A woman pushing a child in a stroller tries to enter the restaurant, just as another woman attempts to leave. They start that doorway shuffle of politeness where the one leaving pushes the door open and then holds it while the lady and baby enter. It’s while the leaving lady supports the open door with both her hand and leg that I notice the heavy amounts of jewelry on her fingers, the shapeliness of her legs, and the enormous heels on her feet. I follow her onto the sidewalk on a hunch. She looks a bit fancy for this place.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say. She scowls, furrowing her brow to form a number 11 above her eyes. She’s too young to appear so worn.
“I’m looking for, um, my boss,” I lie.
“I not know your boss,” she says, and keeps walking, or clomping, in the shoes.
“His wife is about to come here to look for him,” I say slowly, “so I wanted to get him out of here first.”
She takes a long look at me and at my business suit. “I know not nothing that you are saying,” she says a little crossly but not convincingly. I continue with my lie and try to decide where she is from. Russia? Definitely somewhere in Eastern Europe.
“The wife of my boss,” I say slowly as I start to walk the block with her. “I need him to come with me now. He will get caught here and she’s a mean bitch,” I add, getting into my story. I’ve never met Gibbs’s wife but I bet she’s no bitch.
“You’ll lose his business,” I add, desperate to strike a chord here.
“Maybe I help you,” she says, “but I not know your boss’s name.”
I start to say Rudolph but then don’t. Gibbs would never use his real name.
“Oh, um, Mr. er . . .”
“Mr. Dixon or Mr. Lehman?” she asks, knowing exactly what my problem is. She now seems impatient, as if she is on a lunch break and I’m eating away at her precious downtime.
I think about this for a moment. She didn’t really just ask that, did she? These guys just use their firm’s name as their own handle? Really? Who the hell is in there from Lehman? I suddenly don’t feel shy to go inside. I’m crazed with curiosity.
“Oh, it’s Mr. Dixon. Has to be him. Maybe I can go get him?” I ask. I’ve got to see the inside of this place.
Ms. Eastern Bloc has already turned and is trotting into the restaurant. She waves her arm at me, indicating that I’m to wait. So I do, not wanting to make her mad. I climb back into the backseat of the car and in only three minutes Gibbs comes out into the sunshine, not so much as a cuff link out of place, an overnight bag grasped importantly in his hand, a little lift in his step. He looks like a guy just leaving the gym. He pauses for just a moment, looking for me, then heads right to the car, waving to the driver to not bother getting out and opening the door for him. He slips into the backseat next to me, smelling freshly showered.
“Isabelle!” he exclaims. “You look swell, babe. Do you have the handouts for our meeting tonight?”
I’m so mad at him and so relieved for myself that I sound a little incoherent.
“Well, yes, for maybe the past hour or so.”
“Good. Also is your account handling the lunch expenses for this trip? I think so, right?”
He pulls out a leather folder and takes out a crisp bill and credit card receipt.
“Lunch for Six—Warburg Pincus” he has written across the top of his expense report. The amount? $1,800.
He or rather I’m about to expense his time with an escort. Can that be right? The bill appears as if the charge was from the restaurant, this restaurant, this place that couldn’t possibly cook up that much tamarind and curry on their best day.
“Let’s pick up something at the airport,” he says. “I’m not eating any airplane food.”
CHAPTER 14
In the Money
EXITING THE PLANE, I practically climb over the small children and people blocking my path with their wheelie bags. I have to keep Gibbs in sight. He charmed his way into first class, something our profit-seeking bank doesn’t pay for, while I sat back in coach. This gave him the natural exit advantage and the possibility of escaping me when those cabin doors opened.
“Mom, she stepped on my toe,” one little boy with a Power Rangers Zeo shirt whines. He glares at me, along with every adult around him.
“Where there is evil, beware,” I say, in my best Power Rangery voice, trying to not have him hate me too much. “It’s Morphin time!” I continue as I hurdle past him. His face turns to a look of awe.
He raises his arm. “May the power protect you,” he shouts as I catch Gibbs. I look back to see him standing with that clenched fist. He thinks he’s just seen a superhero and I think, I miss my Kevin.
Gibbs has stopped to tap the bottom of a Dunhill cigarette box and pops one in his mouth in this nonsmoking airport, while checking the emails on his phone.
“Did you read this, Belle?” he asks me, as we start a semi-sprint to the exit. He is desperate to light up.
“Read?” I race after him.
“This girly memo. This thing about girls getting grabbed.”
We exit to the outside and I use his lighting-a-cigarette moment to see what he’s talking about.
To: All Employees
From: Metis