Buch lesen: «Lost and Found»
Praise for Jane Sigaloff’s
Name & Address Withheld:
“This book is the perfect antidote to Christmas
get-togethers. Escape to a comfy chair and enjoy!”
—Company
“Sigaloff’s first novel is without doubt
an engaging romantic comedy!”
—Booklist
“Witty, juicy and romantic—a clever, controversial
comedy about finding love in all the wrong places.”
—Bestselling author Sarah Mlynowski
“Moving and cleverly written…
a great present for a girlfriend in need of some love
advice (we all have one of these).”
—handbag.com
“4½ stars… Sigaloff has an interesting
take on the relationship conundrum.”
—funkybitch.com
“Unusually daring in its approach…”
—The Big Issue
Jane Sigaloff
was born in London and, despite brief trips into the countryside, Jane has always been a city girl at heart. After studying history at Oxford University she entered the allegedly glamorous world of television, beginning her career as tea and coffee coordinator for Nickelodeon U.K. After she progressed to researcher and then to assistant producer, her contracts took her to MTV and finally to the BBC where she worked for over three years.
Since 2000, Jane has enjoyed a double life as a part-time P.A., which has given her more time to write and feel guilty about not going to the gym. She lives in London with her laptop and ever-expanding CD collection. Lost & Found is her second novel.
Find out more about Jane at: www.janesigaloff.com
By the same author:
Name & Address Withheld
Lost & Found
Jane Sigaloff
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In a concerted attempt to be more concise than last time, immeasurable thanks and much love to my friends and family for their unwavering support, for listening (or at least making encouraging noises while thinking about other things), for their positivity and for ensuring that the life of this writer is by no means a solitary one.
In particular:
Omi—my PR granny extraordinaire. Kate—for always being there for me (and for valiant shelf patrol). Charlotte—for indispensable and immediate fast-talking advice. Louise, Alice, Gemma, Mandy, Fred and all at the Barnes Ladies Writing Circle—it wouldn’t be as much fun without you. Marten Foxon, the most flexible boss in London—for employing the only part-time part-time P.A., for being grammatically pedantic and for tales of the city. Melissa, Stuart and Clodagh—for providing insight into life as a lawyer and answering all my questions with due consideration. Peter French and Alex Tscherne at the Carlyle Hotel, New York, for unrivaled hospitality.
As always, thanks to my agent, Carole Blake, to Sam Bell for editorial prowess and keeping me focused, to Claire Sawford for PR duties and to the whole Red Dress Ink team who have worked so hard on my behalf both in the U.K. and North America.
For my parents—
all of them
and
for Paul—
my little big brother and partner in crime
since 1975.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter One
‘Something to drink, sir?’
‘We’ll have champagne…’
Sam hid behind her eyelids. She’d closed them for the steep climb from JFK and must have slipped straight into a power nap. But now she was very much awake. And listening. Taittinger + senior supervising partner (flirting) + altitude of 38,000 feet = certain recipe for disaster.
‘Just a still mineral water for me, please.’ Opening her eyes, Sam automatically ran a finger along her bottom lashes to remove any smudges of mascara, whilst flexing her calves and curling and uncurling her toes to prevent the onset of DVT. If she focused on her legs she was almost sure she could feel that the blood flow was a little sluggish in the bended knee area. Hypochondria in action. Sometimes knowledge was definitely not a good thing.
‘Oh, come on, let’s celebrate.’ Richard punched her arm playfully. Regrettably, despite the extra room in business class, he was still well within touching distance.
‘No, really. I might have some red with supper. You go ahead.’ She still couldn’t believe he’d flown out for the meetings. As for his behaviour last night—she was generously going to attribute it to the martinis. Yet he was sitting next to her. For the next seven hours. Twenty-first century purgatory.
‘Couldn’t you squeeze in one glass? We’re not billing them for this hour.’
Now he was trying lawyer jokes. ‘No, thanks.’ Champagne invariably gave her a headache at sea level. ‘Just the water.’ She exchanged an esoteric smile with the flight attendant as another waft of his Eau de Testosterone threatened to choke them both.
‘Great work this week. Very impressive. You know how highly I rate you.’
Typical ambiguity on the personal-professional line. But, while Sam could feel her flesh starting to crawl, her demeanour gave nothing away.
