Chapter 43

Richard

Francis buzzes me. "Richard, the elevator's rising. I think James is on his way back up."

"Thank you, Francis."

Moving quickly, I grab the nearest file and head out from my office as though I want to discuss something with my PA.

The elevator doors swish open and James enters. For a moment, he stands rigid, eyes closed, rubbing his temples. "Francis," he says. "My apologies for my tone before. That wasn't aimed at you."

She smiles. "I know that, James. Don't worry about it. Would you like a coffee?"

"Thank you. Yes, I'd love one."

"I was about to have a coffee myself, James. Would you care to join me?"

He doesn't speak; simply nods and heads into my office. Francis gives me a look. I reply with a nod to the coffee machine and head-point her to my office.

He's staring out of the window, hands locked behind his head, legs astride. Everything about him screams of tension.

"James, if you would prefer to go home, I'll ask Francis to cancel your appointments."

He semi-twists back to me. "No, I'm better here, doing something useful. I need to work off the mood. This is nothing to do with Michael or Charlotte, and it's not fair that I impose myself on them in this state of mind."

"That was your ex-wife?"

"It was."

"What did she want?"

And now he turns to face me. "Money." His voice turns bitter. "Nothing changes."

Tread carefully….

"If I can help at all?"

He snorts, his eyes slitting. "She's not getting any. That woman's had everything from me she's ever having."

A tap at the door and the rattle of cups. Francis walks in. "I made it strong, the way you like it, James."

His eyes soften. "Thank you, Francis."

I pour two cups then pass one to him. He takes it, sips. "It's strange. When I think about it, Marlene is the polar opposite of Charlotte. Everything about the two is opposed."

Should I say anything?

Or just let him speak…?

I taste the coffee….

…. and almost gag….

Jeez….

He drinks this stuff?

I'll ask Francis to make two pots next time….

I swallow the witch's brew and wait for him to continue.

He downs half a cup in two swallows. "Charlotte is hard-working, concentrates on her education, uses all the gifts nature has given her to the best of her ability. She is…. terrifyingly courageous…. and as for money…." He swings his head and polishes off the cup, then stoops to refill. "…. it's of no interest to her at all, beyond the basic means to live. Getting her to spend on clothes or jewellery or the other trinkets most women want is pointless. Give her a library and a quiet spot and she's in heaven."

He offers me the pot. "Another?"

I put my cup down. "Thanks, no. And Marlene?"

He hovers with the cup half-way to his mouth. "Spoilt. Idle. Spendthrift. Spiteful…."

"And yet you married her?"

"Yes." He gulps down another mouthful. "Fucked if I can remember why." He finishes the second cup.

You must have insides of rusty steel….

"James, are you alright?"

He looks me in the eye. "If I'm truthful no, but I will be. I'd appreciate it if you don't mention this to Michael or Charlotte."

"If that's what you want, no, of course not."

"That is what I want."

*****

Klempner - Twenty-Six Years Ago

She lowers herself carefully into the water but at the last moment, loses her footing on the slippery base and sploshes down. From my place at the other side of the large bath, I pass her a flute of champagne.

She's put up her hair to be clear of the water, twisting it high on her head and pinning it into elaborate bronze coils. Her neck is beautifully displayed; the curve from shoulder to her sculpted jawline and cheekbones. Even naked, she is elegant.

She smiles and sips. "Bubbles outside and bubbles inside," she laughs, tilting her glass to me. She has a point. Foam streams over her neck and shoulders and breasts, white against the gleam of her wet skin.

"If you tell me that champagne bubbles get up your nose," I say, "I'll mark you down as unoriginal."

"I'll not say that, then." She wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue then, with a flick of her fingers, swishes froth over me and into my own glass, giving me an unrepentant twinkle of the eye as I scoop soap and bubbles out of my drink.

"I could grow to enjoy this you know," she says. "I've never done it before."

"Looks like it's a good week for first-times."

"Perhaps I should add it to my working repertoire. What do you think? My clients might pay quite a bit for this."

My gut twists. I swallow and keep my voice flat. "Hard for me to judge. I've never done it before either."

Something wells up inside me…

A face….

Pretty….

Laughing….

Singing….

Grey eyes…. Framed by fair curly hair….

Splashing foam….

"Larry? Is something wrong?"

My chest is tightening, my breath short.

I'm laughing too. Squealing almost….

Splashing back….

My hands flapping in the bubbles… Making more bubbles…

Little yellow plastic ducks bob up and down in the water, half-coated in foam….

"Larry? Talk to me. Are you okay?" Mitch is leaning forward, her hand on my chest.

I struggle with my words. "Yes… Yes…. I'm…."

"Should I call a doctor?"

"No…. No. Don't do that."

She pulls close, wrapping arms and legs around me, stroking my hair. "You're as white as a sheet. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I just... remembered…. something."

"What?"

The words won't come. She stares at me, leaning in close, looking into my eyes. Then, in a smooth movement, she rises, steps out of the water, then strides out of the room.

Less than a minute later, she returns with a brandy glass, half an inch of amber liquid swishing in the bottom. She kneels by the side of the bath. "Drink this." She holds it up, tilting it to my lips. The brandy burns down, heating me inside, and she tilts again. "A little more."

The tension in my chest eases and abruptly, I have air. Breathing slowly, I lean back.

"Take a couple of deep breaths."

She's right.

A few moments more: she swings a long leg back into the foaming water, then sits, arms wrapping around me again, pulling me closer, holding us together. "Do you want to talk about it? What you were remembering?"

Another sip of the brandy. "It was my mother. I was…. small…. She was sharing a bath with me. She was singing. And playing with me."

Mitch kisses the side of my face. "You said she left. That you don't remember her…."

"Before now, no."

"How old would you be? In this memory of yours?"

"I…. don't know. Very young."

She retrieves her champagne flute from the side of the bath, takes a swallow, then another, draining it. I pass her the bottle and she refills her glass, her eyes distant.

She gulps again, then her eyes rise to mine. "How do you know she left?"

What kind of question is that?

"My father told me. She left."

"And she left you behind? Abandoned you? He told you that?"

"Yes."

She settles back, looking me in the eye. "How do you know he was telling the truth?"

"The truth? What do you mean? The truth?"

She leans in, her face close to mine. "Your father…. The man who was 'free with his fists'. He beat her. He beat you. How do you know he was telling the truth when he said she left?"

I don't….

She cradles her glass, twirling it in her fingers. "What kind of woman leaves her child behind? Even if she is frightened, she finds a way to come back and take the child. What kind of woman doesn't do that? The kind who sings to her little boy in the bath?"

No…..

Did you murder her?

I blink away the darkness that tries to rise inside me. I can't deal with this…

Don't want to deal with this…

"What about you?" I ask. "Any more like you at home? Family?"

Her eyes go blind for a moment, then she says, "What about Frank?"

What the fuck?

"What about him? You thought I would invite him along to Helsinki?"

"I thought you two..." Her voice trails away.

"We're friends. That's all. It's not a betrayal of friendship to take a woman on holiday for a few days…."

We met her together….

Shared her together….

I lean forward, trying not to slop my wine. "Mitch, I know you still think of me as your client. I'd…. hoped that might change…."

She smiles, her eyes softening….

"…. I want more than that. Whatever it is you want, I can give it to you. I'm rich. Not just well-off, but wealthy. You can have anything you want without having to sell yourself."

"Is that right?" She arches a brow. "So…. you don't think of me as a hooker?"

Shit.

What to say?

Play it straight….

"Yes, of course I think of you as a hooker. That's what you are. But…." Her face tilts, tragedy written there….

Life is full of 'buts'….

"…. you shouldn't think I hold that against you. I admire what you've done. It's obvious you started from nothing, even if you don't talk about it. I think of you as…. as a businesswoman using the best of the assets she has…"

She looks dubious, but I continue. "Mitch, it doesn't need to be like that, not if you don't want."

Unspeaking, glass in hand, she simply watches me, waiting for me to continue. "What's worrying you?" I ask. "Is it me? You don't like me? After we…." My stomach lurches. "I'd hoped…. Was it a facade?"

"No, I like you."

"What then?"

"What shall we do this afternoon?" she asks. "Can we go ice skating? I'd love to learn to skate."

*****