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?’
‘I’m just tired.’ Finally it would appear her physiology was starting to limit her once indefatigable attitude. One of her school reports had called her a human dynamo; now she needed a jump start. Sam rested her forehead on her fist and exhaled.
‘What’s with the yawning? Didn’t you sleep at all?’
‘Hmm?’ To her annoyance, Sam was feeling worse since she’d got to the office.
‘Sleep…on the plane?’
‘A bit. Well, I pretended to so I didn’t have to small-talk my way home, but I had a lot on my mind…’ Her masochistic self wanted to confess, but EJ wasn’t really listening. Sam didn’t begrudge her. They were both experts in self-absorption—plus, since their law school days they’d had an unwritten rule that governed their friendship, outlawing negativity and insecurity. Together they perpetuated strength and success. And Sam hadn’t granted this situation crisis status yet.
‘I know what you mean, honey. What are we like—? Oh, my God!’ EJ interrupted herself. ‘I just have to tell you about last night.’ EJ dropped her voice to an almost whisper. ‘Let me tell you there is only one thing worse than a dinner party full of couples at our age, and that is a singles dinner party thrown charitably by a couple of cohabitees attempting to streamline their Christmas card list. I seriously thought about stabbing myself with a fork during the main course so I could pretend I was coming down with meningitis. Seventy per cent of the men were called Ed, only fifty per cent had hair, forty per cent had talked