‘They were always going to take our recommendations.’
Determined to avoid prolonged eye contact, Sam rummaged in her bag for her lip balm and wished she could be teleported back to London. Business trips were one thing, but a night in New York with Richard Blakely was in a different league altogether. Especially given that the only merger she was working on didn’t involve him.
‘Maybe, but I’d forgotten how good you are round the table…’
‘I enjoy it. Especially when things go our way.’
Wallet, passport, make-up, hairbrush, mobile phone, PalmPilot, perfume, chewing gum, hand cream, dental floss—come on, come on. If her lips were to survive the brutal in-flight air-conditioning she couldn’t give up now. She was sure she could actually feel cracks forming.
‘…and you’ve always been a bit of a ball-breaker. I wouldn’t trust you with mine…’
Definitely not the impression he’d given her last night.
‘Cheers…’
Richard raised his glass and, hang on, was that a wink? Sam wasn’t sure. Watching as he tipped his head back åand took a long sip, she forced herself to think positive. Maybe a stray beam of light had caught the edge of his trophy Rolex as it peeped out from underneath his stiff made-to-measure Jermyn Street cuff. Not a glimmer of embarrassment from him. Nor any sign of a hangover. Amazing.
Picking her bag up from the floor, Sam continued her search in the upright position just in case he thought she’d been aiming for his lap. She’d never so much as given him a modicum of encouragement—unless wearing a just-above-the-knee-length skirt to her final interview at City law firm Lucas, Lex, Lawton six years ago could be cited as foreplay—but her lack of interest didn’t seem to bear any relevance to his level of enthusiasm or dedication to her cause. His confidence levels were as unnaturally high as the balance of his current account.
‘…we could teach them a thing or two about drinking, though.’
‘Mmm.’ Sam wasn’t listening. She’d heard it all before. But she knew she should be grateful that at least she wasn’t expected to provide the in-flight entertainment.
‘So, what have you got planned for the weekend?’ Richard’s tenacity on the conversation front was commendable. ‘What does one of London’s most eligible women get up to when I let her out of the office?’
‘Oh, not much…’
Her choice. Sam refocused on the methodical check of the pockets of her bag, which should have been a dedicated site of special scientific interest. It would appear that they were breeding Biros and tampons.
‘I haven’t had a clear weekend at home in…’ she paused ‘…well, with the three-ringed circus of hen weekends, weddings and work, we’re probably talking months…’
Still sifting through the contents of her shoulder Tardis, Sam squinted at the screen showing their route across the Atlantic. To her dismay the computer-generated plane had barely left the Eastern seaboard, and was creeping north at the sort of pace that had given snails a bad name.
‘…and I’ve got loads to sort out—you know, all that life laundry that always has to take a back seat…’
She was craving a marathon gym session followed by an evening in and a long soak in an aromatherapy bath with the current men in her life: Paul Mitchell, Charles Worthington, John Frieda and, of course, her oldest and most loyal shampooing partner Tim O’Tei. Candles. Chill-out CD. No more having to make polite chit-chat. A bowl of bran flakes. Bliss.
Sam’s bathtime bubble burst and her stomach knotted instantly as she realised her bag was emptier than normal. The plight of her lips paled into insignificance as, uninvited, a cold sweat crept up the back of her neck.
A furtive glance to her left. To her relief Richard appeared to have finally taken the hint and was now staring out of the perspex window, apparently mesmerised by the blackness of the night sky. Or perhaps checking his too-perfect teeth in the reflection. Sam peered into the dark folds of her bag before unzipping the myriad compartments one more time, just in case she might have misfiled or overlooked it. Not that she did ‘over-look.’ Fuck.
‘Everything Okay?’ Richard sensed a change in the force. A tell-tale furrow had appeared in her brow between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
‘Fine.’ Sam forced a smile and, leaning back stiffly in her seat, closed her eyes to create a few seconds of personal space. Maybe it was in her laptop case? A spark of hope followed by a dash of reality. She knew it wasn’t. And none of this would be happening if he hadn’t interrupted her routinely obsessive check of drawers and cupboards earlier.
