Learning curves (10 page)

10

“You!” George exclaimed. His face changed from anger to incredulousness to absolute shock.
He definitely recognizes me,
Jen thought to herself and was surprised how relieved she felt. If he hadn’t realized who she was, she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to forgive him.

Not that she was going to forgive him now.

“It can’t be. Is it? You look so different. You’ve grown . . .”

His voice was fragile, so different from the confident, booming voice that Jen heard from inside the cupboard, and it unnerved her. He was an ogre, she reminded himself. A cheating, selfish, unethical ogre.

He held out his hands and Jen clambered awkwardly out of the cabinet, her legs giving way beneath her as she tried to work out exactly what she was going to say.

She leaned on his desk as he looked her up and down in amazement.

“It is you, isn’t it?”

She nodded, and before she could say anything, he grabbed her in a hug. “Oh, my little Jen. Oh, my darling girl.”

She struggled out of his grip. “I’m not your darling girl,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m not your little Jen. Not anymore.”

“You’re right. Let me look at you. My God, you’re a woman. What . . . What are you doing here? It’s so wonderful to see you, but why now? And why . . . why in my cabinet? I thought I’d caught a thief in there.”

She looked down at the ground, and George looked at her curiously.

“Jen?”

“Maybe you did catch a thief.”

She bit her lip. Maybe Angel had been right: This was a dangerous game. If this wasn’t her father, she’d be talking her way out of the situation, making a joke of it, doing her best to avert suspicion. But it was her father. And she wanted him to take notice of her.

“What do you mean?” George was looking confused. “Do you want money? I don’t understand.”

Jen looked up at him. “I want the truth. About Axiom in Indonesia. About the bribes that led to people dying last month . . .” Her voice was quavering.

George’s eyes narrowed. “Axiom? What the hell has that got to do with you?”

This was more like it, Jen thought gratefully. It was much easier to be defiant and angry with a man who didn’t look like he wanted to hug you.

“It’s got everything to do with me. And the poor people in Indonesia who thought they were getting a proper home. And all those people around the world who donated money, thinking it would be spent properly . . .”

George paused and sat down at his meeting table. He offered a chair to Jen and she sat down tentatively. Adrenalin was still coursing through her veins.

“And you think that your father would be messed up in that sort of thing, do you?” He looked sad and Jen forced herself to look away.

“I can’t say I really know my father well enough to judge that,” she said obtusely.

“No,” George said with a sigh. “I don’t suppose you do. But still, the suspicion came from somewhere.”

Jen met his eyes briefly and again looked away. His face suddenly broke into a sort of smile. “Oh, of course. Your mother.”

Jen went red. She’d felt kind of powerful until that moment. Now she felt like a sniveling teenager.

“Maybe.”

“Harriet,” he said carefully, “has a very vivid imagination, you know.”

“You had tickets to Indonesia delivered to you last week. What were they for?”

Jen was getting hot now and was desperate to move the conversation away from her mother, away from anything personal.

George frowned. “How on earth did you know about those?” he asked, then shrugged. “They were for a colleague, actually. We have offices out there. I’ve just appointed a new head of professional services and he’s going out next week to meet the team before he starts formally in January. But I’m sure you knew that, too. Right?”

Jen shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“You never even came to see me,” she suddenly blurted out, her voice soft but pained. “Not once.”

Her lip was quivering, and it was all she could do to stop herself from bursting into tears.
Way to go, Jen,
she chastised herself bitterly. This is really going to show him you don’t care.

“You made it perfectly clear that you wanted me out of your life,” George said flatly. “It broke my heart to walk away, but what choice did I have?”

Jen stared at him, astounded. “You had every choice in the world. You could have seen me any time. You didn’t even send me a good-luck card for my GCSEs. After all that work we did together.”

“But you told me you never wanted to see me again.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “No, I didn’t. Don’t you dare try blaming me for this. You slept with someone else. You walked out on us. I probably told you I hated you and I probably meant it, but that didn’t mean you could just cut me out of your life.”

“Cut you out? Jesus, Jennifer, it was me that was cut out. Your mother refused to let me talk to you, told me that you didn’t want to see me. That it would upset you if I tried. And, just for the record, I didn’t, as you put it, ‘sleep with someone else.’ I think your mother has rather rewritten history on that count.”

Jen stared at him. This wasn’t how this conversation was meant to go at all.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that she was the one who did the sleeping. Not that it matters now. It’s ancient history.”

“She cheated on you?” Jen’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’re lying. She would never do that. She . . .”

“It wasn’t entirely her fault,” her father said softly. “We were having a rough patch. I wasn’t home very much. She . . . I think she craved attention.” George was looking awkward now, uncomfortable.

