Game On

chapter 22


CHARLIE BARELY LOOKED UP WHEN Clara entered his office. She’d never once, in all her years at EuroNow, been on the wrong side of Charlie Holmes. Didn’t know he had a wrong side, in fact, but the chill in the room confirmed he did indeed have one.

“Hello, Charlie. You’re looking well,” she said, pretending she wasn’t nervous, and took a seat in the wooden chair across from his desk.

No greeting, no “How was your flight,” no bear hug. Just, “I called Kingsley Bartel night before last to pull you out of this blog tour nonsense.” His eyes didn’t leave his computer screen.

No! “But Charlie, you can’t. I know there were some problems in the beginning, but we’re sorting that out.”

He expelled a big, heavy gust of breath and tossed his pen onto the stack of sticky notes and memos that littered his desk. “Yes, well, in the time it took you to get here, Kingsley had his first big numbers come in. Seems the latest article had over a half a million hits in a matter of hours.”

“Well that’s wonder—”

He cut through her words as if he didn’t hear her. “So now I’m in a bit of a pickle, aren’t I?” Charlie’s eyes darted from her to his computer screen, his fingers hovering over his mouse as if he couldn’t decide whether to click it or throw it after the pen. “Answer me this. Why did you take three weeks’ leave last spring?”

That tendril of doom that had been in her gut since his middle-of-the-night call had blossomed into a strangling vine, choking her innards, squeezing the big part of her she liked to call her guilt center.

“H-how do you mean?” she asked, hoping that while she stalled for time, a nuclear bomb would go off and obliterate mankind.

Charlie’s jaw tightened beneath the folds. He was wound as tight as a puritan in Amsterdam. “After Rome, Clara. You went to Rome and had Lydia ring me that you’d had a family emergency. I’m asking you, what happened?”

Shit, shit, shit. “It was a personal matter, Charlie. A trivial thing. Nothing to concern you or the paper.”

“Bollocks!” Charlie stood, rather spritely for a man of his girth, and glared daggers. “Remember that I am your superior and when I ask a question, I damn well want a straight answer. Do you think I got to my position because of my good looks? I was a bloody journalist before you were born, and I’ll remind you to remember that before you open your mouth and spit more lies.”

Clara sat up straight as a rod. She was, in a word, screwed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. To say she was shocked speechless by his outburst would have been a cruel understatement.

Charlie cleared his throat and sank back down. “Let’s begin again, shall we?”

She swallowed, hoping for some saliva. “I was in an accident in Rome last spring,” she began, trying not to fixate on the bubble of spittle that had formed in the corner of his downturned mouth. “And got a bump to the head.”

“Clara Bean, you had major head trauma!”

“It wasn’t really major. I mean—”

“Stop!” He was shaking now, his normally putty-like complexion turning an alarming shade of aubergine. “I should fire you on the spot. How dare you put the reputation of this newspaper on the line! How dare you put my position on the line, you selfish little girl.”

The glass walls of his office shook. Clara didn’t have to turn around to know that everyone in the newsroom had ceased working. Clara stared at her lap, chewed her bottom lip, and concentrated on not crying. Dignity and all that.

“We could have been sued, the paper bankrupted, and all your mates would have been jobless. Did you even consider that? And now, now, the entire BMG operation is in jeopardy. For God’s sake, Clara Bean, what were you bloody well thinking?”

She tried to speak, to defend her ill-chosen motives, but the words were caught in her throat. She was devastated, embarrassed and so very ashamed. He was right, of course. She was a selfish little girl. Selfish and immature and such a silly, stupid cow.

And of course, he’d found out. It was easy to forget Charlie’s past as an award-winning investigative reporter. If he wanted to know, he’d only have to check her insurance claims and make a few phone calls. A novice could have done it. Only a fool would play the sorts of ridiculous game of denial she had, and she was indeed a very big fool.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before she had the courage to try again, and even then she could only manage one tight word. “Sorry.”

She swallowed her tears and pride and risked a glance at his face. Disappointment had replaced his anger, and it cut deeper than his words. “Really Charlie, believe me. I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you, I meant to, but...” She shrugged.

“But you didn’t.” Somehow, his soft voice hurt more than his shouts.

“I was hoping it would get better.” Again, she bit her lip to stop its incessant quivering.

“Clara, Clara,” he said with a shake of head. “I read the medical report. I know the diagnosis.”

Tears scalded her eyes. “I could apologize a thousand times and never make up for it, Charlie, but truly, I never meant to deceive you…or anybody,” she added, thinking about Luc.

Luc. Her heart squeezed, knowing she wouldn’t see him again. She wrapped her arms around her middle to hold the hysteria in. “My resignation will be on your desk this afternoon.”

“As much as I want it, I can’t accept it at this time. Seems this blog thing is picking up in popularity and Kingsley wants you back in America.” Charlie rubbed his big face with his stubby fingers. “Hence the pickle you’ve put me in.”

Afraid to speak, she waited silently.