She had to move fast. Only right now she was on a plane which, even with a complementary tailwind, was hours from Tarmac and a private telephone opportunity. Forcing herself to take a sip of her water, she reclined her seat, headphones on, volume off, pretending to watch the screen sprouting from the end of her armrest. But while the images flickered enticingly, they failed to penetrate her thoughts. The water felt like a river of neat acid as it burned its path down to her stomach. Internal turbulence. But in nineteen years her diary had never let her down, never told her it was too busy, never not been there for her…until now.
Ben refused to open his eyes. Having tossed and turned for most of the night, typically he’d only finally managed to drift into a proper sleep moments before the alarm had gone off. Yet it appeared, from the generally high activity levels going on around him, that his sister was well and truly up. On a Friday morning. On vacation. He must have been adopted; there was no way they could share genes.
Doing his utmost to pretend he was still asleep, he willed the steady hum of the air-conditioning to lull him back into unconsciousness, and was practically knocking on nirvana’s door when a very familiar voice started up right next to his ear. He should have read the small print. This had been sold to him as a free weekend away, not some sort of boot camp. But there was always a catch.
‘Ben…jy.’ The sing-song pre-school approach to his name was quickly cast aside in favour of an impatient bark. ‘Ben… Come on.’ If he’d had four legs he’d have known he was in trouble. ‘Look, I know you’re awake—your breathing’s changed. Come on, will you?’ No wonder David hadn’t minded him taking his place. Ben wondered whether his clients really were in town this weekend.
Ali poked his arm and Ben faked a somnolent shrug and murmur before opening one eye—partially and deliberately obstructed by his arm over his face—giving him a restricted view of his sister, who was squatting down at the edge of the bed. He tried not to smile. Things hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. Then on Sunday mornings she’d physically prised his eyelids apart to prove that he was awake before forcing him to play stupid games—usually involving dressing up in clothes their mother had charitably donated to their cause—he suspected now, merely so that she hadn’t had to actually throw or give them away.
‘Ha! Stop pretending. I just saw you open your eye. Your arm shield needs work.’
Ben stretched indulgently before propping himself up on the pillows. ‘Give me a break.’
‘I know you.’
‘I’d hope so.’
‘Better than you know yourself.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure about that.’
‘Well, I know that this pretending to be asleep ruse is a) gym avoidance…’
It was fair comment. But the sight of Ali in full Nike regalia before nine on a Friday morning was inducing acute narcolepsy. After hours of sleep deprivation, his eyelids felt incredibly heavy, and a vortex of dizziness was threatening to pin him to the mattress.
‘…and b) because you’re still worrying about Julia. Come on. You should come for a workout with me.’
‘Are you insane?’ Ben yawned and stretched before springing back into the foetal position.
‘You could do with it.’
Ben clenched his stomach muscles and stabbed at his T-shirt-covered torso to reassure himself that he still had some muscle tone, even if it was currently a few centimetres below the surface.
‘Maybe later. I’ve never been any good at physical exertion first thing. And I’ve only had about ten minutes’ sleep so it might just kill me.’
Ali rolled her eyes.
‘Okay, maybe a couple of hours, tops, but I didn’t sleep much on the plane.’ He couldn’t help it if he was a sucker for seat-back Nintendo games and multiple movie channels playing on a loop. ‘And I’ve never been a morning person.’
‘It’s nearly two in the afternoon for us.’
‘For you, maybe. Anyway, that would make it just about time for an afternoon snooze.’ Ben folded his arms behind his head and indulged in a prolonged blink. Closed was definitely preferable to open.
‘You can’t just lie here moping.’
‘I would have been quite happy sleeping.’ Ben pulled the heavy Egyptian cotton covers up to his nose and relished the weight of the down duvet on his weak body.
‘Bull…it’d be good for you to get your blood pumping.’
‘It’d be better for you. You’re the one writing an article on the gym refurbishment. I might come along tomorrow, or I’ll go for a run in the park later. I need more sleep.’
‘Whatever.’
‘One of the advantages of being single is autonomy. Or at least that was the idea…’
‘Julia wasn’t bossy.’
Ben smiled to himself. In some respects she and Ali had been way too similar. They always say girls pick men like their fathers, but did brothers pick women like their sisters? Right now, he hoped not. ‘Besides I hate gyms. Too many mirrors. I want the before and after, not during. I mean, who looks good while they’re exercising?’
