Wicked Pleasures (125 page)

Alexander’s death still puzzled her. As she knew it puzzled Georgina. What had he been doing, chasing after Angie in the freezing fog, when they had just spent
several hours together? It was totally inexplicable. She had questioned Angie closely, as Georgina and Max had done, but Angie had stuck to her story. She had no idea; she could only suppose that he had suddenly remembered something – or maybe he had not been following her at all. She had seemed genuinely upset, genuinely baffled; but Charlotte was still not satisfied. She was quite sure that Angie knew something. Not necessarily incriminating, but something. In fact she had pursued her line of questioning for so long and so intensely that in the end Angie had actually burst into tears and Max had told her to leave Angie alone. She had given in then, followed the family line; but it continued to trouble her. She couldn’t accept that she would never know. Her mind did not work like that.

It was Nanny who finally made her feel better about it. ‘Stop fretting, Charlotte,’ she said, ‘you’re like a dog without a bone.’

‘With a bone, Nanny,’ said Charlotte automatically.

‘No, without,’ said Nanny. ‘There’s no bone there to chew.’ And then she added, ‘Your mother died, after all. Much better that way.’

Charlotte knew what Nanny meant; not that it was better both her parents were dead, but that it was better to leave things quietly alone. She gave Nanny a kiss and told her she would try to take her advice.

Charles St Mullin said that he thought she should take positive steps to alleviate her loneliness in New York and hold out if not an olive branch at least a leaf to Gabe Hoffman. Charlotte said she would die first, and Charles kissed her and said that would rather defeat the object.

She was at least having a good time at Praegers. A vice president now, and a highly effective one. She had her own team of eleven people, which she ran with efficiency and skill, if not tact. Pete Hoffman thought the world of her. So did Fred III, who seemed stronger again suddenly and came in at least twice a week, for rather long afternoons while he interfered in the workings of every department and wasted a great deal of time and then went home and told Betsey that he really didn’t know what would happen if he ever had to retire.

Freddy was making the best of a fairly bad job, with a surprisingly good grace; he had simply, for the time being at least, accepted that he was lucky to have been retained at all and was working very hard. Everyone told him that sooner or later he would be restored to at worst junior partner level, that Fred was already talking about his being led astray and overambitious, but he certainly wasn’t behaving as if he believed them. He was racing against time, and his grandfather’s retirement; the strain was visible.

Mary Rose, whom she saw occasionally, never mentioned the matter of the rumours about Max again. Charlotte had a shrewd suspicion that Freddy had told her to keep her mouth shut for his sake. Mary Rose had in any case mellowed; she had published one of the year’s best-selling art books, a work on wall paintings in France, and was happy with her publisher boyfriend.

But Charlotte was miserable. Lonely and miserable. She felt, at twenty-six, a failure socially. Well not exactly socially, she would then tell herself; she had hundreds of friends, she was always out, partying, clubbing, attending openings, presiding over charities. She had several extremely enthusiastic admirers. She was actually a great success socially. So – what was she? A personal failure. Yes, that’s what she was. She had messed up the one great relationship of her life; and by running another, highly irregular, one she had endangered her entire future.

She saw Gabe occasionally; at functions, benefits, in restaurants. He would nod at her coolly, had even said good evening to her once. He was running a very successful financial hot shop; he had several blue-chip accounts, everyone was talking about him.

‘But he’s not happy,’ Pete Hoffman said to her, one afternoon, when he caught her reading about Gabe in
Fortune
magazine. ‘He misses you. There still isn’t anyone else, you know.’

‘Well that’s a shame,’ said Charlotte, smiling sweetly at him, ‘but I’m sure he’ll find someone in time.’

One day in late April, when the days were beginning to lengthen, she was sitting in her office reading, catching up on her journals, when an item in one of the smaller publications caught her eye. Gabe Hoffman, it said, was reported to be courting Michael Browning, of BuyNow, for his new in-house publication account. Talks were quite advanced, and Browning had told the reporter that he was sure he and Mr Hoffman could do business.

Charlotte read this several times, and each time the red spots before her eyes grew bigger, and the pounding of her heart grew more stifling. Gabe Hoffman! Stealing Michael Browning from her, from Praegers. That was her own account, that publication division. Pete Hoffman had given it to her to take care of. It was a new field for Browning. And Gabe was just muscling in, thinking he could take it. How dare he. How dare he! The bastard. You just didn’t do that sort of thing. You didn’t. Everyone knew Praegers had a very special relationship with Browning. She was surprised at Michael Browning herself, as a matter of fact. God, it was a dirty world, these days. Dirtier than ever since the crash.

She sat there for a while, getting angrier and angrier and then in the end she couldn’t stand it any longer. She called Hoffmans and asked to be put through to Gabe.

‘Good afternoon,’ said a honeyed secretarial voice. ‘Mr Hoffman’s office.’

‘Give me Mr Hoffman please,’ snapped Charlotte.

‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘Yes, you may. It’s Charlotte Welles.’

‘One moment please.’ There was a long silence; then the honeyed voice came back.

‘I’m afraid Mr Hoffman is busy right now. May I have him call you?’

‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘No you may not.’

She slammed the phone down. She was shaking.

She thought quickly, furiously. Gabe was only across in the World Trade. She would go over there. She’d force him to see her. If she was there in the office, he’d have to. She would make a scene until he did.

She stood up, dragged on her jacket, picked up her bag and set off; ran down the stairs, up Pine Street, turned right into Broadway and then crossed towards the great forecourt of the World Trade. She looked up at it. He thought he was safe in there, insignificant little bastard. Well he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

She went in. Hoffmans was on the sixty-fourth floor. She bluffed her way up there and then came against the stony wall of reception. The girl was terribly sorry, she said (having called Gabe’s office), but he couldn’t see anyone. He was terribly busy.

