“All right, what if I were to tell you something that
would be potentially damaging both for me and for Lee? Would that help?"
He shifted in his seat and looked up as if about to speak. The barman brought over the new martinis, replaced the placemats. Erik thanked him with a nod, and she continued.
"Look, let me start then. About twenty years ago or so, back in the late 80s – 1988 to be precise – Thatcher's Britain, you know, I had a baby. I was really young: 15, in fact. It was an accident – the sort you have when you don't know what you're doing. There I was all wide-eyed at one of Lee's family big dos with all the employees, wives and husbands, and as pissed as a fart. It wasn't long before Lee noticed me and had his wicked way – in the toilets would you believe. I was pretty, but, like I said, so young and impressionable, and he was much older – about 20 himself. So, technically it could have been called rape. And with an under-age girl at that: Lord knows he could have done time. Once we found out I was pregnant, my family that is, oh there was all sorts of trouble. We went right in to the old man's office and 'discussed it' with him, a big slanging match. Lots of red faces, I'm crying and my dad mad as hell, he being the lab tech manager back then – a bit like a shop steward really. God, he was furious, as you can imagine, and Lee's dad was just as angry with him. In the end they agreed to come to an understanding and… I can’t believe I’m telling you this, well, the upshot was I had the baby and it was to be taken away – into foster care somewhere. Died later, I was told. I was distraught. But it was meant to be. Dad pressed them for more, much more, than a mere financial settlement. So because the company was about to go public, he was offered a seat on the board, enough shares to keep him loyal and as soon as I was 16 I got to marry Lee. That was his idea – it meant there was a reason to keep quiet: a crucial bit of power. It’s never been a happy marriage, but it helped keep the ball rolling. The company floated and went from strength to strength – that is, until this year.
There: I've given you some juicy information about the company and about me. I trust you will keep this a confidence. Now, what about you?"
"But wait a minute, you married Lee because you had his baby? Why no just have abort? Why not keep the baby? And why marry?"
"At the time no one wanted a scandal. The family, now our family of course, wanted to keep it all under wraps. Dad had all the cards – he was very good at bargaining. Can you imagine what the press would have done with it – a baby born to an employee's underage daughter? Company's image would have been ruined. Scandal would have been in the papers, and you don't have to wonder much what they would do with that kind of story now. As for an abortion, that just wasn't on the cards, my family being proper catholic, so we had the baby and I just… I had to... let it go. Besides, there was something wrong; something with the feet."
"With the feet?"
"Yes, some sort of an accident at birth. Or afterwards – the feet were broken. Don't ask me how." She now looked unhappy, resentful almost. That was not his intention for this evening.
"Well… that's… certainly a revelation. Thank you – for being so open – and for allowing me into your confidence. But I'm not sure there's much about it that could cause a scandal now – for the company, I mean. It might have complicated things back then, as far as the morality of a genetics company was concerned, but not for the acquisition now. Really, this is ancient history. Twenty years ago did you say? More? It's salace… salacious –Hello! not Financial Times."
"Maybe, but what could possibly be worse than abandoning a baby, Erik? A sick baby?" Her mouth was downturned. She was stupid to even consider raising this topic, this awful story, and shook herself. In an attempt to change the mood she picked out the orange slice from her glass and, taking another delicate alluring sip, tried to move things away from the mother and baby focus. Leaning over, she allowed a little more of her cleavage to form, sucked the sharp Campari-infused juice from the fruit and licked her lips. "Now, Erik, what about you?”
"Jo, I am sure your intentions are... Actually, I'm not sure exactly what your intentions are. Or am I? You say your marriage has not been a happy one?"
"Well no, not really – actually, not a bit. Oh, I've thought of divorce, we both have, perhaps too much, but everything's tied up with the company so we don't rock the boat. He has his life and I am quite happy to let him get on with it and I live in my own little kingdom. Besides, I've not met anyone worth breaking it all up for. Neither has he: in fact, if you really want some gossip, I can tell you he swings the other way."
"What? I didn't know that – but, I have yet to meet him."
"Not many do. He's essentially private, so you won't be able to dig around and find out much. But what I do know is that he had this thing with a guy once, Chrys — his dad was the boss of a big sports company. Seduced him teaching him how to drive I think. Used to take him off for weekends, etcetera. But that was long ago, before we met actually, but I think he still favours a bit of rough trade on nights out, in hotel rooms, business trips. Now, look, I've told you so much more than I thought I would – laid myself wide open, you might say. If you're so up-front about everything, Erik, then you've just got to tell me about yourself. I'm dying to know."
He shrugged. "Yes, yes you're right, Jo. I suppose I ought to now tell you of my humbles origins dans la France rurale, that my father drove buses and my mother fixed his socks?"
"...without the sarcasm, Erik."
He took a big sip to finish the cocktail, less delicately than before, and an almost imperceptible trickle ran down his chin. Wiping it with a handkerchief from his pocket, he shrugged. "You're right. Sorry – again. But that bit about the buses is right. Corinthien SÁRL began as a small transportation company in Limoux, south of France – a few trucks and buses. I took on the company from mon père, who took on from his father and yes, they drove the buses. My grandfather was Flemish, married my grandmother after the First World War – she was his nurse, hence the Dutch name. The short version is that the Corinthien was a success, went international – Spain, Portugal – and when my dad retired he asked if me, er, I, wanted to be director, after I'd finished ENS of course.” She looked like she was about to ask. “ENS? Without question the best University in Paris. So, I saw how he had done things and it seemed right to carry on, only I would concentrate on the consultation and the business strategy. I floated the company releasing cash for expansion into consultation, acquisition, across borders and it's worked out, so far – success!"
"Success indeed! So where's the bad blood?"
"Ah! I… er… Well, it's a little bizarre, Jo." He paused again and tried to empty his already empty glass. For the first time that evening the energetic, young businessman looked truly uncomfortable, if not a little scared. He ordered another two, a little less confidently than before and had to attract the barman's attention. "I don't really want to tell you: you might think I'm… That it's all a bit too, er, creepy."
"Creepy? Jesus, Erik, what the hell is it? Were you abused or something?"
“Oh no, nothing like that. OK, it's like this: just after the floatation I wasn't entirely sure whether to focus on maintaining Corinthien or boosting the consultation. And on the top of that at dinner – big company dinner – you know Doric Group? Ah it doesn't matter, someone on the table said that I was adopted: not the sort of thing that would have normally bothered me, a few unwise words from someone... what is it, in his cups – excellent expression. But, I don’t know, for some reason it got into me, played on my mind. I mean, no baby pictures at home, that sort of thing. One picture outside a hospital, that's all I remember. So, I asked them. They denied it, of course. But why would he say such a thing? I wanted an answer, so on impulse I went to see a card reader – you know, a medium, a fortune-teller with the name Krisa: c'était très bizarre – moaning and like she was on drugs. She said… well, I was told that I would… it was something about the family."
"Yes?" She was riveted; resting her chin on both her knuckles, she nevertheless couldn't resist a quick flutter of the eyes and another smile. The barman brought the next round, same as before and asked if they would be ordering any food. They synchronously shook their heads.
"I was told… Well, that I would… I would – murder my father."
"What?" She drew back, trying to hide a laugh.
"I know, I know – murder my own father: Impossible! Incroyable! Inconcevable! Fortune-teller garbage, nothing more, yes? And yet I could not ignore it. I tried to continue with the business, but there was some thing, something… presentiment – foreboding? about it – in her eyes, her sincerity. She was afraid, actually scared; and I was scared by it. She also said another thing – disgraceful: I would marry my mother."
"Oh, but this is just ridiculous. Just the sort of thing designed to scare you, get you hooked, and make you come back for another reading: more money. You should have told her where to get off."
"Where to get off? Exactly! That is, at first, what I wanted to do – after all my parents had done for me? No, I love them too much. But I didn't do anything. When I think, all I can remember now is her face – that she was not joking, not kidding. And then I was not sure what to do, Jo. I'm not a man who takes these things seriously, but when it came time to leave I had this impression there might be a truth, a grain of truth, in her words. I don't know why, but it played on my mind and I just didn't want to risk anything. It was like shame. I couldn't go home. In fact, I didn't go home all that summer and for the rest of the year, her words on my mind, and when I wanted to ask mon père about something I just could not. I didn't answer their calls; I tried to delay again and again going home. Of course I couldn't tell them, and when I moved to London and expanded the consultancy I made myself busy – and that was nearly two years ago."
"But I can't believe it, Erik. You're an intelligent, attractive man. I presume you know how to take risks, how to control things; people. Surely you could see this for what it is; nothing more than superstition – a raving wild fancy."
"You're right, Jo, it was. I'm such an idiot – really. And in December last year my dad suddenly died. I felt terrible about it, so terrible. I really thought there was something in that damned woman's words. And once he'd gone then I knew it was utter bullshit. Ma mère – I could never tell her about it. She could not understand why I was not there, why I had cut myself off. In fact, you are the first person I've ever told, Jo, the first person I have confidence in talking about this."She smiled broadly, the 'at last' moment she had been expecting and awaiting. "Erik..." She reached out and held his hand on the cherry wood table top. "Erik, I can see how this would upset you. I can see how kind and sensitive you are. You're not... there's nothing creepy about this. You did what you had to do because you loved your parents. You're a loving person – I can see that. It must have been hard for you."
"Oh, you have no idea. I kick myself now – imbécile! That I could believe someone who took their job, took themselves, too seriously... And the worst is that I was not there at the end, for him…"
While he was speaking her phone buzzed in her bag indicating a call. She tried to ignore it, but it continued.
"Damned thing! This had better be important." she exclaimed, pulling it out of its purple leather slipcase. "Hello?"
There was a silence as she listened. He played with his cocktail. She slowly put hers down as she listened. Her final words were muted: "Thank you. Yes. Yes, I'll come right away."
"Sounds serious." he tactfully enquired, reaching over to touch her hand again in a reciprocal gesture.
"It was. It's Lee – he's been involved in some sort of accident – quite serious. I'm afraid I'm going to have to…"
"Bien sûr! Of course. You must go. Please. Do you want me to take you..?"
"That's probably a bad idea right now. But call me." She leaned over the table to kiss him, but stopped just before. "No, I'll call you. I want to see you again. I want to finish this – what we've started." And with that her lips missed his cheek and merged effortlessly with his lips yielding to his polite kiss more than either of them expected. His short stubble brushed noisily against her cheek's fragrant smoothness. She didn’t back away. Neither did he. He reached around to hold her head, but she pulled back, closing her eyes and taking a breath. "No, I have to go. I have to. God but you're a good kisser." She picked up her bag, plopped the phone back in and stood up, modestly pulling down the hem of her skirt. "Well, thanks, erm, for the drinks. I…" His nod told her to go.
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