‘You’ll have to look yourself in the eye eventually, and she’s bound to have pulled herself back together by now—she’s a tough cookie…’
He just wished she didn’t have to hate him in the process.
‘Far better that you were honest. The longer you’d left it, the harder it would have become—and if you’d strung her along I’d have disowned you. Plus, just for the record, there are far more single women of your age out there than men. Read any of the magazines on my bedside table if you don’t believe me.’
‘Hey, I’m not desperate.’
‘I know.’
‘Even if I said the “d” word out loud, which might mean that you think I am because I’ve said I’m not.’
‘You are such an amateur shrink sometimes.’
‘I’m just a little disheartened. She wasn’t who I’d thought she was.’
‘We’ve all done it.’ Ali shuddered at the memories of dating pre-David. The drip-feeding of information at appropriate moments in an attempt to generate common ground before coming out with the more contentious, potentially deal-breaking stuff farther down the line. At seventeen she’d even reinvented herself sartorially in pursuit of Johnny’s affections. But he had been very cute. Everyone in her year had wanted to date him.
Ben smiled. ‘Are we talking ten-hole Doc Martens?’
Ali nodded sheepishly. Hormones had a lot to answer for.
‘And the rockabilly quiff…?’ He was enjoying this moment. She’d looked like a cross between Morrissey and the B52s.
She laughed nervously, willing the conversation to move on. ‘It was an important experimental phase…’
‘Turn-ups on your vintage 501s…bright red lipstick… Mum thought you were about to come out.’
‘Yeah, yeah… All photographic evidence has been systematically destroyed. And I don’t think I need to take this from the boy who wore eyeliner.’
‘Once. I was twelve and I wanted to be a New Romantic.’ Ben sighed, allowing his head to sink back into the pillow and making his next point to the ceiling. ‘It would just be much easier if single people were required by law to carry a card stating their genuine age, profession, aspiration for children, preference for Coke over Pepsi, cats over dogs, Friends over Frasier, you know…’
‘You need to get a real job. You’ve got far too much time to think.’
‘A real job like yours, eh? O freelance journalist.’
‘Just remember, it’s your choice that you’re on your own.’
Ben shrugged. Silence. Ali decided to ease off a little.
‘…so you’re not prepared to compromise. That’s a positive not a negative.’
Ben nodded sagely. Even at the time there’d been a sense of relief. Julia had become a habit rather than a choice. And he’d been very fond of her. Fond. That said it all. Great-aunts were fond of their great-nieces; the British nation had been very fond of the Queen Mother. But the bottom line was he wanted it all. The whole mutual love and respect thing. The Paul and Linda. The Brad and Jen. Someone to grow old with. To have children with. Or nothing.
‘But…’ there was always a bloody but ‘…maybe I was just being male. Wanting the thing I didn’t have just because… She was a great girl in lots of ways. Spent a bit too much time at the office…’
‘She was ambitious.’
‘So am I. I just don’t feel the need to talk about my career trajectory incessantly. And at least I have an office to go to.’
‘As do I.’
Ben scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘I think you’ll find yours is the spare room.’
‘At least I have a spare room.’
Why did she always have to have a comeback? ‘Anyway, people need television.’
Ali snorted. ‘Only in the way I need four pairs of black boots. Anyway, it’s not like you have a biological clock that’s ticking—and you’ve still got all your hair. Relax, unwind, have a bit of fun…’
Ben nodded. Right now the random shag option was far more alluring than playing the relationship game. He didn’t have the energy for false starts, thoughtful gifts and the whole wooing process if there wasn’t long term potential. Lazy? Tired? Uninspired.
‘She’s out there somewhere, Benj. Maybe even at the gym.’
‘Nice try, Al.’
Resting on his elbows, Ben eyed her suspiciously as she contorted herself through a number of stretches at the side of the bed. Women were definitely more supple than men, and Ali was always hyper when they were back in New York.
‘OK, I’m ready. Are you coming or what?’
‘Nope.’
‘Fine.’
Ben knew from her tone that it absolutely wasn’t, but he also knew she was his sister and by the time she’d sweated away over three hundred calories he’d be forgiven.
‘I’ll be about an hour. Why don’t you get some breakfast sent up?’
