Frame-Up (6 page)

His words give me courage and I feel closer to him than ever.

Monday, 9:20 p.m.

Repeated calls to Gary’s cell phone remained unanswered. It is getting
late before I finally reach him on his home number. I come right to the
point: "Gary, I was again interviewed by the police, this time in the
presence of my lawyer —"

"And did you do what I told you to do? Tell them that you never talked
to me about the Lufthansa contract?"

"No, I didn’t —"

"You promised —"

"No, Gary, I never promised. I told you that I was not going to perjure
myself, and this is also the firm advice of my lawyer."

"You’re totally useless. You simply leave me in the shit, only think of
yourself and how to save your own fucking ass."

"Gary, listen to yourself —"

"You listen to yourself. I warned you what I’ll do if you don’t retract
your statement, and don’t think I won’t."

"Gary, how can you be like this? Does all we had in the past —"

"Forget about the past. You messed up my future, my promotion. If the
past counts anything for you, then get me out of this shit."

"I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought —"

"I don’t care what you thought."

It sounds like a gunshot when he slams down the phone, and then the
line is dead.

I was standing next to a kitchen counter during the exchange. Now I
sink into a chair. I notice that my vision is blurring. Somehow this
exchange has taken more out of me than the police interview. The latter
was something external, something I could fight with logic and reason.
The row with Gary threatens my self-image, my self-esteem. It makes me
doubt my judgment in people, leaving me confused, at a loss of how to
respond, hurting. Is this the end between Gary and me?

I seek refuge in the bathroom, see my despondent expression in the
mirror and try to wash it away with cold water. Gary’s electric toothbrush
and toothpaste sit in a corner of the vanity. He is very particular about the
brand, not liking my choice. Two Bic disposable razors, shaving foam,
and a small bottle of aftershave cologne are in the mirror cabinet. The
bathroom towels I always set out for him hang on the heated towel rail
next to mine. It is only ever turned on for him. Will he use them again, I
wonder? I leave them hanging. I’ll remove them the next time I’ll wash
all towels.

Tuesday, 21
^st
October, 0:01 a.m.

The precious Neuenburger clock in the living room — a graduation
present of my grandparents on my mother’s side — has just struck
midnight. I went to bed an hour ago, but sleep refused to rescue me. I
tossed and turned, my thoughts exploring my relationship with Gary like
searching through a maze. I got stranded in one blind alley after the other,
the looked-for, yet undefined resolution evading my search.

My lawyer’s remark that I could be the victim of a scam by one or
several of my colleagues, or even my boss, keeps intruding on my
thoughts. They all knew that Ventura was holding twelve million Sanvino
shares. The boss made a big splash about it when I landed that deal a bit
over a year ago, setting me up as an example to my colleagues. I guess
that’s what triggered the cooling in their attitudes toward me. Up till then,
they simply saw me as the token toward the Securities and Futures
Association’s call for more female members. From their behavior I guess
several were convinced to bed me sooner or later. Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. A female might eclipse them. I metamorphosed into a
threat to their male egos. Long’s gibes all at once turned vicious. If some
of the other colleagues had kept their distance prior to that, their glee and
laughs egged him on for more.

Could it be that I’m simply the butt of a joke somebody played on me
on the spur of the moment? A joke that went horribly wrong? Somebody
tricking me? Misleading me with a rumor about the Lufthansa contract
getting cancelled? Suggesting that I check with Goldsax and then maybe
even making sure that my inquiries confirmed the rumor? And how could
that be arranged? I don’t like the answer that suggests itself. Everybody
in the office knew that Gary is my boyfriend. I was bound to ask him.
Could he have been involved? Like stirred by an insidious worm I
remember that he never complimented me on my success as a stockbroker. Did I not more than once catch a whiff of jealousy that my
commission earnings exceeded his? Could jealousy have induced him to
go along with the joke? This would explain why he suddenly panics when
he sees the joke backfiring on him? I feel the heat rise in my cheeks for
even thinking along these lines.

Or is it even more sinister, something carefully planned, days, possibly
weeks ago? This would imply that the perpetrator knew of the prospects
for the Singapore Airlines deal already a while ago. Could Long have
known about it? He flies Singapore Airlines whenever he can and has
hinted more than once that he gets specials deals. So he might have a
source inside that company who tipped him off.

Crawford is right; it is easy to think up plausible scenarios that fit the
circumstances. For some I’m no more than a gullible victim of a sick
joke. For others I’m the target of a carefully set trap that allows them to
portray me as a schemer who uses insider trading to profit from possibly
privileged information. In all scenarios my client loses two million
pounds and I’m finished. The threat of a female surpassing them is
removed. But discovering what really happened seems near impossible.
Whoever might have done it would hardly have left any clues sitting
around, or would they? A word here, a whisper there, was all that was
needed to launch me on my path of self-destruction. Now they will only
have to sit tight and they’ll be safe. If this is what really happened, then
my only course of action is to wait and hope that the police will
ultimately drop the investigation for lack of evidence. I will never be fully
cleared. A cloud of suspicion will remain hanging over me, becoming an
obstacle for any new career in a position of trust.

Tuesday, 6:45 a.m.

Although I turned off the alarm clock, I wake promptly at my usual time.
Force of habit drives me out of bed before the realization sinks in that I
need not get ready for work. There is no work, at least not the type I’m
paid for. I go through my usual morning routine, maybe at a more
leisurely pace than the day before. After a shower and shampooing my
hair, I automatically reach for my ‘business uniform’ and startle myself
with: "Ceci, put that way to the back of the wardrobe." Instead, I don my
tracksuit, eat a bowl of cereal and fruit, and drink a strong espresso.