“He’d have your guts for garters if he found out, missy. You’ve managed to pull this charade off for all these months, so I expect you to keep it up until this blog tour is over. We’ll deal with this mess when you return.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Out.”





Luc paced the length of the room impatiently while waiting for Valentina to finish her shower. He distinctly told her to be ready at eleven because he knew she was perpetually late. Sure enough, she was still in bed at eleven fifteen.

It didn’t help that he hadn’t heard from Clara yet and was dying to know what Charlie had dragged her back to England for. Unable to wait a moment longer, he pounded out a text message: Hey! Forget about me?

The response was almost immediate: Never.

He could taste relief. Why haven’t you called?

Clara: Meant to. Fell into an exhausted sleep.



Everything okay?

Clara: I suppose.

That doesn’t sound encouraging. Call me. I need to hear your voice.



Luc waited for the next message to come through, but the pause was almost unbearable. He half-hoped his phone would ring. The other half was conscious of the bad singing coming from the bathroom. Finally, the three-note trill.

Clara: How do you feel about people who lie by omission?

Luc dropped into a chair. Dieu! She already knew about his aversion to hockey arenas… could she be referring to his new assistant? He didn’t mean to keep Val’s presence a secret but didn’t think it appropriate news via text message.

Perhaps the omission was to protect someone or something?

Clara: But what if unintentional harm was done?

I think if intentions were honorable, benefit of the doubt should be granted.

He waited, but no reply came. Did he get the answer wrong? He asked: Why, what do you think?



Clara: Still under consideration. I’ve got to run. We’ll talk when I get back.



But you *are* coming back?

Clara: Yes.





It took three gin and tonics, the first two doubles, to relay the entire story to Lydia, beginning with her breath-stealing experience with Luc and the key card in the hall and culminating with her humiliating encounter with Charlie. The further into her story she got, the more emotional she became, and the more emotional she became, the faster she babbled, as if blurting it all out at once would help.

“…and I didn’t even ring Luc today even though I said I would because I’m a horrible liar and I can’t really spurt out the whole story over the phone, can I, but then he texted me and I didn’t know what to say so I got rid of him and I really, really wanted to tell him that I missed him like mad, like my very bones hurt for wanting him, but what if, when I tell him my situation when we’re face to face, he doesn’t want anything to do with me, then I’d have no dignity left, would I, or what’s to stop him from going to Bartel, and…and… oh God, Lyds, what if he hates me?”

“Breathe, darling. I’m not prepared to pay the tab because you’ve passed out from lack of oxygen.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, Clara rushed on, “I couldn’t bear it, Lyds, if he hated me. He’s so brave, the way he deals with his injury, but me? I’m such a gormless twit! I’ve made a complete cock-up of everything.”

“So you really like him,” Lydia said dryly.

She eyed Lydia over the rim of her glass as she guzzled the remainder of her drink. How could she explain her feelings, that the very thought of Luc sends a heat wave through her like a shot. How when she looks at him, she forgets to breath so that her lungs are perpetually aching. And how her body, out of the clear blue nowhere, will replay the exact moment he penetrated her, making every nerve in her body suddenly jerk awake. It happened on the plane, in the taxi to EuroNow, and just a moment ago when she’d mentioned his name. It only lasts a split second but it catches her like a hot flash, making her tingle and flush and practically wet her pants with the intensity of it.

And she never wanted them to subside.

“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”

“My advice is not to say anything. Go back and simply carry on. You have another three weeks to decide on a course of action, and darling, three weeks is a long time. You’ll probably tire of Luc by then, so let’s not get overwhelmed with the drama of goodbyes.”

“But what if I’m not?”

“A good question that will certainly be answered in time, but a more important question you should be asking yourself is why now?”

“Why what now?”

“Why is Charlie harping on the Rome fiasco now?”

“I reckon he got a call from the insurance agents.” Clara hadn’t given any thought to the timing.

“No. Those forms get taken care of by the human resources department and would have been filed months ago. Charlie would never have gone seeking the information unless something or someone tipped him off.”

“I have no idea, then,” Clara replied.

“I do,” Lydia said cryptically. She gave her ice cubes a shake, tossed the remainder of the drink into her mouth, and slammed the glass against the heavily lacquered pub table. “Oy! Two more!” she called to the barman. To Clara, she said, “And I may just have to murder someone. Two someones, in fact.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

“Listen to me, darling. Something happened a few days ago, and I should have given you a heads up, but I had no idea, none-what-so-ever, or trust me, I would have put a stop to it right then and there.”

“Lyds, I’ve clearly had too many G and T’s to follow. Please start at the beginning.”

“Milan. Last week. Miss America. With me, yes?”

“Yes,” Clara nodded. “You were taking the job-stealing pageant queen to Milan to meet Ferrilusco. Carry on.”

Lydia hunched low across the table as if she were discussing top-secret espionage secrets. “Franco was there.”

“Franco who? My Franco? Rome Franco?” Clara said, leaning forward so they were practically nose-to-nose. She was just drunk enough not to feel ridiculous.

“Yes. Roman Franco.”

“Why was Franco in Milan?”

