A Proper Cuppa Tea

by K. G. MacGregor

“Just tea for now.” Channing greeted each with a kiss to the cheek. “Come into the breakfast room so we can talk. Bring our pot of tea.”

  The Brownings exchanged troubled looks that jogged a memory of Poppa. It probably wasn’t the talk they were worried about, she realized, but the unseemliness of joining her at the table. She recalled as a teenager scolding Poppa about how demeaning it was to have Cecil open his car door when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Had it not occurred to her, he asked, that Cecil wanted to open the car door? He’d made the indelible impression upon her that the Brownings, as honest, hardworking people, were proud to perform the duties for which they were paid. Whereas becoming too chummy would put them in the awkward position of feeling they couldn’t occasionally negotiate for more compensation or changes in working conditions.

  “Please join me, I should say. We won’t have many more opportunities to share the morning, and I want to milk every single moment.” She took her usual spot and waited for them to sit. “I bet you’re getting very excited. Moving day is this weekend, yes?”

  “Saturday,” Cecil said. “Sorry we’ve had the car out so much. I suppose it’s time for us to visit the Honda shop.”

  “We might get one of those cute little crossovers,” Maisie said. “They’re so comfortable and have all that room.”

  “About that…I should have told you this sooner. I want you to have Poppa’s car…if you want it, that is. I can do the transfer online today but it could take a week or two to process. If you prefer the Honda, perhaps they’ll accept it in trade.” It was the least she could do for their thirty-four years of service.

  “That is so kind of you, Miss Channing,” Cecil said. “But what will you do about a car?”

  “I can always call Ruth, or perhaps I’ll rent one for a couple of weeks. Looks like I’ll be returning to Boston soon.”

  “So you’ve decided to sell Penderworth and move back?” Maisie pouted and held her hand to her chest.

  “Actually I’m only selling half of it—to Kenny. We’ll bring in a contractor to make some repairs. It’s possible Kenny and Oliver will decide to live here, at least on the weekends. But it will always be mine, and who knows? I may end up back here one of these days. That’s my plan anyway.”

  Cecil grinned and bobbed his head from her to Maisie and back. “This is such wonderful news, dear one. Your Poppa would be so pleased.”

  The “moving back to Boston” part wasn’t set in stone, but it certainly appeared so. She’d returned Vanessa Easton’s text with a suggestion for a day and time but hadn’t received a reply. Perhaps she’d guessed wrong about the reason for Easton’s interest.

  “Speaking of Poppa…” She didn’t want to dampen their joy, but it was important to her to close the circle on what they’d talked about earlier. “I was worried about something you said, Cecil, that Poppa would have been ashamed of me had he known I was gay. I didn’t want to believe that, so I asked Lord Alanford. They were friends, as you know, and they had a history on the subject with regards to Kenny. It turns out that Poppa knew about me all along, at least from the time I was a teenager. His only disappointment was that I never met someone who made me want to tell him.”

  Cecil’s face was a mask of tearful shame. “I’m so sorry I said that to you. I had no right.”

  “It’s all right, I forgive you.” She stretched across the table and gripped his hand. “Look at me, Cecil. I’m only telling you this because Poppa deserves to have us remember him for who he was…a truly exceptional man.”

  “You’re right, Miss Channing. Maisie and I found our pot o’ gold the day we came to work here. We’re so grateful for the life we’ve had.”

  “And I’m grateful you both were here to share it with me. Once you move to Bury, I won’t be your mistress anymore.” With her other hand, she clutched Maisie’s. “I hope that means we get to sit like this even more, like family. That’s who you are to me.”

  The poignant outpouring was more than Maisie could take, and she burst into tears. “That’s enough of this sentimental mush, both of you. I have work to do.”

  Amidst laughter and cheer, they shared monstrous hugs before setting about their day.

  Channing’s world was brimming with “sentimental mush,” she realized. After feeling almost impervious to sentimentality for most of her life, it was suddenly everywhere—Lark, Kenny, the Brownings. What she wouldn’t give to have had this emotional awakening when Poppa was still with her.