‘We can just grab coffee and a bagel.’ Ben wasn’t in the mood to spend forty dollars on tea and toast.
‘Order whatever you like. I’ll claim it.’
She knew him quite well.
‘I don’t want you whingeing about hunger pangs in a couple of hours—we’ve got a big shopping day ahead of us.’ Ben wished that he could get a little more excited at the prospect. ‘Now, shape up. This weekend is not all about you. Work aside, I need new clothes—and, having unpacked your bag, I know you do. Not least because we’ve barely made an impact on the walk-in wardrobe. I think this suite is bigger than your apartment in London.’
‘Not difficult.’
‘Stop being so antsy.’
‘I’m tired. Blame it on sleep deprivation. You’re the one who felt the need to set an alarm.’
Ali performed her most serious stretch while whistling ‘New York, New York’. It was like watching some freaks’ talent show.
‘And no one asked you to unpack for me.’ Maybe she was rechargeable. A couple of hours plugged into the mains and good as new. Now she was practically bouncing on the spot.
‘It was a pleasure. Love you too.’
The door closed—and opened again almost immediately. What now?
‘Hey, Daddy Warbucks, the Times and the Journal. I want you fully up to speed by the time I get back.’
The thud of broadsheet on carpet preceded the click of the room door and, relieved to finally be alone, Ben exhaled as he closed his eyes and fleetingly imagined himself on the treadmill. He could always go down and surprise her. Just a couple more seconds.
One of the things he loved most about living in England was the fact that everyone he knew talked about going to the gym whilst in the pub and, with the exception of January, they didn’t quite get there. As long as you paid your membership and could theoretically go and work out instead of hitting a bar, you actually felt fitter. And anyway, he always walked up escalators. Well, if he wasn’t carrying heavy bags…
Suddenly dimly aware that he was on the verge of his deepest sleep yet, Ben jerked awake. Sitting up far too fast, a wave of numbing pins and needles swept up his body as he stared at the alarm clock. It had only been a few minutes. Reaching for the remote he allowed himself a quick pre-shower television moment while his body came to terms with the fact that sleeping opportunities were over for the day.
He surfed fast and purposefully. If his career wasn’t going to be spiritually rewarding or making a difference, it could at least be paying better. He needed to be thinking format. Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? He did. Such a simple idea. Just sadly not his.
Flicking between MTV and VH1, now he was awake he needed sustenance—even if the only growing he was doing these days was outwards. Leaning over, he tried the bedside drawer—Manhattan Super Pages and a pristine Holy Bible. In a single movement he rolled over to the other side of the bed. Nothing. Forcing himself into the vertical position, he padded across to the desk and checked the drawers.
Bingo. 1 x folder containing everything you would ever want to know about the hotel and its environs, including the extensive Room Service menu, and 1 x nondescript black hardback book. Moments later breakfast for two was on order and Ben was back in the horizontal position. But with the MTV channels on a simultaneous ad break, cartoons and infomercials on almost every channel that wasn’t showing the news, and Ali’s glossy magazines proving to be totally resistible, Ben opened the black book at a random page.
‘If anyone calls from The Carlyle put them through immediately…’
Please. Mel mouthed the word silently as she rolled her eyes at no one in particular from her desk outside Sam’s office.
‘…and I need those file notes typed up as soon as you’ve got a moment.’
‘Will do.’
Sam dialled the next number without even looking at the keypad.
‘Good afternoon, Greenberg Brownstein. EJ Rutherford’s office.’
‘Hi, is she there?’ Sam took another sip of her cranberry juice on the off chance that her nausea might be attributable to dehydration rather than the projection of what just might be in a no holds barred, worst-case scenario. Never before had she wanted to be able to turn back time. Where were Michael J. Fox and his customised DeLorean when she needed them?
‘Who’s calling?’ Standard screening procedure and a success-related perk. When your firm charges you out at nearly four hundred pounds an hour you get a full-time secretary-shaped filter to allow you to select who you speak to.
‘Sam Washington.’
She was through in a nanosecond.
‘Hi, darling. How was NYC? I haven’t been home for way too long.’ EJ kicked her shoes off under her desk, rubbed her tired feet against her ten-denier encased calves and swivelled in her chair to face the window. Blue sky and cold golden sunshine mocked her from the other side of the enormous double-glazed pane that was designed never to open. There might as well have been bars on it. She deserved a break.