“But she had an affair? Are you serious?”

He nodded.

Jen pulled out a chair and sat down, her head spinning. This changed everything. Her mother had lied to her. Had kept her father from her. Harriet, her ethical and conscientious mother, was a cheat and a liar.

But did that mean that her father was the good guy? Somehow she doubted it.

“Jen, don’t think ill of your mother,” George said gruffly. “It was a long time ago, and I was far from the ideal husband. I’m just so sorry that . . . well, I’m sorry about what happened. Sorry I haven’t seen you for so long. It’s . . . it’s unforgivable.” He looked at her imploringly. “But I understand if you don’t want me around. I’ve burned my bridges, I accept that. Just let me know if I can help you in any way—money, a job, you know. I’d like to be a father to you . . . somehow.”

Jen looked at him, the father she’d missed for so long, the father she’d dreamed would come and find her and tell her how sorry he felt, was right here in front of her, wanting to be part of her life again, and she had no idea what to say. She felt her anger melt away, and she sighed. “Dad, the day you left I said a whole load of things I didn’t mean. I was angry. I didn’t want you to go.”

It felt strange calling him Dad again after all this time. Using such an intimate, everyday term for the person whom until recently she’d thought she might remain estranged from forever. The man she’d been planning to betray.

“I thought I was doing the right thing. Keeping things simple for you. Oh, Jen, oh, I’m so sorry.”

He stood up and came toward her uncertainly, the arrogant swagger replaced by something more humble.

“Is there still room in your life for a father?” he asked her tentatively.

Jen shook her head. Then she nodded. Then she shook her head again.

“Would you perhaps do me the honor of having dinner with me this evening?” he asked her, taking her hand and squeezing it.

Jen nodded. “And you swear you weren’t involved in paying bribes?”

George smiled. “Jen, how much do you think Bell Consulting makes each year?”

Jen shrugged.

“Let me tell you. Our annual profit is in the region of twenty million pounds each year. It’s been growing about five percent each year for the past ten years. That’s an awful lot of money. Can you see us jeopardizing that kind of income to pay some bribes for a property deal on which all the world’s eyes are focused?”

“But . . . but Axiom got the biggest contract and the houses weren’t even built properly, and apparently there’s been a cover-up, so no government officials can find out what really happened . . .”

“I’m not in the business of housing regulations, I’m afraid, or in the business of government, for that matter. But there are people who are, and I’m sure that they will be looking very closely at the houses Axiom built and at the paper trail around their contracts. But if you’re interested in that, you should really be in Indonesia, not in my office.”

Jen folded her arms. She felt awkward. Stupid. “Are they still your clients?” she asked eventually.

George frowned. “Have you heard the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ Jen?”

She nodded.

“Not a bad sentiment in my opinion. So yes, they are still our client. Any other questions?”

“The letter, thanking you for your advice. What was that about?”

George shook his head, smiling. “Tenacious little thing, aren’t you? That was about our advice regarding the negotiations. Standard practice for us.”

“ ‘Negotiations’ as in bribes?” Jen persevered.

“ ‘Negotiations’ as in negotiations.”

Jen shrugged, deflated. “Why should I believe you?”

George looked her in the eye. “People only believe what they want to believe, and I dare say you won’t be any different. All I can do is tell you the truth, and all you can do is judge whether you believe it. You believed your mother, remember.”

Jen reddened. “I know.”

“So will you have dinner with me?”

“I s’pose,” she said quietly. Her head was spinning so fast she barely trusted herself to speak.

“Good,” said George a little more cheerfully. “And then perhaps you can tell me how the hell you got past the Bell security and into my office.”

“Seriously? He found you in his cabinet?”

Angel’s eyes were wide. Jen nodded, a big smile plastered on her face, which had been there for two days solid now. Her father was a good man. Well, at least he wasn’t a bad man. He had listened to her, told her about his life, been excited about her doing the MBA. He was her father, and she had him back again.

“And now everything’s okay between you again? I mean, after just one dinner?”

“A dinner and lunch the following day,” Jen pointed out.

“And you don’t think you’re rushing things a bit? This time last week he was enemy number one.”

Jen looked at Angel, exasperated. “That was when I didn’t know the truth. Mum lied to me. God, all this time I just took her word for it. I’m so angry.”

“Have you spoken to her about it?”

Jen shook her head. “I don’t know . . . Dad thinks I shouldn’t. Thinks sleeping dogs should be left lying, or something. I don’t think he wants the aggro, frankly.”

“And you? What do you want?”