  Alone in the breakfast room, she poured herself another cup of tea and checked her tablet to find a late-night email from Mitch marked Contract that had an attachment:

  Channing, I apologize for how long it’s taken us to get the paperwork together on this. Please find our compensation package attached for the position of Senior Client Manager, Eastern Region. Ideally, we’d like to have you start by July 20, sooner if possible. The Grandover deal blew up on us. They got cold feet about the stock swap and it hurt us not to have you or Payton there to hold their hand through the merger. Isn’t it horrible, this news from Payton? I spoke with her daughter yesterday and apparently they’ve known for months. The family has been told to expect the worst. I know you have a lot going on in your life right now too, Channing. It’s times like this that make us realize the folks at Albright aren’t just colleagues—we’re family too. I hope to hear from you soon. Best, Mitch

  * * *

  Mike leaned over and grumbled, “Un-fucking-believable. Corporate espionage isn’t even illegal in the UK.”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t mean she gets a pass.”

  Still, there was enough evidence against Niya to send her to prison for a dozen years if Gipson chose to prosecute. Product tampering was illegal no matter where it occurred in the distribution chain. Niya had to know that surreptitiously infusing nonsmokers with nicotine would bring unpleasant and frightening effects. Her scheme would have been disastrous if one of her victims had suffered more serious consequences.

  The meeting had been moved to a waterfront business hotel near Logan Airport in order to accommodate expansive teams from Gipson, PharmaStat, and Haas-Seidel, the three companies embroiled in the dispute. Tables were set up in a U-formation, with each company claiming a row. The powerful decision-makers—most of them white men, Lark noticed—sat at the tables, with their respective support staffs lined up in chairs behind them.

  In all, Lark counted forty-two people in attendance. The roster included a sampling of board members, corporate officers, attorneys, and accountants—an indicator of how much money was at stake. While there was no one present who represented one of the science departments, several of the officers and board members were medical doctors. Lark thought it ironic that after playing such integral roles in the investigation and outcome, she and Mike Dobbins had been relegated to the back row. She was proud though to have Kirsten—not Gipson’s CEO or general counsel—spearheading their company’s position. If Gipson didn’t name her CEO soon, someone else would.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s possible Gipson Pharmaceuticals has suffered irreparable damage no matter what action we take today. The news story about life-threatening side effects received wide media attention throughout the UK. Our survey, which was conducted shortly after the article appeared in The Sun, found that eighteen percent of adults in the UK were aware of the story. That’s nearly ten million people.”

  Haas-Seidel’s CEO interjected, “To be fair, awareness has probably fallen considerably since the story first broke, and awareness isn’t the same as understanding. Media users often are confused when it comes to specific details, especially over time.”

  Spoken like a man who felt at least partially responsible for the damaging article, since it was his employee who conspired to disrupt the development of Flexxene and fed the story to the press.

  Kirsten showed little emotion on her face, and even less in her voice. “That’s quite true, Dr. Vogel. What some of those readers remember is merely the existence
of a scandal involving a drug trial. We owe it to our colleagues at Bayer, Merck, Abbott Laboratories, and so on, not to let the damage caused by this incident spill over onto their reputations as well. Working together for a resolution seems in everyone’s best interest.”

  A board member from PharmaStat expressed alarm over the suggestion that the details be shared with other industry giants. He feared that PharmaStat, with research facilities all over the world, could be put out of business if drug companies no longer had confidence in their work.

  An acrimonious back-and-forth erupted with one of Gipson’s board members, during which Lark stole an opportunity to check her phone for messages. Nothing. No response to the three texts she’d sent, nor the voice mail she’d left during a bathroom break.

  Her first text had been silly, saying Channing’s pulsating showerhead could give Ruby a run for her money. The second was even sillier, reiterating her wish to take over the lease if they broke up. Those two she sent early this morning. By the time her group wrapped up lunch at the hotel, it was six p.m. in Cambridge, and still no reply. Fearing that Channing had taken her lease comment too seriously, she sent a third saying she couldn’t wait to see her again and was already looking at fares for a long weekend.

