'So: we meet, and we fuck like bunnies, and you don't think it can last.'
'You can't deny the whole thing has an air of impermanence.'
'Would you have it otherwise?' he asked carefully.
'I don't know.'
It was the only answer she could give, he realized.
She added: 'Would you?'
He chose his words. 'This is the first time I have had occasion to reflect upon the permanence or otherwise of our relationship.'
'Stop talking like the Chairman's Annual Report.'
'If you will stop talking like the heroine of a romantic novelette. Speaking of Chairmen's Reports, I suppose that is what Derek is depressed about.'
'Yes. He thinks it's his ulcer that makes him feel bad, but I know better.'
'Would he sell the company, do you think?'
'I wish he would.' She looked at Laski sharply. 'Would you buy it?'
'I might.'
She stared at him for a long moment. He knew that she was evaluating what he had said, weighing possibilities, considering his motives. She was a clever woman.
She decided to let it pass. 'I must go,' she said. 'I want to be home for lunch,'
They stood up. He kissed her mouth, and ran his hands all over her body with sensual familiarity. She put a finger into his mouth, and he sucked it.
'Good-bye,' she said.
'I'll call you,' Laski told her.
Then she was gone. Laski went to the bookcase and stared unseeingly at the spine of The Directory of Directors. She had said, I only hope it can last, and he needed to think about that. She had a way of saying things that made him think. She was a subtle woman. What did she want, then-marriage? She had said she did not know what she wanted, and although she could hardly have said anything else, he had a feeling she was sincere. So, what do I want? he thought. Do I want to marry her?
He sat down behind his desk. He had a lot to do. He pressed the intercom and spoke to Carol. 'Ring the Department of Energy for me, and find out exactly when-I mean what time-they plan to announce the name of the company that won the license for the Shield oil field.'
'Certainly,' she said.
'Then ring Fett and Co. for me. I want Nathaniel Fett, the boss.'
'Right.'
He flipped the switch up. He thought again: do I want to marry Ellen Hamilton?
Suddenly he knew the answer, and it astonished him.
TEN A.M.
13
The editor of the Evening Post was under the illusion that he belonged to the ruling class. The son of a railway clerk, he had climbed the social ladder very fast in the twenty years since he left school. When he needed reassurance, he would remind himself that he was a director of Evening Post Ltd., and an opinion former, and that his income placed him in the top nine percent of heads of households. It did not occur to him that he would never have become an opinion former were it not that his opinions coincided exactly with those of the newspaper's proprietor; nor that his directorship was in the proprietor's gift; nor that the ruling class is defined by wealth, rather than income. And he had no idea that his ready-to-wear suit by Cardin, his shaky plum-in-the-mouth accent, and his four-bedroom executive home in Chislehurst marked him plainly, in the jaundiced eyes of cynics like Arthur Cole, as a poor boy made good: more plainly than if he had worn a cloth cap and cycle clips.
Cole arrived in the editor's office on the dot of ten o'clock, with his tie straightened, his thoughts marshaled, and his list typed out. He realized instantly that that was an error. He should have burst in two minutes late in his shirtsleeves, to give the impression he had reluctantly torn himself away from the hot seat in the newsroom powerhouse for the purpose of giving less essential personnel a quick rundown on what was going on in really important departments. But then, he always thought of these things too late: he was no good at office politics. It would be interesting to watch how other executives made their entrance into the morning conference.
The editor's office was trendy. The desk was white and the easy chairs came from Habitat. Vertical venetian blinds shaded the blue carpet from sunlight, and the aluminum-and-melamine bookcases had smoked-glass doors. On a side table were copies of all the morning papers, and a pile of yesterday's editions of the Evening Post.
He sat behind the white desk, smoking a thin cigar and reading the Mirror. The sight made Cole yearn for a cigarette. He popped a peppermint into his mouth as a substitute.
The others came in in a bunch: the picture editor, in a tight-fitting shirt, with shoulder-length hair many women would envy; the sports editor, in a tweed jacket and lilac shirt; the features editor, with a pipe and a permanent slight grin; and the circulation manager, a young man in an immaculate gray suit who had started out selling encyclopedias and risen to this lofty height in only five years. The dramatic last-minute entrance was made by the chief subeditor, the paper's designer: a short man with close-cropped hair, wearing suspenders. There was a pencil behind his ear.
When they were all seated, the editor tossed the Mirror onto the side table and pulled his chair closer to his desk. He said: 'No first edition yet?'
'No.' The chief sub looked at his watch. 'We lost eight minutes because of a web break.'
The editor switched his gaze to the circulation manager. 'How does that affect you?'
He, too, was looking at his watch. 'If it's only eight minutes, and if you can catch up by the next edition, we can wear it.'
The editor said: 'We seem to have a web break every bloody day.'
'It's this bog-paper we're printing on,' the chief sub said.
'Well, we have to live with it until we start to make a profit again.' The editor picked up the list of news stories Cole had put on his desk. 'There's nothing here to start a circulation boom, Arthur.'
'Its a quiet morning. With luck we'll have a Cabinet crisis by midday.'
'And they're two-a-penny, with this bloody government.' The editor continued to read the list. 'I like this Stradivarius story.'
Cole ran down the list, speaking briefly about each item. When he had finished, the editor said: 'And not a splash among 'em. I don't like to lead all day on politics. We're supposed to cover 'every facet of the Londoner's day,' to quote our own advertising. I don't suppose we can make this Strad a million-pound violin?'
'It's a nice idea,' Cole said. 'But I don't suppose it's worth that much. Still, we'll try it on.'
The chief sub said: 'If it won't work in Sterling, try the million-dollar violin. Better still, the million-dollar fiddle.'
'Good thinking,' the editor said. 'Let's have a library picture of a similar fiddle, and interviews with three top violinists about how they would feel if they lost their favorite instrument.' He paused. 'I want to go big on the oil field license, too. People are interested in this North Sea oil-it's supposed to be our economic salvation.'
Cole said: 'The announcement is due at twelve thirty. We're getting a holding piece meanwhile.'
'Careful what you say. Our own parent company is one of the contenders, in case you didn't know. Remember that an oil well isn't instant riches-it means several years of heavy investment first.'
'Sure.' Cole nodded.
The circulation manager turned to the chief sub. 'Let's have street placards on the violin story, and this fire in the East End-'
The door opened noisily, and the circulation manager stopped speaking. They all looked up to see Kevin Hart standing in the doorway, looking flushed and excited. Cole groaned inwardly.
Hart said: 'I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think this is the big one.'