Jen shrugged helplessly. “I want to know why she lied. But I don’t want her to get involved. I’m just getting to know Dad and it’s . . . well, it feels precious. I’m afraid that if I tell Mum, if I challenge her, it might all go wrong again.”

“So you’re just going to leave it? Knowing she lied to you?”

Jen shook her head. “Of course not. I just want to leave it. For a bit, you know?”

“And in the meantime she still thinks you’re spying on him?”

Jen managed half a smile and Angel looked at her exasperatedly. “And what about the MBA. It’s over now, right? I mean, you’re not spying anymore. So you’re going to leave?”

Jen frowned. Why did Angel always have to ask the difficult questions, the ones that Jen allowed herself to pretend didn’t exist?

“No,” she said after a short pause. “I mean, well, Mum doesn’t know, so I kind of have to keep doing it. And Dad was so excited that I was on the course . . . I’ll just do it for a bit longer. You know, until I decide what I really want to do . . .”

“Well, I take my hat off to you, Jen,” Angel said, rolling her eyes. “Only you can take a complicated situation and make it a million times more complicated.”

“So how’s things with you?” Jen asked quickly.

“Well, I thought I had a lot going on in my life, but now it feels positively humdrum!” Angel said, grinning. “My brother’s getting married, so I’ve got a big engagement party to go to. A sari to buy. Food to cook. Big commotion in my parents’ house. And I have sixteen people in my yoga class now.”

“Wow! That’s fantastic!”

Angel smiled demurely. “It’s not bad. So come on, then, tell me why we’re meeting today instead of tomorrow? I thought our Sunday brunches were sacred!”

Jen blushed slightly. “I’m . . . meeting Daniel. It’s a work thing . . . I mean, it’s research. You know, for my MBA. But . . . well, anyway . . .”

Angel looked at her friend closely. “You’re at a loss for words and as red as a tomato,” she said. “You sure it’s just work?”

Jen shrugged and grinned. “I guess it’s complicated,” she said, raising her eyebrows at her friend.

“Of course!” Angel said with a smile. “I should have known that, right?”

11

By twelve P.M. on Sunday, Jen was panicking. An hour before, she had been sitting at her kitchen table, dressed in her favorite jeans and with liquid eyeliner perfectly applied to make her eyes look double the size. She’d been ready for more than an hour and had been reading the newspaper, trying to stop herself from feeling nervous. She was just going to walk around some bookshops with Daniel. It was no big deal, she’d reasoned pragmatically. It wasn’t even a date—it was work. Research.

And that’s when the panic started. She was dressed for a date. She even had pretty blue knickers on and a matching bra. What was she thinking? This was her lecturer, a chief executive of a bookseller, and she was dressed like she was going out for a romantic liaison.

Quickly, she’d run to the bedroom and taken off her jeans. And her scoop-neck T-shirt that wasn’t exactly revealing but was certainly more suggestive than a round-neck jumper. But what should she wear instead? What combination of clothes clearly said “I understand that this is a work-led excursion, but it is Sunday, and I am an attractive person that you might one day want to ask out. Not that I’m suggesting anything. Or about to throw myself at you . . .”

Jen cringed, picked up a pillow and pulled it to her face. This was a terrible idea, meeting Daniel. She’d deluded herself into thinking that he was actually interested in her when in reality he just wanted someone to walk round bookshops with him. He probably only suggested it to get her off his back.

Perhaps she should call Daniel and cancel. He’d probably be relieved—he’d probably invited her along before even thinking about it and was right now wondering how to get out of it.

Okay, breathe deeply. You can’t call Daniel—you’ve only got his work number. Anyway, he does want to see you—why else would he have asked? And the jeans are fine.

Slowly, Jen had put her jeans back on, with a higher-neck T-shirt and a pale blue wrap cardigan. Then she’d gone back to the kitchen table and forced herself to slow her speeding heart rate with long, deep breaths and regular sips of water.
What can really go wrong,
she asked herself, then decided not to answer the question. This was a sort-of business meeting and sort-of date. Everything in the world could go wrong.

Jen stood up. Maybe she should do something to pass the time—it was a good twenty minutes before she needed to leave, and having time to think was always a bad idea before doing anything; she had long ago perfected the art of talking herself out of anything that could open her up to any risk whatsoever. The trouble was that Jen had always been nervous about doing anything outside her comfort zone—as a child she’d resisted everything from going to stay with her cousins without the reassuring presence of her mother, to performing in a school play, but somehow, since her parents had split up, it had become even worse. She justified this to herself regularly with the rationale that she was now the product of a broken marriage and it was natural that she should be more cautious. But it was a pretty crap excuse really, and Jen knew it.

