Heathrow and you made a wisecrack about my chattiness in the morning. You said it must be hard on my cohabitant. So is it?”
Channing grudgingly acknowledged yet again her appreciation of Lark’s wit, dry and cutting without being cruel. “Smarty breeches. Aren’t you late for work?”
* * *
The email from Mike Dobbins had landed in Lark’s inbox just before midnight. Let’s discuss what this means, with a calendar event for an afternoon conference call, and a file attachment containing lab results for eight of the Flexxene trial subjects, including the three who’d reported cardiac symptoms.
Upon being notified of each medical emergency, Lark had phoned the hospital staff in Cambridge to request additional blood samples, upon which Gipson labs would run exhaustive tests to determine Flexxene’s effects. For comparison, she’d asked also for samples from three other subjects who were getting the drug and two who were not.
Dobbins had already screened the lab report and highlighted its most significant findings. Two of the emergency patients had only trace amounts of leflunomide, the metabolite produced by the body as it processed the chemical components of Flexxene. Such low levels suggested they hadn’t received their scheduled dose. The third patient tested negative as expected, since he was in the placebo group that received an adhesive patch without the drug.
It was the second set of highlighted figures she found most astonishing—all three emergency patients had high levels of cotinine, the metabolite for nicotine. All reported being nonsmokers, and these levels were far too high to result from second-hand smoke.
“No way,” she muttered.
A check of their files confirmed they’d been swab-tested prior to the study to rule out tobacco use. In particular, all three reported having never smoked. If PharmaStat had rigged its sample by submitting fake swabs, it appeared they’d also coached subjects not to mention their tobacco habits if they were audited. That would constitute fraud.
The last time she’d stumbled upon fraudulent practices, a small clinic in Dallas had brazenly faked its entire placebo group, submitting blood work from staff instead of actual subjects. Gipson referred that case for criminal prosecution and the supervising physician lost his license to practice medicine.
PharmaStat, with hundreds of millions in research contracts, had too much at stake to risk such unscrupulous behavior. But one fact was inescapable—any research process, no matter how exacting or rigorous, was only as strong as its weakest link. If a low-level employee like Wendi or Shane had felt under the gun to meet recruitment quotas by a certain deadline, might they fudge the data?
“Knock knock.” Niya stuck her head in. “Lunch today at Curry King?”
“Afraid not. I just got some weird data from the lab. Looks like I have a bunch of calls to make before I conference with Gipson.”
“The lab? Something to do with the trial? Can you tell me what it is?”
Lark shook her head grimly. “Not yet. I need to check a few things first. There’s probably a simple explanation.”
“Maybe I can help.” Niya leaned across the desk to peek at the file, but Lark clicked quickly to close it. “I see. We’re under suspicion again. Who is it this time?”
“I’m sorry, Niya. You know I can’t share this. It’s for your protection as much as mine.”
“Oh, forget it. I might as well get started on my resignation letter. You know, Lark…I find myself going back and forth with you. Some days I actually think you’re my friend.” If not for the hydraulic closer, she surely would have slammed the door on her way out. From friend to enemy in a span of seconds.
Lark was left shaking and on the verge of tears. Hers was a maddening position, requiring her to investigate possible mistakes or misdeeds that might have been committed by someone she trusted. To exonerate Niya, she had to find evidence that would pin the trial failure on someone else.
She’d been through the list of everyone on the Flexxene team, from the hospital staff to PharmaStat’s coordinators, and so far had found nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps one of them warranted a closer look, an employee whose perfectionist work habits made her appear beyond reproach—Wendi Doolan.
* * *
The sound of crashing glass jolted Channing from Poppa’s desk. “Maisie?”
She rushed downstairs to find Maisie whimpering at the mess, an entire stack of fine Wedgwood saucers broken to bits. “I’m so sorry, Miss Channing. I was taking them down so I could wipe the cupboard.”
“It’s all right. They’re just dishes.” Far more important was the bleeding gash on Maisie’s hand. Channing grabbed a clean tea towel from the drawer and wrapped th
e wound tightly. “We need to get you to the medical center.”
“I don’t think it’s that serious. Just a cut really…a plaster or two will do.” She raised her apron to wipe the tears.
“You sit here. Don’t touch any of this.” She rushed back upstairs to fetch her phone, then took a photo of the gash. “I’m texting this to my friend Lark for advice.”
“The woman who was here on Sunday?”
Channing bristled. This was no time for a confrontation. “She’s a doctor. She’ll know what to do.”
“I’m sure you’re right. She certainly set my mind at ease.”
Odd…theirs had been only a brief introduction. “At ease about what?”
“Oh, that new arthritis medicine they were testing. I took it for a little while and it helped, but then came that article in one of the red tops about how they were using us like guinea pigs, saying the drug might cause a heart attack. Dr. Latimer said there was nothing to worry about.”
“Wait a minute, are you saying—” Her phone rang, a call from Lark. “Did you get my photo?”
“That’s Mrs. Browning, right? What happened?”
“She dropped some dishes and one of them bounced up and cut her. I want to take her to the medical center but she says not to worry. What should I do?”
“Start with basic first aid. Have you stopped the bleeding?”
She lifted the cloth. “It’s still seeping a bit.”
“Keep pressure on it and have her hold it above her head. It should stop.”
Channing got Maisie situated at the table with her hand elevated and stepped into the great hall, letting the kitchen door swing shut behind her. “Maisie says she knows you, that she was taking one of your drugs that causes heart attacks. Did it not occur to you that I might like to know about that? She’s practically my family.”
“You know I can’t discuss that with you, Channing. Everyone’s entitled to privacy, but I’ll say this—you don’t have to worry about our drug. It’s perfectly safe and I would not tell you that if I weren’t a hundred percent certain it was true. Besides, she stopped taking it.”
A Proper Cuppa Tea Page 17