Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“She’s moving in?” Fin asks with wide-eyed astonishment.
“Well, yeah. The timing isn’t great.” My hands open in a gesture of what the fuck. “Theta fired her. It kind of caught her off guard.”
“What the fuck? Because she blew chunks on their carpet?”
“On what grounds?” Oliver translates for him.
“Performance issues, though she disputes that strongly. But she also says there’s nothing to be done about it, thanks to her probation period.”
“That does muddy the waters,” Oliver says. “Unfair, but perfectly legal.”
“Legal maybe, but also fucking immoral.” Fin might be a dick sometimes, but he’s a good friend.
“The law is the law,” Oliver says. “And business is just that.”
“Which is kind of how Ryan feels about it,” I admit. “She’s been pretty stoic about the whole thing. Me, not so much. Especially as they’d booked her on a flight back to JFK today.”
“Fuck,” Fin mutters. “So that’s why . . .”
“She’s staying with me? Part of the reason. She’s gonna pay me rent,” I say with a dark chuckle.
“Ah.” Fin gives a sly yet understanding grin. “It’s like that, is it?”
“Well, I don’t have a private island.” I give a shrug, and Fin’s grin widens. The tale of his and Mila’s marriage had its own obstacles. “I just need time and a little space to win her over.”
“From gigolo to baby daddy.” Fin sounds fucking tickled.
“From one-night stand to forever.” Because that’s what I’m aiming for.
Following our monthly meeting, I call in at one of our projects in East London, where I’ve agreed to meet the head quantity surveyor. I could ask her to meet me at our offices, or even her office in Canary Wharf, but I like to see how things are progressing with my own eyes.
The project, an urban regeneration, will include a shopping mall, businesses, and youth centers. It’ll be a huge bonus to the area, and I’m happy to see the foundations have been constructed. I know Mila will be too, given this is her old stomping ground.
After the East End, I make my way back across the city, mentally planning an impromptu visit to Theta Investments sometime in the not-too-distant future. My plan is to ambush one of the big nobs and discover the real reason for canning Ryan. Even if she’s telling herself she’s not interested in the reason she was fired, I’m sure she will be at some point.
And I’m more than a bit curious myself. As well as suspicious, because when I think back to those turds in tuxedos at the Pierre, and replay the things their ringleader, the head ball bag, bleated in the jacks, it’s hard to believe she was fired for anything performance related.
Those bollixes seemed almost deferential around her. It was a weird kind of respect. With the exception of the ball bag, of course. He was just jealous. And deluded. Which I put down to brain shrinkage from all the happy dust he probably shoved up his nose. Who the fuck thinks having sex with a successful woman will make you successful?
Stuck in traffic now, I roll my shoulders and rotate my neck. Just thinking about those bastards makes me want to book a flight to New York to break a few noses.
As for Ryan, trading is a precarious business at the best of times. No less so as part of a hedge fund. It’s a common phenomenon that when the P&L edges toward the red, heads begin to roll. But I can’t see that being the case here, not after they went to the expense of recruiting and relocating her.
So yeah, I’m curious. She will be too. She’s just got a lot on her plate right now.
“Dial Ma,” I announce on a whim, and the car’s Bluetooth does just that.
I suppose I better get it over with. Tick another one off my list.
I wonder who Ryan has on her list. She must have people, right? How strange must it feel, being alone in the world. Well, she isn’t now.
As usual, Ma doesn’t pick up. She’s a bit of a gadabout, is old Catherine. Sixty-seven years and the doyenne of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association’s local guild. If there’s money to be raised, she’s doing it. Shit to be learned, she’s adding it to her skill set.
She takes on the arrangements for the Christmas party at the old folks’ home, the Easter parade and egg hunt for the local kids. She bakes lemon cakes made with olive oil for fundraisers and knits tiny cardigans for the premature babes in the neonatal unit.
Tuesday is for bridge, Wednesday is her knitting circle, and if you call into her home on Saturday afternoon, expect to be served aperitivo no matter who you are. Marinated olives, jamón ibérico, and Manchego cheese. Maybe patatas bravas, and a glass of dry cava or a bitter-tasting afternoon cocktail.