I should read a book. Of course,
she thought with the beginnings of a smile.
He’s a bookseller. I need to be able to talk about books.

Quickly Jen raced to the bookshelves in her sitting room and stared at them for several minutes in search of inspiration. Something impressive, she thought. James Joyce maybe. Or the biography of William Pitt that she’d seen in a bookshop window and bought on a day when she’d decided she didn’t know enough about history, then never quite got round to reading. It had had very good reviews. And the more it sat there waiting to be read, the more it filled her with utter dread—page after page of factual detail with no sex, intrigue, or real plot of any sort. She felt like Alice in Wonderland wondering how anyone could read a book without pictures in it.

Still, Daniel was bound to be impressed if she could talk about a book on an eighteenth-century politician, wasn’t he? Or was William Pitt seventeenth century?

Jen picked up the book and flicked to the introduction. Blah blah prime minister. Blah blah died young. Was a politician all his life.

You weren’t meant to bring up politics, religion, or sex, were you?
she thought suddenly.
Not on a first date.

This isn’t a date,
Jen reminded herself.
It’s research.

She looked at her watch. Twelve-fifteen P.M. It was time to go.

Daniel was waiting for her outside the shop, wearing a beautiful well-worn gray cashmere coat and Jen felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, she smiled as naturally as she could manage in the circumstances, said hello, and then stood there awkwardly for a second or two before Daniel held out his arm and said “Shall we?”

“So, do you go to bookshops much?” he asked once they were in the warm surroundings of Book City, turning round to look Jen right in the eye. “Or was your assignment research more desk-based?”

“Quite a lot . . .” Jen said tentatively. She was feeling incredibly nervous and was finding it hard to relax.

“When? When do you go and how long do you stay there and what makes you buy something?”

Daniel was still looking at her intently and Jen found herself getting hot. She took off her jacket, partly to cool herself down and partly to give herself an excuse to look away briefly. You could drown in eyes like that.

“Well,” she said, taking a few minutes to try and remember not just when she went to bookshops, but what her name was, where she lived, and what day of the week it was. “I suppose I go a lot during my lunch hour—when I take one. And also on Saturdays—if I’m out shopping or something. Like the other day, I bought the latest biography of William Pitt.”

“Which one?”

Jen reddened. “Which biography?” she asked.

“No, which Pitt? The younger or the elder?”

“There were
two
of them?” The incredulous comment left her mouth before she’d had time to think about it, to make an informed guess. But instead of looking at her as if she were utterly stupid, Daniel grinned.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. So what made you buy it? We don’t usually get many young women buying historical biographies. The typical demographic is men in their fifties and sixties.”

Jen hesitated. “Actually, it was a self-improvement thing. I’d just decided I didn’t know enough about British history.”

“And do you now?”

Jen smiled weakly. “Actually I haven’t read it. Yet.”

Daniel grinned again, putting his hand through his hair, and leaving it there, twiddling some strands together between his fingers. Jen found herself staring at it and she shook herself quickly.

“So, back to the shop. What would make it better. What would draw more customers in? You’re in the bookstore—what are you looking at?” Daniel asked her.

You,
Jen thought, but didn’t say it. Instead she looked around and her eyes fell on the tables in front of her. “The display tables.”

“Only the display tables?”

Jen tried to concentrate—this was beginning to feel like an exam. “Well, unless I know exactly what I want,” she said seriously. “Then I’ll go and look by the name of the author or something.”

Daniel nodded, his eyes bright. “And how often do you know exactly what you want?”

Jen thought for a moment. “Actually, not that often,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ll default to authors I know, but usually I just browse and wait for something to grab me.”

This was great, she thought to herself—just the sort of thing she should be doing for her MBA course. She was really pleased. And if her smile seemed to have faded slightly, it was no big deal—it was like she’d thought all along; this was a work meeting. Daniel wanted her input to his strategy, not a cozy date looking at books together. It had been ridiculous of her to think anything else; his exact words had been . . . okay, she couldn’t remember his exact words, but they had definitely included the words
research
and
external influences
and hadn’t included anything like
date
or
kissing.

She looked at Daniel and was alarmed to see that he was frowning.

“Is everything okay?” she ventured.

Daniel nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. I was just thinking how I miss all this. Miss being on the shop floor, talking to customers, watching them get excited by books. I started out selling books and now I rarely even get the time to buy one.”

“So how did you get to where you are?” Jen asked interestedly. “I mean, from being a bookseller?”