  She hated texting, hated email. People couldn’t hear the inflection in your voice to know if you were joking. But then half the time she couldn’t tell when Channing was joking, even if they were sitting face-to-face.

  A groan somehow escaped her mouth and Mike gave her a nudge. “Don’t worry, Kirsten’s got this.”

  “Trust is absolutely essential for everyone in this room. I daresay the people who read that story and believed it no longer trust us. We can’t fix that by lying to them or obscuring the truth.” Kirsten paused, giving her words dramatic effect. As an obvious show of respect, no one moved to fill the silence. “So what happened here? Was this failure the result of systemic corruption in the industry? No—it was two people conspiring. Our clinical reviewer, Dr. Lark Latimer…where are you, Lark?”

  Lark sat up straight and offered a small wave, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room.

  “There she is. Back row, gray suit.”

  Technically it was taupe. Gray clashed with her hair and eyes.

  “I asked Dr. Latimer this morning if she saw a way out of this. She said, and I quote, ‘Just tell people what happened.’ And she’s absolutely right. Make public the news that two nefarious individuals took advantage of their positions for personal gain. That both have been fired. That all parties involved are taking action to ensure that neither individual is ever certified to work in this industry again. That we’ve taken steps to make sure mistakes like this aren’t repeated.”

  Around the room were subtle nods, signs of agreement. Even PharmaStat’s CEO, Pierre Dancourt—who arguably had the most to lose—grudgingly concurred. “Dr. Cooke is right. It is far too late to contain this. Secrets do not keep. The only way forward is to acknowledge our errors and demonstrate our resolve to correct them.”

  It was nearly five o’clock when the meeting finally broke. About half the attendees pooled into taxis and shuttles for Logan to catch evening flights back to Europe.

  A small crowd clustered around Kirsten, following her to the elevator and into the lobby of the parking garage. Lark squeezed through to offer her personal congratulations for owning the room. “Lark, have you met Dr. Dancourt? This is Lark Latimer, who headed up our review team in Cambridge.”

  Lark knew PharmaStat’s CEO only by reputation and wasn’t surprised when he spoke out in support of Kirsten’s strategy for full disclosure. As he handed her his business card, he thanked her for uncovering weaknesses in his company’s systems.

  Kirsten caught her elbow as she started to walk away. “Wait for me a sec, will you?”

  She would never again wonder how Channing could have gotten involved with Payton. Dr. Kirsten Cooke, blond and athletic, soccer mom, the senior officer to whom their CEO turned with so much on the line. Had there been no Channing, had Kirsten needed a friend for one of the toughest days of her life, had they shared an intimate moment filled with sexual energy…she too would have had an affair with her married boss.

  But that would never happen now. She had everything she could ever want in Channing. Who still wasn’t answering her texts or calls. It was maddening.

  Kirsten joined her on the walk to visitor parking, her slumped shoulders the only indication her whirlwind trip to Cambridge and back in three days was catching up with her. This woman had run the Boston Marathon four months after having a baby.

  “How does it feel to be a rock star?” Kirsten asked.

  “Me? If anyone’s a rock star after today, it’s you.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself. A lot of people are impressed that you got to the bottom of this when it so easily could have been written off as an unfortunate coincidence.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she added, “This wouldn’t be a bad time to ask for a raise.”

  Feeling herself blush, she recognized the opportunity Kirsten’s observation presented. “What if I asked instead about a transfer to the San Diego office?”

  “A California girl? I thought you grew up here.”

  “My girlfriend and I are thinking about relocating…but only if it’s a good career move.”

  “It’s not my call, Lark, but I think Gipson would do its best to accommodate you. There is one issue though, which is what I wanted to talk about.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that, nor the fact that Kirsten had felt the need to couch this “issue” in what might have been gratuitous praise.