‘Not bad.’ Who was she kidding? Sam glanced around the sanctuary of her office. Two hundred and seventy-five square feet of personal space. Almost a direct reflection of the percentage of her life spent at work. Not to mention the millions she’d made for the partners. She definitely needed some sleep and a holiday. Unless she was having a quarter life crisis. In which case she was expecting to live one hundred and sixteen years… Maybe taking golf lessons wasn’t such a stupid idea after all?
‘Did you bring me a Tootsie Roll?’ EJ Rutherford, top corporate lawyer, reduced to seven-year-old child complete with whiny voice at the prospect of her favourite candy.
‘No.’
‘What? Hey, you’re kidding, right?’
‘Sorry—I forgot. Mad rush at the airport. Plus I had Richard with me.’ See, she could do normal. Just another day at the office. And the hotel hadn’t called, so at this precise moment nothing was officially lost, merely missing in action.
EJ regrouped quickly and remained as optimistic as she could under the circumstances. ‘Raisinets?’ The silence spoke for itself. ‘Reese’s Pieces?’
‘You can buy them here.’
‘But they don’t taste the same. Did you say Richard was with you?’
‘They are exactly the same… Yup, he just turned up out of the blue for the meeting.’
‘Jeez. That man has a nerve. You’ve got to hand it to him—he sure is persistent.’
‘I don’t have to hand him anything.’
‘Hey, easy, tiger.’
‘Sorry, it’s been a long week.’
‘So…’ EJ sounded like a child bracing herself for disappointment. ‘Did you bring me anything at all?’
Sam exhaled. This she could handle. ‘I might have copy of W in my computer case…’
‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘…and a bag or two of Reese’s.’
‘Awesome. Yay. Thanks, darling. You’re the best. I love presents.’
‘They’re one hundred and five per cent fat.’
‘Just because you don’t like peanut butter…’
It was a valid point.
‘Anyway, they taste of home to me.’
‘Give me a fruit & nut any day. You guys have a lot to learn about chocolate and biscuits. I mean, Chips Ahoy? What’s that all about?’
‘They’re cookies.’
‘You are so pedantic.’
‘Look who’s talking…’ EJ trailed off, distracted by a man skilfully pasting a new twenty-four-sheet poster onto the advertising hoarding visible from her window. He was making it look very easy.
‘Anyway, how’s things? Good week?’
‘Just another takeover at the office. Still, at least the weekend is looking pretty safe—although I’m still standing by for final instructions from an American fund on an acquisition. Fancy a bit of supper tomorrow? It feels like ages since we last actually saw each other.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ The more distractions the better.
‘Excellent.’
‘Maybe we could squeeze a film in too?’
EJ watched the young man smooth the final sheet down with his low-tech broom, finally revealing the release date of the film his handiwork was promoting.
‘How about Taking Stock?’ Never underestimate the power of advertising. He wasn’t exactly the Diet Coke man, but it was quite refreshing to see muscles, jeans and Timberlands…and a full head of hair—a pretty rare sight at Greenberg Brownstein, where, it would appear, the success of male employees was intrinsically linked to their being follically challenged.
‘Taking Stock?’
‘Yup.’ EJ squinted at the billboard. ‘“Jim Stock, Wall Street whizz kid, goes missing”—and by the look of the ad campaign it’s going to be big budget and totally unrealistic.’
‘Perfect. Nothing I like more than a bit of global financial meltdown on a Saturday night.’
‘Great, because it’s finally happening. I’m losing touch with popular culture. We so need an extra day in the week. Just imagine—three-day weekends every week, only forty-five weeks a year… It’d be a hell of a lot more popular than the Euro. You sure you’re Okay? You’re very quiet. Unless, of course, you’re just using me as filler while you go through your inbox…’
Sam took her finger off her mouse button. She’d only been skimming a few. Meanwhile the clock on her phone was silently baiting her. 13:36. 08:36 in Manhattan, and they’d promised they’d check first thing. Sam didn’t care about interrupting the sleep of guests who’d paid over five hundred dollars for a night of luxury. Plus it was Friday; most of them were bound to be jogging around the reservoir or knee-deep in a breakfast meeting by now.
‘Did it all go well?’