‘Give me that phone,’ said Charlotte, snatching it from her hand. ‘Hallo. Is this Mr Hoffman’s secretary? Listen to me. This is Charlotte Welles. Would you be so good as to tell Mr Hoffman that if he won’t see me I shall take all my clothes off in reception and start screaming. Yes, that’s correct. Thank you.’

She put the phone down, smiled sweetly at the girl behind the desk and waited. After about thirty seconds another girl came out. She looked nervous.

‘Miss Welles?’

‘Not quite correct,’ said Charlotte. ‘But basically yes, that’s me.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Hoffman –’

Charlotte unbuttoned her jacket, and took it off. Then she kicked off her shoes. She eyed the girl and started on the buttons of her shirt.

‘One moment please,’ said the girl hastily. She picked up the phone. ‘Gabe? I really think you should see this lady. She seems a little upset. Yes. Fine. Yes. I’ll do that.’

‘Come this way,’ she said to Charlotte.

She led her down a corridor. Hoffmans was small, there were only perhaps half a dozen offices, all set around the bull pen.

The secretary led Charlotte to the last door in the corridor and opened it. ‘Gabe. Here you are,’ she said nervously and promptly vanished, clearly terrified of getting caught in the crossfire.

Gabe looked up. His face was contorted with rage.

‘How dare you!’ he said. ‘Force your way in here, create a scene, threaten my staff. It’s outrageous. Please leave immediately. Or I shall have you thrown out.’

‘You dare to talk of being outrageous!’ said Charlotte. ‘You! You’re stealing my clients. How dare you do that. That really is outrageous. Outrageous and unethical.’

‘Of course it’s not unethical,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s the way the Street works. We all have a right to each other’s clients. Grow up, Charlotte, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh balls,’ said Charlotte. ‘Don’t give me that, Gabe. Not in cases like this we don’t. I just don’t understand you. Michael Browning has such a special relationship with us, and your father –’

‘Who?’

‘Michael Browning.’

‘Charlotte, I have to tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Gabe. He seemed to be telling the truth. Charlotte stared at him. Then she thrust the cutting at him.

‘Really? Well, look. There you are. Discussing – what does it say – advanced talks with him.’

‘Charlotte,’ said Gabe, and there was a suspicion of laughter behind his dark eyes now, ‘Charlotte, have you never heard of a journalist getting things wrong?’

‘Oh Gabe, don’t give me that.’

‘Charlotte, of course I’m not after Browning. This is a new account, my father’s account. I do have some integrity. For God’s sake, the stupid fucking reporter got the two Hoffmans mixed up. Are you really so dense? Call him if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. She felt a bit sick suddenly. ‘Oh well. You could hardly blame me for believing it. For being angry.’

‘I would disagree with that,’ said Gabe, ‘and I think you owe me an apology. Actually.’

‘Oh you do? For what?’

‘For not checking the story. For making a ridiculous scene. For embarrassing me.’

‘If you think –’ Charlotte began.

‘No, I don’t think. I know. I know you’re too stubborn and too arrogant and too stupid ever to apologize. I found that out long ago. But I had forgotten quite how stubborn and arrogant and stupid you could be.’

Charlotte stared at him. He had got up from his desk now, moved round, and opened the door behind her. His expression was unreadable.

‘I had also forgotten quite the effect your arrogance and stupidity had on me. How it could actually at times be almost counterproductive.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Charlotte.

‘Come with me,’ said Gabe. ‘I think I need to explain a few things to you.’

He took her by the arm and ushered her, none too gently, back down the corridor. There was a large door at the end, labelled Conference Room. He pushed it open. It was in darkness; the April evening light filtered very pale now through the long windows. Gabe pushed her inside, followed her, slammed the door.

She turned to face him, stormy, still so angry she could hardly breathe.

‘Charlotte,’ he said, ‘since you’re never going to be any less arrogant or stupid or stubborn without my help, and since those qualities are going to seriously damage your prospect of success in the future, I feel I have a certain duty to try and do something about it. Now then. Listen to me, you silly bitch. I shall attempt to steal accounts from you until I choose to stop and I hope very much you will do the same to me. The day you stop and the day I stop, we’ll probably lose interest in one another altogether.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Charlotte, rather feebly. ‘And I don’t have the slightest interest in you in any case.’

‘Of course you do,’ he said irritably. ‘And while we’re on the subject of your
interests, would you be good enough to tell me if you’re still seeing your friend Mr Foster?’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Charlotte. ‘I never was seeing Mr Foster, as you put it. Well, not since – not since. You’re obsessed.’

‘Maybe I am,’ he said quietly, ‘but I find it very hard not to be.’ He had stopped talking and was looking down at his shirt cuff, fiddling furiously with his wrist.

‘I’m going,’ said Charlotte, trying rather belatedly to sound controlled and businesslike, ‘I have a great deal to do.’

She turned towards the door.

‘Don’t go, Charlotte,’ said Gabe. ‘Please.’

‘I’m afraid I have to,’ said Charlotte. ‘Gabe, this door is locked.’

‘I know it is,’ said Gabe, ‘I locked it.’

‘Then please unlock it,’ said Charlotte. ‘And what on earth are you doing, Gabe, fiddling with your cuff like that?’

And then she looked at him, and realized he was smiling at her in a very particular way, and very much against her will, found herself smiling back at him.

And then she looked at the table and realized what he had been doing, fiddling with his cuff.

He had been taking his watch off.