The sky is a milky blue. I might as well take advantage of this forced
holiday and go for a run in Kensington Gardens, I tell myself. Forty-five
minutes later I’m back in my apartment, ready for another quick shower.
I feel physically good. There is nothing wrong with my fitness. What’s
wrong is all in my mind. Being dumped by Gary and its possible
unsavory reasons weigh heavily on me; this feeling of helplessness, of
having lost control over my life; this uncertainty of the future. It was too
sudden. How long is this whole thing going to take? What am I going to
do until it’s over? Should I look for another job right away and what kind
of job? I waitressed during my university years. It wouldn’t bother me to
do it again for a short period, even if the pay is miserable. Does it though
make sense to take another job as long as this investigation remains
hanging over me?

Maybe the first thing to do is a bit of financial planning. With all my
commission due to me and my investments locked up with Lewis and no
income, how long will I be able to survive on my current bank balance?

I log on my bank’s web site and check the balance in my check
account. 4,016.54 pounds — under normal conditions a sizable sum. Next
I make a list of all nondiscretionary outgoings: mortgage payment for the
apartment: almost 250 per week; building management levy: £80 per
month; local rates: about £100 per month; health insurance: about the
same; telephone and broadband access: £40; electricity: £60, maybe a bit
more with winter approaching; fire and household insurance: not due for
another eight months. That amounts to a bit more than £1300 a month. If
I’m out of a job for two months, that leaves roughly 1400 pounds for
food, transport, and everything else, or about £150 a week — enough to
survive, I figure. However, if it takes any longer, I’ll be in trouble. It
might be a good move to take advantage of the mortgage policy clause
that permits me to go on an interest only payment schedule for a period
of up to six months. That will reduce the mortgage payment to £150 a
week and provide me with a welcome added buffer. If need be, I can also
start charging certain outgoings to my gold credit card and simply make
the minimum payment on it. Not an option to my liking. In my view,
credit card interest rates are set at usury levels. And what if Carlo needs
help again?

Maybe I should promptly look for a manual job, just to be on the safe
side. The idea of falling back on my father doesn’t appeal to me, although
I may have to ask him to lend me the money for the lawyer. And first
thing this morning I’ll go household shopping of a different kind than in
the recent past. Rather than impulse buying, I’ll revert back to what I did
during my MBA, i.e., shop for bargains, stock up on specials, buy cheap
generic brands rather than expensive name brands, and forego treats that
tempt my taste buds, drink the water from the built-in water filter in the
kitchen rather than imported San Pellegrino with its heavy carbon
footprint.

Tuesday, 7:20 p.m.

I’ve done the shopping, stocked up on staples for at least a week. My
apartment is clean. I’ve done all the wash, including Gary’s bath towels
and ironed what needed ironing. I’ve even ironed the kitchen towels,
duvet cover and pillowcases, something I’ve never done in the past, but
which my mother does almost religiously, and I’ve always viewed as a bit
eccentric, if not outright superfluous.

For dinner I eat a frugal risotto with fresh greens, while I replay the
news that my DVD/HDD unit recorded earlier as usual. A way to skip
over the advertisements and uninteresting parts of the news.

Halfway through the news, the phone rings. I answer.

"That police bitch pestered me again this afternoon." It’s Gary. He
speaks rather louder than necessary. "When are you going to retract your
statement? Telling them that you never spoke to me about fucking
Sanvino."

He is back on the old track. He really doesn’t know me if he expects
that I back down on my word not to perjure myself. Maybe I should tell
him once more.

"Good evening, Gary. I thought that I made myself absolutely clear.
I will not perjure myself, not to save my skin, or yours. You have done
nothing wrong. At least that is what I believe …" I hesitate for a moment
as the nagging doubt raises its head. "… or am I mistaken? Have you
done something wrong?" I regret the words the moment they cross my
lips. It’s bound to inflame the situation.

"What the fuck do you mean? Is this what it’s all about?" he shouts.

It hurts my ears. I hold the phone a bit away.

"You bitch! Trying to implicate me to save your fucking ass?"

I again wonder about his sudden use of foul language. It seems out of
character. Gary has become a stranger.

"No, Gary, I’m not," I reply, forcing myself to remain calm. "Look,
the police have no evidence of any wrongdoing by you or by me. They
are only trawling the waters based on unfounded accusations by my
former boss."

"So why the fuck say I did something wrong?"

"Gary, I didn’t say that. I only asked you if you did."

"You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think so."

"Please, Gary, let’s not fight. I’m sorry I said it. It just slipped out. I
really don’t think you would do anything to hurt me. Please, believe me
for old times sake."

"Then call that bitch and retract your statement. I insist that you do
that. You owe it to me."

I’m getting tired of this repeated demand. "Gary, it would not help.
They wouldn’t believe me anymore. And I’m not going to worsen my
situation by perjury."

"I warn you, you fucking do it or else." There is an earsplitting bang
as he again slams down the phone.

How could the man who I thought loved me turn so nasty within the
space of two days? Am I getting to see a side of him I didn’t know
existed? And will I ever be able to forgive him? This seems to be the final
dead-knell to our relationship. For a moment I feel myself swamped by
dismay, hurt, and then emptiness. Two years for nothing? Wasted?