Don't Get Me Wrong (18 page)

The music had stopped. They sat listening to the sounds all around them—the shouting and laughing, the rush of the machine frothing milk, the crash of cups and cutlery.

Harry said, “What about you? Did you go out and visit Eva?”

“Lots of times. Germany twice, and then Lithuania. Italy. Spain a few months ago. That was amazing. A medieval village in the mountains that had been abandoned. They got together
and rebuilt all the old houses, and set up a bakery, and grew vegetables, and now they're completely self-sufficient. Living off the land. It's so beautiful up there. I can see why they wanted to do it.”

“But you didn't want to stay?”

“Part of me did. But part of me wanted to get back.”

“To the job.”

Again, she couldn't tell if he was laughing at her. “It's important, the research I do.”

“And Jake?”

The change of subject was so fast it caught her unawares. “What about him?”

“Was that another reason to come back?”

They held each other's eyes. “Of course.”

“He was the person you were talking to on the phone. In the shop.”

“I can't remember.”

“You didn't sound happy.”

“It's always hard to tell exactly what's happening, isn't it,” said Kim, “when you listen in on other people's conversations.”

“So you are happy.”

Kim felt hot and uncomfortable. “Yes.”

Harry smiled. But it was one of the old smiles, empty and insincere, that didn't reach his eyes.

“I'd better get back,” said Kim. “I didn't mean to be out this long. We're having some friends to supper tonight.”

“What are you cooking?”

“I don't cook. Jake does.”

“He sounds perfect.”

Kim dropped her eyes.

“I'll get this,” said Harry, reaching to pick up the bill.

“Are you sure?”

“Don't you remember? I'm the rich banker. The one who pays.”

Oh, she thought wearily. So we're back here again. She had a picture in her mind of a soldier in filthy battle dress bending down to pick up his gun.

•  •  •

“What do you mean he didn't talk about Eva?”

“Well, he talked about her a bit. Asked how she was when I went to Spain.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

Grace's exaggerated sigh down the phone was so huge that Kim felt as if a gale was blowing in her ear.

“Well, that's it then, isn't it? Nothing's going to happen now.”

“Eva's coming back next year. I'm sure they'll see more of each other then.”

“It's not some
friendship
, Kim. Not some kind of vague
social arrangement
that they can pick up whenever they feel like it. They have a
child
together. Who's now three and a half. Practically at
school
. Who doesn't even know what his father
looks
like these days.”

“We don't know for certain—”

“They forget so quickly, you know, children. Unless you see them regularly.”

“When did you last—”

“I really think you could have done more. It sounds from what you've said that you were quite sharp with him in the café. Confrontational, almost.”

“It was about the—”

“Men don't like talking shop, you know, on social occasions. They don't want to feel they're at work all the time. They expect us to be gracious and charming and to lead them into different avenues from the ones they're used to. Infinite variety. That's the whole point of art and literature. Monet, Manet, Virginia Woolf. It's a diversion from the ugly necessity of making money.”

Kim was silenced.

“Well, what's done is done,” said Grace. “It doesn't do to dwell on what might have been. There are two things that ruin the complexion—the sun, and regret. Disappointment is so aging. All I wish is that you'd taken the whole thing more seriously years ago when he first went to New York. That would have been the time to act. As it is, everything's ruined. I don't like to say this, Kim. It's hard for me to criticize my own daughter. But this whole miserable situation is all completely your fault.”

•  •  •

Jake directed Kim's career very carefully. He made sure she kept the CEO of the charity informed of all her achievements (“It's not enough to do it—you have to tell her you've done it, and done it well”) and helped Kim revise her goals and objectives every six months (“Know where you're going, and keep reviewing how far you've got”). To succeed, he said, you have to be both nimble and flexible, taking advantage of opportunities before others notice them and being willing to adapt to new
circumstances as they arise. “It's a cutthroat world,” he said. “Make sure you're prepared.”

Kim was constantly amazed that someone so clear-thinking could live in such a muddle at home. At least, she thought, plumping up a cushion on the new blue sofa, Jake has got somewhere comfortable to sit now.

At the beginning of September, when London was smiling in late summer sunshine, Jake came home in a state of suppressed excitement. “They're opening up a new role.” He unplugged himself from his phone. “Regional development manager. Responsible for raising the charity's profile all over the UK. It's a secret, of course. No one knows about it yet. It's not even on the internal website.”

Kim didn't bother asking how he knew about it. Sometimes she thought Jake must have supersensory hearing that worked through office walls and over the sound of the office kettle. Or perhaps he just hacked into the CEO's emails.

“So will you go for it?”

Jake looked puzzled. “Why would I go for it?”

“But I thought—”

“No, it's way below my pay grade. Much too junior. I was thinking of you.”

“Me?”

“Why not?”

“Well”—as usual, talking to Jake, she felt wrong-footed—“well, because I like what I'm doing at the moment, I suppose.”

“Research.”

“Yes. I think we're doing a good job.”

“And how many staff do you have working for you?”

“You know that.”

“Humor me.”

“Just Rhodri. My intern.”

Jake shook his head. “So it can't really be described as a management position, can it?”

I didn't say it was, thought Kim. But that doesn't stop it being useful.

Jake, still holding his briefcase, sat down on the arm of the new sofa, rucking up the fabric. “We've talked about this before. Slow and steady progress. Managing more and more staff. You have to show leadership potential. Or you'll get left behind.”

He had the hypnotic tone of voice he always used when stating the obvious. Kim, attentive, nodded.

“And, of course, it's a fantastic way of seeing how the charity works at the grassroots level. It'll give you a three-sixty view of what homelessness looks like across the UK. Once you've got that experience, you could pick up any job in this sector anywhere in the country. So you're increasing your marketability. Becoming, if you like, more desirable.”

Kim swallowed. She felt ashamed that he'd had to spell it out. “Would they consider me, do you think?”

He smiled. “Why do you think I've always been so insistent about emphasizing your achievements to the CEO? You're in a perfect position. Of course, they'll have to advertise externally. But there's nothing to stop them offering the post to an internal candidate if she's the best. Which you will be.”

Jake sounded so certain of this that Kim felt a small frisson of alarm. She had a vision of a horse's head in the CEO's bed.

“Are there any drawbacks?”

“To the job? None.”

“But will it involve traveling?”

“Oh yes,” said Jake. “All the regional centers. Week here, week there. But you'll get expenses. For meals and hotels.”

Kim imagined sitting alone in a poorly lit dining room.

Jake bent down and opened his briefcase. “I've downloaded the application form for you. It's a long one. Because it has to be scrupulously fair to all candidates. I've filled in the sections on ‘Capabilities and Experience' and ‘What Skills Can You Bring to This Job?' And I've drafted the ‘Additional Information' section. It'll probably only take you a couple of hours to finish it. And then as soon as it's publicly advertised, you can whack it in, way ahead of the game.”

Kim looked down at the neat stack of typed sheets.

“Will you be my reference?”

Jake frowned. “I don't think that would be very ethical, would it?”

It wasn't easy carrying on as normal in the cubbyhole. Cooped up all day with her intern, she felt guilty. Rhodri was one of the few people at work she really cared about. Brought up in a tiny village in Anglesey, he'd spent his whole life in north Wales—including three years at Bangor University—before coming to London. He was bright, hardworking, and idealistic, with the kind of open expression she associated with choirboys in cathedrals. Was she letting him down? Would he be ready to take over as head of research if she got promoted? He was only twenty-three. And he didn't seem to have a thick enough skin for the kind of office politics she was used to. If she wasn't there to protect him, Jake would probably have him for breakfast.

Anxiety gnawed away at her. Apart from anything else, she wasn't sure she was ready for promotion, herself. This was, she was well aware, a stereotypically female response to the chance of a leap up the career ladder. Men think, I've got fifty percent of what they're looking for—I can fudge it. Women think, I don't know, I only tick ninety-nine percent of the boxes—am I good enough?

But after serious reflection, she decided that what was really bothering her was the thought of spending so much time away from home. She was used to leaning on Jake when she needed coolheaded advice about problems at work. Most evenings, she sat at the kitchen table while he filled the sink with dirty pots and pans and told her exactly how she should respond to tricky situations. Of course there are any number of ways to have conversations when you can't be in the same room. But would he be able to direct her quite so efficiently by text, Skype, or email?

A few days after the job was made public and she'd sent in her application, Kim realized that she was also sad about the timing. Eva might be home by Christmas. So if Kim did get the regional development officer job, she'd be heading off for Leeds and Newcastle and Manchester and Bristol just as Eva and Otis were finally back in London.

Because of all this mental turmoil, Kim was very glad that she wasn't in Rhodri's line of sight for most of the day. Because the big flat computer screens formed a barrier between them, they had become used to interacting as disembodied voices. Luckily, like most Welsh-speakers, Rhodri articulated each consonant very clearly, so Kim never had to ask him to repeat himself.

“Are you going to the Labour Party conference?”

“No,” said Kim absently. “Why?”

“I don't know, really. Because Jake's going, I suppose. I thought you might make a week of it.”

“Living it up with party activists in Manchester.”

“Well, maybe not, if you put it like that.”

“It doesn't even sound like you get time to see the city.”

“I've never been to Manchester,” said Rhodri. “Although I haven't really been anywhere much. Apart from Dublin.” He added, after a pause, “And Corfu. Although to be really honest, we were so mangled most nights, I don't remember a lot of it.”

Kim moved her head from side to side, feeling the tension in her shoulders. “There aren't many people from here going to the conference, are there?”

“No, I don't think so. Just Jake and Zofia.”

“I didn't know Zofia was going.”

“Well it makes sense, doesn't it? They're probably thinking it would be more efficient to work as a team. And give her more experience as an intern. I mean, if you were going, you wouldn't not take me, would you?”

This was so full of possible misunderstandings that Kim wasn't sure how to answer.

“Of course they'll have the results of the leadership election at the conference, won't they? Miliband versus Miliband. My money's on David. But I don't think either of them will be the winner, really, will they? They're both going to lose in a situation like this.”

Later, in the kitchen, as Jake burnt chicken in a wok, Kim said, “I didn't know Zofia was going with you to the conference.”

“It's quite exciting for her,” said Jake, adding spring onions,
which spat back at him. “Coming from Gdańsk. Home of Lech Wałesa. Solidarity. And finally elected president of Poland in 1990.”

The pungent smell of fish sauce filled the room.

•  •  •

Each time Harry saw Syed, he was struck by how sleek and shiny his friend looked. It was as if wealth was polishing his skin. Working for a hedge fund suited Syed. He liked gambling, he enjoyed split-second trades on stock worth millions, and he had the arrogant self-confidence that made him a winning player.

He'd ditched the suits. People who work for hedge funds don't have to try that hard. They dress down every day.

“So how's the brother-in-law?” Harry said, leaning back in one of the chairs in Syed's Mayfair office. On the wall opposite was a Lichtenstein print in yellow, red, and blue. Or maybe it was a Lichtenstein original.

Syed, like a conductor bringing a symphony to a close, made a gesture with both hands to show it was all over. “I am a genius. I find solutions to all problems.”

“And what if he does it again?”

“Even a businessman as bad as my brother-in-law can't fuck it up a third time.”

“The triumph of hope over experience.”

“What are you trying to do? Drive me to drink?” Syed stood up. “Come on. I've booked a table round the corner. The ceviche is incredible.”