Daniel smiled thoughtfully. “That’s a very long story. But the shortened version is that I started my own bookshop, and when it did well I opened up another branch, and when I had a few of them dotted around the country, Wyman’s offered to buy it and invest so that I could open up even more of them. I agreed, and I was made managing director.”

“Wow! How long ago was that?”

“A year,” Daniel said quietly.

“And are you enjoying it?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay. The board are keen for more growth, maybe another takeover, possibly a move into international markets, that sort of thing. And they’re right, of course. But I do miss . . . just, well, selling books. . . .”

Jen watched him carefully, noted the little crease above his eyebrow and the very slight sadness in his eyes. “Then that’s what you should do,” she said quickly. “Sod international markets, just do what you want to do.”

“Is that what you’re doing? What you want to do?”

Jen frowned. “Absolutely. I mean, you know, kind of. I mean . . .” she trailed off, realizing as she spoke that she barely even knew what she wanted to do, let alone how to go about doing it.

She smiled awkwardly. “Maybe it’s easier said than done,” she said with a little shrug.

Daniel stared at her, then grinned. “So, are you hungry?”

Jen smiled. “Shouldn’t we be watching the movements of customers and the book displays?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

Daniel smiled sheepishly. “Actually, I’ve got a whole load of market researchers doing that sort of thing. I was rather hoping instead that you might let me buy you lunch.”

“You know,” Jen said, two hours later, buoyed up by nearly a whole bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that Daniel had ordered before mentioning that he was actually driving and so wouldn’t be drinking more than a glass, “you’re never going to get very far with your strategic planning like this. You haven’t watched the movements of a single book-buying customer.”

“I have!” Daniel said, looking mortally offended. “You’re a customer, aren’t you? And I think I’ve followed your movements pretty closely.”

Jen looked down at her food, trying to hide her excitement. This hadn’t been work at all. Daniel had whisked her off to his favorite restaurant, on a little road just off Oxford Street, and they’d been here for what seemed like hours, eating divine food and talking about everything from the price of taxis to the sad fact that as you get older you start sounding like your parents and think that all music in the charts is infinitely inferior to anything you listened to when growing up.

They hadn’t talked about work once.

Except . . . suddenly Jen felt herself tighten. What if it was her driving the conversation? What if Daniel had wanted to talk about work and she’d been blathering on about there being no greater talent in the world than David Bowie?

“What about external influences,” she said coyly. “We haven’t talked about them at all.”

Daniel looked at her curiously. “You really want to talk about external influences?” he asked.

Jen nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “I’m thinking about doing my next assignment on booksellers.” She noticed Daniel raising his eyebrow at her. “After the first one went so well,” she added.

“Booksellers the people or the companies?”

Jen grinned. “I haven’t decided yet. You’re my first bookseller.” She caught his eye and blushed. Maybe she’d had a glass of wine too many, she thought to herself. But then again, she didn’t really care.

Daniel raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re planning to meet more?”

Jen shook her head and he smiled.

“Okay, then. For what it’s worth, I think you’re rather a welcome positive influence,” he said gently, moving his hand to rest on hers. “And I’m sorry if I was firing questions at you earlier. It’s what I do when I’m nervous.”

Jen looked at him incredulously. “You were nervous?”

Daniel shrugged. “Maybe,” he said with a little smile. “I thought you might want me to talk shop all afternoon—no pun intended. I didn’t know if . . . well, you know.”

“If?” she prompted gently, wondering whether it would be very forward to link her fingers through his.

“If you’d like coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, and Jen frowned slightly as Daniel motioned upward. She followed his eyes and saw the waiter hovering over them.

“Ah,” she said quickly. “I see what you mean.”

After coffee, Daniel got the bill and insisted on driving her back home. They walked round the corner to where his car (a beautiful vintage Alfa Romeo Spider, Jen noted) was parked and he insisted on opening the door for her— although it was probably because the door required a good kick before it would open rather than because of any kind of gallantry.

As the car pulled away and made its way onto Oxford Street, Jen sat back and assessed the day. Daniel was perfect, she decided. Intelligent, funny, didn’t take himself too seriously, and those eyes . . .

And he was even taking her home. He was a gentleman. He was kind. He was . . . oh God. What happened when they got back to her flat? Would he expect her to invite him in? Why else would he have insisted on going home via her flat?

But she couldn’t just invite him in—it was so clichéd, and suggested things that Jen wasn’t quite ready to suggest. At least she didn’t want him thinking that she was ready to suggest them, even if right now she kind of wanted to . . .

No, she wasn’t the sort of person to invite someone in so soon, even if it was just for a cup of tea.

Although, at the same time, she wasn’t quite ready for the afternoon to end . . .