“At Ferrilusco’s.”

“Right. At Ferrilusco’s.” Clara narrowed her eyes. “Very suspicious. Why?”

Lydia took a generous swallow from her fresh drink and sat back in her chair. “He’s a photographer, darling, in Milan, days after fashion week. It’s not that much of a stretch.”

“Right. Fashion week. How would I know that?”

“Doesn’t everybody know that?”

“Of course. Silly me.”

“Yes, well, Franco practically accosts me, gushes over Valentina like only an Italian stud could, and then he asks about you.”

Clara closed her eyes, afraid of what was coming.

“Yes, exactly,” Lydia said, confirming her worst thoughts. “He brings up the accident and when Valentina feigns concerned ignorance, Franco tells her in excruciating detail about the spill, the blood, the danno cerebrale, the brain damage. He practically re-enacts the event.”

“Lovely,” Clara sighed. “Bloody. F*cking. Lovely.”

“For what it’s worth, I did assure him that you’re fine, no lasting danno cerebrale,” Lydia said, tapping the side of her noggin, “but the man just went on and on about the incidente bizarro.”

“So, you’re saying Valentina went to Charlie?”

“Exactly!”

“But why? She doesn’t even know me?”

“To get back at me, no doubt. I understand Ferrilusco had her in tears within ten minutes.” Lydia looked uncharacteristically chagrined. “Sorry, darling.”

“If your murder plans include an accomplice, please make sure I interview for the job.”

Another drink and a half later, whilst playfully imagining all the untimely and gruesome ways Valentina could die, Clara’s phone beeped.

“Let me guess… Luc?” Lydia said when Clara squealed. “I’m going to the loo.”

Luc: Hey you. What’s for dinner?

Dinner?!! It’s almost midnight here!!!! I’m out with Lydia. Had fish with loads of fresh cut chips and copious amounts of G and T’s!!!!

Luc: I see that gin consumption directly correlates to exclamation marks.



Oh ha ha!! Yes. Sorry.

Luc: Don’t be. Nice to see you so excited!!!

What did you think of the restaurant? How was the food?



Luc: I haven’t had a decent meal since you left.



I’ve only been gone since yesterday!



Luc: It feels longer. And nothing tastes good without you to share it with.



Liar! You hate tradesies!!

Luc: I’ve been reformed. I love trading with you. When are you coming back?



Tomorrow!!



Luc: Call me when you get home tonight. I really miss your accent.



Clara: I don’t have an accent!!! You do!! Chat in an hour.



I’ll be waiting.



“Look at you with that silly grin on your face,” Lydia said as she sat back down. “You’re either drunk or in love. How is your boy?”

“Amazing and sweet and wonderful and thoughtful—”

“Stop now. You’re beginning to melt the chunk of ice around my heart,” Lydia said. “By the by, darling, when and if your little secret gets told, don’t tell Luc we planned Valentina’s murder. He might not take kindly to having his ex-girlfriend’s blood on his current lover’s hands.”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Clara laughed, still giddy. “I must be drunk because I’ve no idea what you’re saying anymore.”

“Oh balls. Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Lydia said.

Clara felt the smile drip from her face like candle wax. She stared hard at Lydia.

“Well, that’s how Val got into BMG, darling, through Luc. I’m sorry. I really thought you knew. Val bloody-well bragged to me about it. Her pathetic motto is: men are the sturdiest stepping-stones in the river of life.”

While Lydia rolled her eyes in Lydia-esque disgust, Clara felt her shoulders slump. “We haven’t really discussed our pasts yet, Lyds,” she explained. “Our relationship has hardly followed a traditional model.”

She had no idea what this Valentina woman looked like, but the fact she was a beauty pageant winner made Clara feel like a frumpy dwarf. “Oh God, Lyds…how on earth can I live up to Miss America?”

“I wouldn’t worry, darling,” Lydia said. “You’ve got loads more spirit and intelligence.”

Lovely. Her best friend just told her she had a great personality.





Barely out of her raincoat, Clara pulled her cell phone out to call Luc. Bugger! The black screen reminded her it hadn’t been recharged since leaving America and she had no idea where she’d stashed her power cord. And Luc’s number was stored in her directory. Too anxious to wait a moment longer, she called the hotel directly from her land line.

“Please will you connect me to Mr. Bisquet’s room. It’s spelled B-I-S-Q-U—”

“We have more than one Bisquet registered, ma’am,” the hotel operator said.

“Oh. I’m looking for Luc Bisquet with Bartel Media Group.”

“One moment please.”

It was ridiculous she should have butterflies in her stomach, asinine that she’d rehearsed exactly what she was going to say the entire way home, much to the amusement of the taxi operator, but the very thought of hearing his voice made her goopy.

“Hello?”

Clara froze. She wasn’t expecting a woman’s voice.

“Hel-looo?” the feminine voice repeated.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. They must have put me through to the wrong room.”

“Is this Clara?”

“Y-yes. Who’s this please?”

“Valentina. Luc’s not here at the moment—”

“Nevermind,” Clara blurted and hung up. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor.