it was Shane’s turn to give his friend a conservative stare. He’d obviously realised there was more to this than a simple tiff over Jake’s wife, but he knew better than to push his luck.
‘Great,’ he said, reaching for a printout that was lying on his desk. ‘By the way, these are the projected figures for Merlin’s Mountain. Jay thinks it should supersede all the other games if the results of the ad campaign are anything to go by, and they usually are. Oh, and Steve wants to talk to you about his firewall. According to him, it’s the only hacker-proof system there is.’
‘And he should know,’ observed Jake drily, relieved that the conversation had turned to business matters. He didn’t want to offend Shane. They’d been friends too long for him to take the other man’s support for granted. But talking about Isobel had never been easy for him and, after last night, he would prefer to be able to put the whole sorry affair out of his mind.
Which wasn’t going to happen. He knew that. Knew it even more forcibly later that morning, when his cellphone rang and the small screen displayed Marcie’s number.
He was in the middle of a meeting with the finance department at the time, and he was tempted to turn off the phone and ignore it. He could always say he’d left the phone in his office and someone else had hijacked the call. Or he could simply tell her he was busy and that he’d have to call her back.
Some choice.
Stifling a curse, he offered a word of apology to his colleagues and, getting up from the table, crossed to the windows. Standing looking down at the rain-soaked London streets some twenty floors below, he thought how much he hated the city sometimes. He put the phone to his ear. ‘McCabe.’
‘Jake.’
Marcie’s tone was considerably warmer than it had been the night before. Evidently time had mellowed her mood and she was apparently prepared to be magnanimous.
‘Marcie.’ Despite the overture, Jake felt unaccountably reluctant to return it. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘So formal, darling.’ Marcie’s voice would have melted honey. ‘Actually, I thought you might have rung me. You know how upset I was last night. I’ve hardly slept.’
Jake refrained from mentioning that he hadn’t been to bed himself. He refused to give her that satisfaction. Instead he said flatly, ‘I was pretty bugged myself.’
A silence, and then Marcie spoke again. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to apologise. Must I remind you that it wasn’t me who let you down? What you did was—well, pretty unforgivable. I was made to look like a complete idiot.’
‘How?’
Jake heard the accusation in his voice but couldn’t seem to help it. Right now he wasn’t in the mood for one of Marcie’s famous fits of histrionics. Last night he would have told her what had happened, would have explained about Isobel and Emily—well, some of it anyway. Enough to make her realise that he’d had no choice but to do what he had, that on this occasion Isobel had had to come first. But at this moment he didn’t much care what she believed.
‘You know I wanted you to sound Frank out about the chances of me getting my own show,’ Marcie answered, a predictable tremor in her voice. ‘You knew I couldn’t bring it up myself. I hardly know the Allens. They’re your friends, not mine.’ She paused, and when he didn’t say anything she went on more aggressively, ‘And his wife is such a snob. When I told her what I’d been doing for the past five years her jaw almost dropped through the floor. Supercilious bitch! She made me feel like I was the lowest form of pond life. Like she’d never taken her clothes off to get what she wanted. I tell you, Jake, I’ve had it with women like her. I don’t think they know what century they’re living in. How I stopped myself from pushing her stupid face into the salmon mousse I’ll never know.’
Jake had to smile then. The image of Marcie using strongarm tactics on Virginia Allen was just so ludicrous. Frank’s wife was a lady. Heavens, there’d been occasions when she’d refused to attend one of her husband’s openings because she’d considered it too risqué. He could quite believe she’d been horrified at the news that Marcie had made her living as a photographic model. In her opinion, models—fashion models included—were not much better than paid courtesans.
‘I’d like to have seen that,’ he said now, the humour in his voice unmistakable, and Marcie giggled.
‘You might have, if you’d been there,’ she said tartly, proving that she hadn’t quite forgiven him yet. Then, evidently deciding she ought to quit while she was ahead, she added, ‘So how about joining me for lunch instead? I’ve got some champagne in the fridge I’d intended to open last night. We could see what novel ways we can find to drink it. What do you say, darling? It’s Louis Roederer. Your favourite.’
It was a tempting offer, but Jake had to refuse it. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting a supplier for lunch, and this afternoon I’m flying to Brussels to meet up with our European distributors. I don’t expect I’ll be back much before midnight.’
Marcie groaned. Then, with obvious inspiration, ‘I could come with you. I’m free all day.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Jake let her down lightly. ‘How much work do you think I’d get done with you along for the ride? No, Marcie. I guess we’re going to have to put the champagne on ice for another day.’
‘If I don’t find someone else to drink it with, you mean?’ she flashed shortly, and Jake expelled a weary breath.
‘Your call,’ he said drily, aware that a significant silence had fallen behind him. He’d been on the phone too long, and there was only so much that could be decided in his absence.
‘So I won’t see you until Saturday,’ Marcie said tightly.
‘Looks that way,’ agreed Jake, casting an apologetic glance over his shoulder. ‘I’ll call you when I get back.’
The sound of Marcie’s phone disconnecting was his answer, and he pulled a face at his reflection in the rain-washed windows before closing his own phone and slipping it into his pocket.
Then he turned back to his colleagues. ‘Sorry about that, gentlemen,’ he said, forcing a smile for their benefit. ‘What’s that expression? A little local difficulty, right? Now, where were we?’
Isobel was tempted to keep Emily home from school the next morning. The girl had had a restless night, crying out in her sleep, waking herself up every couple of hours to go to the bathroom. Naturally Isobel hadn’t slept much either, and they were both hollow-eyed at breakfast.
But she had a pile of properties on her desk at work, and meetings with clients scheduled for most of the morning. Isobel knew she didn’t dare take another day off. She’d already stretched her boss’s goodwill to breaking point in looking after her mother, and she didn’t kid herself that her skill at selling houses was indispensable.
Besides, she had the feeling that her daughter would be better off at school. Staying at home would only remind her of what had happened the night before, and Isobel was desperate that Emily should put that unpleasantness behind her. She was only a child, after all. She didn’t understand. Jake should never have taken out his own frustration with Isobel on the girl.
Yet what had she expected? She’d known that sooner or later he—or
