“I am most skilled in the ways of la petite mort.”
“I’m terrified.”
“You should be.”
They kissed deeply. He could taste the bourbon on her lips. He picked up the second glass and threw it back. Bernadette took the glass out of Ben’s hand and put it aside. Then she slid down from the countertop and led him up the stairs.
* * *
Sometime in the middle of the night, Ben woke to find Bernadette no longer asleep on his shoulder. He reached over toward her pillow, feeling for her, but she was not there. He sat up, propping himself on his elbows. She was sitting next to him, cross-legged.
“You okay?” he said.
“Wondering how much I have to worry about.”
He didn’t speak. Many responses went through his head, You don’t have a thing to worry about. Shit, not this again. Honey, I thought we settled that. Dearest, you’re worrying for nothing. None of those seemed appropriate. Then it came to him.
“For what it’s worth, my biggest worry was that I’d never see you again.”
“Even though you were spooning?”
“Yes, and it was very romantic.” Pausing to reel in his sarcasm. “Cooking grease. Fish scales and guts. The biggest damn carp head I’ve ever seen. Oh, and my own puke. I don’t know if she threw up or not.”
Bernadette shifted closer to him. “Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“How you held Ling Ling.”
“Dammit, honey, Ling Ling is a name for a panda, not a government worker drone.”
“Getting a bit defensive, are we?”
Ben closed his eyes and pushed himself to be more awake. “Okay. Lie down.”
Bernadette complied, putting her back to him.
“Turn around,” Ben said.
“She was facing you,” she said, turning. “You said you were spooning.”
“We were face-to-face. But not really.”
“Face-to-face isn’t spooning. What else are you lying about?”
Ben held his tongue. In the dark, not being able to read her face, using her accent to sound curt and businesslike, he couldn’t read her in this moment. It felt like an interrogation.
“Curl up. Fetal position.”
Bernadette drew her knees up and bent her back.
“Now clasp your hands together like you’re holding a cell phone and that you’ll die if you lose it.”
After waiting for a moment, he slid down next to face her, one arm tucked under his head, the other one around her upper arm and back.
“This is what it was like?” Bernadette said.
“Two differences,” Ben said. “We both had clothes on. And she was trembling so hard I thought the dumpster would rattle.”
They laid like that for a while, Ben unsure if she had gone to sleep or not, wondering where she was going with all of this. Then, as his eyelids were again starting to get heavy, she stretched out and pushed against him.
“So. How many times have you been with Ling Ling?”
He sat up. “Look,” he said, “if we’re going to keep going over this, at least call her by her name.” He stopped, drew a slow breath, and eased back down in the bed. “Lover, I have never been with Zhang Jin, not in the way you’re worried about. Except for not spooning in the dumpster, it has always been proper and businesslike. I hope you’re not jealous because at no point has our relationship ever been a thing.”
Bernadette gave a long sigh. “I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was, how many times has she been your minder?”
An odd question for now, Ben thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it. Eight or nine times. Whenever I’ve gone there in the last seven years or so.”
“Since we’ve been married.”
“I guess.”
“Ever bump into her on one of your visits to Hong Kong?”
Now Ben was fully awake. “Funny you should mention that. About three years ago I was there staying at the Four Seasons. I was walking through one of those high-end indoor malls that connect all the buildings in Central and there she is, three or four shopping bags in her hand. Versace, Gucci, that kind of stuff. Like many Chinese women, she was there on a long weekend shopping spree.”
He felt her muscles tighten under his arm. She said, “Did she say anything? You say anything?”
“Oh, God. Not this jealousy stuff again.”
She turned and sat up. “No, Ben. This is strictly professional, like you say the relationship was.”
“I thought we took care of this. You still don’t believe me about Zhang Jin?”
She leaned down toward him, so close he could feel the warmth of her face. “No, Ben, I do believe you. I also believe that you are hopelessly naïve. So answer my question. Did either of you say anything?”
“Um.” Trying to replay the scene in his mind. “She said something about drinks later at the hotel.”
“Did you?”
“No, sweetheart. I can tell a pickup line when I hear one. It’s not like I was a monk before I met you. Besides, I wasn’t going to—I mean, not when I have you to come home to.”
“How did she know the hotel?”
“Are you kidding? Everyone in that part of the world knows—”
“How did she know you were staying there?”
“Hell, I don’t know. It was a few hundred yards away, I was walking—”
“Ben.” Her voice urgent now. “There are half a dozen hotels within walking distance through those malls.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dearest, you are the most important thing in my life. But before you became Fed Chairman you were not the most important thing in the life of Chinese State Security. You wouldn’t have been in the top hundred or even the top thousand.”
“You sure know how to deflate a guy’s ego.”
“My poor, clueless baby. The reason I want to know what was said between the two of you is to find out whether I ever came up in any of your conversations.”
“You did,” Ben said. “And she knows how important you are to me, and why she didn’t have a chance with me. In fact, she told me on more than one occasion how much she’d like to meet you.”
He could feel her nodding as she settled back down on his chest. “That’s what I thought. You see, your friend Jin isn’t there to get information on you. She is there to get information on me.”
CHAPTER THREE
BERNADETTE MURPHY WAS THE BEST thing that had ever happened to him.
That was not only Ben’s opinion. It was that of his children and all his friends as well. His first wife had died of cancer at thirty-seven, leaving him with four children aged eleven to sixteen. Each was gifted in their own individual and wonderful way and, due to the heartache experienced by their mother’s death, wise beyond their years.
Still, the whole family had been devastated. He had stitched things together as best he could. There was plenty of money so household help was not an issue. Nor were therapists. But the experience had taught Ben there were some things money could not buy. Despite the relentless work schedule, he ensured that he saw his children grow up. He rarely missed an event that his children deemed important, be it karate class or writing letters to the Tooth Fairy to explain a lost tooth and ensure the payout. When the youngest left for college Ben Coleman was alone. Most empty nesters have each other, but single parents do not.
Twice a week he took the train north to New Haven to teach classes at Yale. The other three days he took the train south to see clients in New York. Then came an offer of a new gig—to do what he was doing from Connecticut, but in London, England. It was a combination of a visiting professorship at the London School of Economics and some consulting in the City, mostly for the London offices of his current client base. The children would not hear his protests about wanting to be near them. They knew he needed a change of scenery and frankly, they needed to get on with their lives in college.
Ben threw hims
elf into his new life. The apartment in Westminster gave easy access to everything including a real life, something single parenthood had denied him. It was easy. His reputation had preceded him, so the invitations poured in.
One night in early October he went to a cocktail party at the behest of Hank Borstead, an odd duck colleague at LSE who was an American expat like himself. A woman standing at the bar captivated him with her stunning red hair, her self-assured manner, and the way her eyes lit up when she listened to someone talk, even about the most mundane of subjects. She was smiling politely at the person speaking to her and holding what looked like a gin and tonic. She was wearing a black wrap dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and nude heels. Her porcelain skin highlighted her red hair and beautiful green eyes. Ben looked away quickly, worried that he had been caught staring. It had been a quarter century since he had been in the dating game, and his lack of practice was paralyzing.
As if reading his mind, the hostess, Edith Spensley, came right over and pushed a glass of bourbon into his hand. She was a slight woman who typically wore earth tones and tended to keep her hair piled up on top of her head. Ben’s first impression of her had been that she was a typical British prig, stuffy with no sense of humor. But it didn’t take long for the ever-present twinkle in her eye to win him over, as he realized there was likely more to her and her stuffed-shirt husband, Graham, than met the eye.
“Ben,” she said. “So good of you to come.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Have I ever turned you down? You and Graham are the world’s best, and your place is stunning.”
“How good of you to say. Ben, let me be direct. I couldn’t help but notice your gaze.”
Ben’s face reddened. He never thought he was being obvious. As he would learn four years later when Graham and Edith visited America and finally came clean, he hadn’t been obvious and Edith wasn’t a mind reader. It was a set up. Edith was very good at all things social. Placing her arm around his elbow as if she were his escort, she half-guided and half-dragged him across the floor whispering, “Do let me introduce you.”
In a heartbeat he was standing before the redhead and was being introduced. “Bernadette, my dear, I would like to introduce you to a wonderful American friend of ours. Ben Coleman, Bernadette Murphy.”
For a moment Bernadette appeared to feel as awkward as Ben did. “Welcome to London, Mr. Coleman. Any friend of Edith must be a man of distinction.”
“It is Edith and Graham who have the distinction. They invite me along as their way of promoting trans-Atlantic relations.”
An odd look appeared ever so briefly in Edith’s eyes, but ever the gracious hostess, she had her escape planned. “You two are full of flattery,” she said. “And flattery will get you everywhere. So before you feel the need to pay me even more compliments, let me assure that you both will be invited back. But now I must attend to my other guests.” It was as skilled an exit as Ben had seen, with the right touch of disarming humor to leave the two guests alone together before either could protest.
Realizing what happened, Ben decided that it was his responsibility to take up the slack. “How long have you known the Spensleys?” It seemed safe enough.
“Believe it or not, since boarding school. Edith and I were on the field hockey team together. It seems like a lifetime ago. I suppose it has been.”
Ben caught himself staring. Her eyes were green and gorgeous, and contrasted sharply with her red hair. Bernadette’s accent was also as intriguing as she was; Ben could not quite decide whether it was English or American or whether she was deliberately mixing the two. He moved to cover his stare, “And where did that intervening lifetime take you?”
“Oh, from one thing to another. Turns out I am good at organizing. I am a wedding planner.”
“Nothing like the movie, I assume.”
“Movies are made to be entertaining,” she said. “I’m afraid most of what I do is rather tedious. Lining up this and that. Making sure that the bride and her mother are happy. Making sure Dad is not put off by the cost. Tedious, but necessary. So many people have no idea how to pull it off. And what do you do, Mr. Coleman?”
“Please, call me Ben.” He suspected that Ms. Murphy was downplaying her role and no doubt arranged the weddings of Britain’s many lords and ladies. He chose to be modest as well. “I’m about as dull and tedious as one can get. I’m an economist. I suppose that beats being a lawyer, at least in America where we have far too many of them. But just barely.”
“From what I read in the papers, economists are quite necessary given the state of things. Like wedding planners, the world wouldn’t get on without them.”
He raised his glass. “Here’s to us, then. Bearing the world’s tedium so others don’t have to.”
She laughed, showing perfect white teeth, and clinked her gin and tonic against his bourbon. Then the small talk commenced, covering what anyone listening would have considered a conversation between two good friends, and continued for another twenty minutes. Ben became more intrigued with each passing moment.
It was Bernadette who ended it. “I’m sorry to cut the evening short, Mr. Coleman, but I have four florists to interview in the morning. As I said, quite tedious. And I must review their price lists before I go in. When one’s floral bill is ten thousand pounds it is quite amazing how much bargaining power the buyer can have.”
“Might I walk you to your door?” Ben thought this was the right way of saying it, but a flash of insecurity welled up inside of him. I’m so damn out of practice at this.
“Why, yes. It’s just a few blocks. Sadly, here in London a woman can’t be too careful.”
As things turned out, walk you to your door was exactly the right phrase, even though Ben found himself wishing for more. The chatter continued on the walk home, but once there it was, “Thank you so much, Ben. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I expect that we will be seeing each other at one of Edith and Graham’s famous dinner parties.” That was followed by a quick peck on his cheek and then a beeline past the bellman and through the door.
He spent the rest of the night replaying the episode, wondering where he had gone wrong. He had put a lot of effort in making sure he looked good and was pleased with his choice of a light blue checked shirt that was now crumpled on the floor of his closet. He never really needed to worry about any of this when Ellen was alive. Maybe I’m out of practice, he thought as he closed his laptop and leaned to turn off his bedside lamp. He had his doubts that the next dinner party would lead to any different result.
He could not have been more wrong.
Four days later Bernadette called him, having gotten his number from Edith. It caught him completely off guard when he answered the phone to hear Bernadette’s voice on the other end. “I know this is quite forward, but I need a favor. Edith said you wouldn’t mind.”
His heart sank. “Of course.” Then trying to sound both humorous and gallant at the same time, “How might I help the damsel in distress?” He smiled, pleased with his flirtatious response. The mysterious Bernadette had been on his mind ever since she planted the kiss on his cheek four days earlier.
“Would you accompany me to the reception at the Saudi Embassy tomorrow? I am trying to get the contract for the wedding of the ambassador’s niece. His brother will be there, and the ambassador was very impressed with the arrangements I made for a friend. I’m calling you because, well, it is not such a good idea for women to go to these things unaccompanied.”
I’m being used, Ben thought. For business, no less. But she was a damsel in distress, and one that he was quite interested in. “It would be my honor to accompany you,” he said. They discussed details for a few more minutes, then ended the conversation.
Pacing through his apartment, Ben found himself walking with an unexpected spring in his step. Business or not, he was getting a second chance to see Bernadette—at her request, no less. He put the phone back into his shirt pocket and let out a long
sigh.
The reception itself had been quite boring. Ben was used to forced conversation and making a martini last for several hours, but he now understood why Bernadette had described her job as tedious. It had been ninety minutes of standing and making small talk with strangers. Bernadette had left his side exactly twice, to go to the ladies’ room she had said. Twice in ninety minutes. He filed that fact away for future use. But being around her made the tedium bearable, so he was able to wait patiently during her absences. However, as they got into the cab on the way home, Ben was faced with what he considered another disappointment.
“Let me drop you off at your place. I have to go back to the office. I think that I may have landed the contract and I really should start working on it straight away. Thank you so much for accompanying me, I really appreciate it.” His thanks amounted to a brief kiss on the lips as Bernadette got out of the car.
Getting closer, was all he could think.
Then a reprieve. Bernadette turned back to the open window of the cab and said, “We will do this again. I promise. But you pick the event. Please, no embassy parties. I am tied up this weekend, but perhaps the one after?” She smiled genuinely and all of a sudden Ben felt like he was sixteen all over again.
This woman was an enigma, keeping him where it seemed she wanted him, and he obliged. He wanted to get to know her and was willing to do it on her terms. He stole one last look at her as the car pulled away and sighed as he loosened the tie he had bought with help from his support network.
That feeling lasted until he got to the London School of Economics the next morning. Hank Borstead poked his head in the door to his office. Ben had met Borstead during his brief stint in government years before. He had retired from the CIA two years before and now lectured at LSE on diplomacy—albeit the kind that never made the papers. Ben and Hank were two of six Americans who taught there at the time, a small enough clique that a natural and much-needed bonding had occurred over homesickness, the lack of traditional American food, what passed for football in England, and the absence of the Thanksgiving holiday.
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