  “With regard to PharmaStat, I spoke with Pierre. We have a mutual interest in maintaining a strong research partnership. It’s symbiotic—millions in contracts for them, without which Gipson would have a backlog of dozens of trials. We have to look at all the projects in the field right now with PharmaStat, but there are misgivings about you being the one to do that given your personal experience with this situation.”

  “Misgivings? I just turned in one of my best friends. You’d think that would get me a few checks in the integrity column.”

  “It does, Lark. Truly it does, and Pierre appreciates that greatly. But we’re at a tenuous juncture and it’s imperative that we mend this relationship. There’s concern at Gipson that your involvement in further Cambridge trials might cause unnecessary friction with the staff there. They might not be as cooperative or as forthcoming. Your findings could be challenged, your recommendations rebuffed. Gipson can’t afford to have that happen.”

  So no more assignments in Cambridge. No more chances to work in what was now her new favorite place to be. As depressing as that was to imagine, it was the logical end to the shitstorm stirred up by her review. Whereas people like Wendi and Shane had once thought of her as “the boss” they needed to please, she’d now be a spy to suspect, an adversary to resist.

  “Can I at least say that sucks?”

  Kirsten laughed gently and rested a hand on her shoulder as they reached her car, a minivan that probably held half a soccer team. “You’re allowed to say that, but only to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stepping off the elevator at Massachusetts General, Channing thought of Lark’s habit of splashing on cologne to suppress the distinctive smells of a hospital. The lingering odor was proof there had been a vicious battle for life on this floor today, as if cancer needed another way to broadcast its horror.

  At twenty after nine in the evening, the information desk on the fifth floor was dark and abandoned, except for the custodian whose vacuum cleaner roared beneath rows of padded armchairs. Families who earlier that day had fretfully waited in this room had long since gone home or taken their solicitude to a loved one’s bedside.

  The custodian turned off his machine and looped the cord around his shoulder for transport. She took a seat and watched until he stepped aboard the elevator on his way to being someone else’s disturbance.<
br />
  A call to Mitch’s admin Robin, ostensibly for information on how to send flowers, had gotten her the room number, which she’d located on the floor plan in the main lobby. Down the hall and around the corner. Now after traveling 3,400 miles, she couldn’t muster the fortitude to walk the last fifty feet.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t. The long day of travel had her on a razor’s edge—anxious, confused, seething, heartbroken. It was clear Payton hadn’t meant for her to find out. In this new light, her behavior of the last few months made sad, twisted sense.

  The main question wasn’t why Payton had kept this from her. It was whether she should honor Payton’s wishes now or selfishly assert her own by going in there to show what a compassionate person she could be. Had she really come all this way to turn back now?

  Her phone dinged again, this time to announce an email.

  Hi sweetheart, I’ve been trying to reach you today by text and voice mail. I suppose it’s possible one of us is having phone issues. Or maybe I used up all my data getting to know Ruby. Anyway, I’m a little bit worried (not a lot). If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, I’ll give Kenny a call to make sure you’re all right. If you’re reading this—I love you! XXXOOO Lark

  It was the fifth time today Lark had reached out to her. After Mitch’s note this morning, Channing had been in no mood for levity but couldn’t find the words to explain to Lark why she was dropping everything to rush to Payton’s side. Then she asked herself why she even needed to explain it. If Lark had a problem with her feelings for Payton at a time like this, then she wasn’t the person Channing thought her to be. In fact, by the time she’d gotten off the plane at Logan, she’d worked herself into a lather over things Lark hadn’t even said, hadn’t even done—all of which was absurd.

  Night had fallen, enabling her to see her reflection in the window. She’d worn the black jumpsuit and heels, the outfit Lark liked so much. Funny that she’d bought it only hours after resigning from Albright as a reward for showing some backbone. She fluffed her hair, which had fallen flat from the dry air on the plane, and touched up her lips with gloss. It was probably the best she could do under the circumstances.