Beside me, Scott is doing the same, albeit more slowly. I keep having to slow the pace of my ascent so that he can catch up, and also so that we can continue with the thread of our conversation. At least there’s no wind to compete with either our words or our movements.
“So if we shift our focus to the import side of things for at least a short time,” he says, “I think we could see an even bigger spike in profits for this quarter.”
“I don’t like the idea of leaning too heavily on foreign imports,” I tell him. “No matter what the bottom line might say.”
“Well, you have to take into account—” he starts, then breaks off as he misses his footing and tumbles from the rock face. I put out a hand to catch him, but he’s already dropped like a stone.
His safety line whizzes out behind him, slowing his descent until he touches down lightly on the gymnasium floor.
We are, or should I say, I am, scaling the three-story high indoor rock wall at the most exclusive gym in the city. It’s one of the few activities I can think of where you can get a good workout and still talk business at the same time.
Beats golf, I think, moving higher.
Down on the ground, Scott’s shoulders rise as he heaves a sigh and begins climbing again. He knows that I won’t come down before I reach the top, and if he wants to talk, he’ll have to double-time it to come up even with me again.
I’m halfway up the wall, so I have time to let my mind wander—as much as you can let your mind wander in a situation like this, anyway.
We don’t have to content ourselves with a fake wall and pre-established hand- and footholds. There are perfectly good climbable cliffs a not unreasonable distance from the city. Less than an hour by plane, one of which I happen to own.
But that would be an hour to load up and get there, an hour to make the climb, and an hour to get back and debark. I can’t spare three hours. I can’t even completely spare one, which is why Scott has to share the time with the wall for my attention.
Scott, who, besides being my go-to contact man, is also the closest friend I have. He’s the one who knows my inner tickings, which is why he had been against my disastrously bland dates with Jamie Wells from the beginning.
“You two go together like coffee and onions,” he’d said. “I can’t believe you let yourself get roped into this.”
“I’m giving her a chance,” I’d replied. “There might be a lot more to her than meets the eye.” This had been after our second date, when in reality, I had started believing more and more in the old adage: what you see is what you get.
I had wanted to give Jamie a chance, too. I had discovered that I didn’t like being single. I don’t mind being alone, but being single is really unappealing to me. There is actually a difference between the two conditions. When you’re alone, there’s a chance that you have someone in your life that you might come into contact with again at some point. When you’re single, though, it’s pretty much a given that you will always wake up to find the other side of the bed empty, the chair across from you at dinner vacant.
I know other wealthy people who seem to have no trouble balancing their work lives and their social lives. They never seem to lack for company, either genuine or rented in one fashion or another. I’m near the top of the stack, and yet still single a year after Sharon quit on me.
“So tell me about this mystery woman,” Scott puffs. He’s caught up to me at last. “The one that’s got you taking off early on Wednesday this week. Well, early for you, anyway.”
“No mystery,” I reply. “Stephanie White, the chef.”
Scott goggles at me and nearly loses his balance again. “Wait a minute…you mean, the chef who torched your kitchen last week?”
“You make it sound like she showed up with Molotov cocktails instead of her knives.”
“Really, though, Trent. This is the same White we’re talking about?”
“The very same.”
“You two must have really mended fences if you’re going out now.”
“Wasn’t much to mend. Accidents happen.”
Scott rolls his eyes. “Trent, dropping your doughnut on the floor is an accident. Leaving the refrigerator door open, that’s an accident. The woman nearly burned down your whole house!”
“From our conversation about Tomasso,” I say, “I would have thought you were on her side.”
“There’s a difference between not wanting her needlessly dragged through the mud and you seeing her!”
“Why are you so against this? I would have thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I’m not against it,” he says. “What surprises me is that you’re not against it. You seemed pretty furious with her when the fire happened, or at least that’s how you made it out to me. And you definitely weren’t picking daisies for her when you had me sic Tomasso on her. This just seems so out of character for you, doing a complete one-eighty like this.”
“The stunt with Tomasso was a mistake,” I murmur, more to myself than to Scott. “I know that now.”
“I know it was a mistake,” Scott rails. “I knew it was a mistake even as you were making it. I just never thought I’d hear you admit to it!”
“What can I say? I’m growing as a person.”
“You’re going contrary to my dyed-in-the-wool expectations of you based on fooling around with this woman?” he asks.
I say nothing, only concentrate on scaling higher up the wall.
“Wait,” Scott says. “You’re doing more than just fooling around with
