LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Marie One said. ‘It isn’t about the luggage. I mean, what’s going to happen at the hotel?’

      ‘I think we all know the answer to that,’ Joan said.

      No one responded to her judgmental tone. ‘What hotel?’ Michelle asked.

      ‘He’s booked a suite at the Berkeley,’ Tina announced. She’d been angry all morning and still didn’t look at Claire. ‘Ya know. It’s not like he isn’t a gentleman. He is. And the suite’s got three rooms. The sofa in the living room is right there, waiting for her, if Claire doesn’t like what’s goin’ down in the bedroom.’

      ‘Goin’ down?’ Marie Three said, being her usual obnoxious self. Claire, for once, didn’t blush and no one laughed.

      ‘She’s got a round-trip ticket,’ Tina added. ‘If she can afford the taxi fare she can come back whenevah she wants to.’

      ‘I’d never come back,’ Marie One said.

      ‘What about Vic?’ Marie Three asked.

      ‘Screw Vic. Then I wouldn’t have to,’ Marie One said and they all laughed.

      ‘Look, ya don’t hafta do anything ya don’t wanna do,’ Marie Two reminded Claire. ‘And what goes on in the bedroom is none of our business,’ she told the rest of the table, though Claire knew Marie Two was always eager to listen to stories of sexual dysfunction, romps and betrayals.

      The truth was, Claire was just as curious to find out what might go on in the bedroom as she was to see London. The idea of Michael Wainwright choosing her, actually wanting her, even if only by default, was astonishing as well as exciting. She could hardly believe she was going to get on an airplane with a man she’d only been kissed by once, fly to London and sleep with him. She thought again of his hand on hers and had to close her eyes for a moment to contain the thrill. If such a small gesture, such minimal contact, had that effect on her how would she react to his body on hers? Claire shivered.

      ‘What will you take to wear?’ Michelle asked. ‘Do they wear hats, like Princess Di used to?’ She sighed. ‘I loved her hats.’

      ‘Forget hats and bags,’ Tina said. ‘Claire, do you even have a passport? You can’t go to Europe without one.’

      For the first time since she’d made her decision Claire felt her optimism and hope begin to disappear as slowly but surely as the Cheshire Cat did – but leaving no smile behind. In fact, her vision got blurry with tears. She didn’t have a passport and – worse – she didn’t even know how to get one. She looked at Tina, trying to keep the panic out of her eyes. ‘I can get one.’

      ‘Ha! You’re screwed,’ said Joan. ‘And not in a good way. I’ve been to the passport office. Forget it. You hafta get your birth certificate and photos and go to the post office, fill in a form and wait six weeks.’

      Claire felt the walls suddenly contract, as if she was on the morning’s elevator ride. She should have realized that escape, that a real adventure, couldn’t happen to her. She wasn’t the kind of person who had a passport sitting in her top bureau drawer. No. She had knitting needles. She wouldn’t be able to go. She clenched her fist hard, so that the physical pain of her nails biting into her soft palm distracted her from the other agony she was experiencing.

      ‘Six weeks?’ Michelle asked. ‘Always?’

      ‘Always,’ Joan said.

      ‘Nonsense.’ They all turned to see Abigail Samuels in the doorway. She ignored everyone but Claire. ‘You can get it in a few hours. You just bring your birth certificate, your application and a letter on our letterhead saying you must go for business.’ Abigail smiled at Claire. ‘And bring your ticket. Or do what our executives do. For fifty dollars an expediting service will take care of it all. And in two hours. You should know that, Tina.’ They all turned to Tina, who said nothing.

      ‘Thank you,’ Claire told Abigail Samuels, her voice shaky.

      ‘You’re welcome.’ She smiled at Claire again, her small, even teeth as white as her hair. Then her mouth snapped into a thin, straight line. She looked at Joan but continued speaking to Claire. ‘If you have any difficulty getting a letter from the firm, come to me and I’ll give you one signed by Mr Crayden, Senior.’ She eyed them all, then turned to go. But before she moved down the hall she looked at Claire. ‘And if you need to borrow a trunk, I’d be happy to lend you one of mine.’

      The table was silent for at least a moment after Abigail Samuels left. Then ‘Holy shit!’ Marie One whispered.

      ‘She family?’ Marie Three asked.

      ‘Fagetabout family,’ Marie Two said. ‘Has she got this table bugged? Because if she does, we’re all in deep yogurt.’

      Tina looked over at Claire. ‘You tell her?’ she asked. ‘Because if word gets out among the executives about this … I mean they might not like it.’

      Claire shook her head. Before the day Abigail Samuels had specifically requested her help, Claire had never spoken to the woman. And in helping her she hadn’t spoken much either. There was a social order at Crayden Smithers that was as unbreachable as Fort Sumter had been. Secretaries, administrative assistants, analysts, bookkeepers and all the so-called ‘support staff’ were working-class people. They lived in far-flown suburbs – never in Manhattan. They all said ‘the city’ when they meant Manhattan, even if they lived in Queens or Brooklyn or Staten Island – all a part of the city. They wore clothes from discount stores, cheap chains and factory outlets. Their hair never looked right, not the way hair looked in fashion magazines or on the heads of women professionals. And the inside of their heads had been educated in public schools, never the tony private ones. If they’d gone to college they hadn’t graduated, or if they’d graduated it had been from a junior college or a state school, never from the Ivy Leagues. They were an underclass and, though none of them would admit it, they either resented the elite professionals (as Joan did) or – worse to Claire’s way of thinking – basked in the reflected glory of the professional they worked for.

      The one exception was Abigail Samuels. She’d probably been a secretary for fifty years. She’d gone to the best schools, dressed in the best conservative clothes and looked like a wife of one of the elderly partners. But Abigail Samuels had ‘gone to business’ back in the days when secretaries wore hats and gloves and women didn’t even think of law or business school. Her class separated her from the secretaries and her job separated her from the professional staff. Claire had always thought she must be the loneliest person at Crayden Smithers.

      Claire had no idea how Abigail knew about the trip. She was also surprised that, knowing, she didn’t seem to disapprove. The thought that Abigail Samuels would be interested in anything that Claire did – besides photocopying – was as surprising to Claire as it was to the rest of the table. That Abigail knew about her trip, that she’d volunteered not only the information about the passport expeditor but actually threatened Joan on Claire’s behalf and then offered to lend Claire a bag was …

      ‘Fuckin’ amazin’,’ said Marie One.

      Claire saw all the faces turn to her, and recognized the faint tinge of suspicion on each face. In this hen house, when anyone changed the pecking order feathers were ruffled.

      ‘She must like you,’ Marie Two said.

      Curious and curiouser, Claire thought, but was wise enough not to quote Lewis Carroll at that table.

       NINE

      After work on Friday, Claire decided she’d better go get money for her trip. She had a little over nine hundred dollars in her account. A pathetic amount to travel with, but it was highly unlikely that her mother would be paying back her ‘loans’ anytime soon. She carefully counted the bills, then put them in an envelope and hid the envelope inside a beach bag in the bottom drawer

Скачать книгу