Alberta Clipper (35 page)

But now that little girl seemed all but gone.

Mark looked out of his office building and across the river.  The roads far beneath him were clear of snow, but there still remained frozen mounds of it dotted along the footpaths.  It could stay like that for weeks.

“A burst water main,” Petra continued, her voice sounding even more tinny that usual on the speakerphone.  “So the noise is unbearable.  There’s water to the building, but they’re advising us not to drink it while the works are being carried out, so I’ve arranged for a supply of bottled water for each floor and increased our order of water
-
cooler refills.” 
She
sounded decidedly put-out.  “Anyway, other than the path being dug up outside, and the outrageous noise, it’s not too much of a problem.”

“Right,” Mark said, watching a boat being moored just past Michigan Avenue bridge.  What type of person had nothing more important to do than take
his
boat out on the river on a Thursday in January?  Whoever he was, he had his priorities right.  “Right.  Good.  Nothing else?”  He turned back to look at the conference phone on the table before him, half-expecting it to have acquired heels and a sticky-out chest.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And nothing new on Lucy?”

“No.”  Petra was noticeably
solemn
.  “
Shay
phoned in this morning.  I don’t think they’ve left her side the whole week.  They must be shattered.”  She sounded like she was talking to herself.

“And the doctors haven’t said anything more?”

“No, I don’t think so.  Not this morning anyway.  She, she just doesn’t seem to be improving.”

“Yeah.”  Mark didn’t even try to imagine what
Shay
must be going through.  “Okay, well if there’s nothing else.”

“No.  I’ll check in with you tomorrow before I leave
the office
,” Petra said.  “And I’ll see you on Monday
,
Mark.”

“Yeah,” Mark replied.  “See you Monday.”

Christine fumbled with her coat and laptop case, trying to reach her phone which was ringing in her pocket.  She almost managed to grasp it, but it slipped from her hand and bounced across the carpeted floor.  The ringing stopped. 

With a loud exhalation, she made to retrieve it, but a dark-haired suited man who had been directly behind her in line got there first. 

“I 'ope eet was not an important call,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” Christine took the phone from his hand. 

“Engleesh?”

“Irish.”

“Ah, oui.  Très bien.  I spent a summer in Kerry wiz my family as a child.  Very beautiful.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Very wet,” he raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her.

Christine glanced at the phone.  Missed call from Mark.  He was probably running late.  She put the phone in her laptop bag and folded her coat over her arm.

“Did you fly in zis morning?”  It appeared that her new companion had no interest in ending the conversation there.

“No.  We have an office here in London too.”  The group of men in front of her finally moved, and Christine took a step forward to a long table which was
almost hidden by
rows of small plastic badges.  She smiled at one of three girls who sat looking up at her enthusiastically. 

“Christine Grogan.  CarltonWachs.”

The girl checked a long list of names on a sheet of paper before her, before nodding at Christine.  “Yours should be -”

“I see it.”  Christine picked up her name tag from where it sat innocently next to one that said Mark Harrington CEO, CarltonWachs Ireland.  Wow, that was one clock she would like to turn back.  Not New Year's Eve itself, no, she couldn't wish that away.  Regardless of how it had turned out, she still got shivers when she thought of that night.  Good shivers.  But suggesting that he attend the conference.  That had been really stupid.  She accepted a thick bundle of papers and brochures from the girl behind the table and turned towards the huge double doors leading into the auditorium. 

“À tout à l'heure, Meez Grogan.”

She looked back over her shoulder to see her new friend clipping his name tag to his finely-tailored lapel, the three seated girls gazing at him.  Christine smiled and kept walking.  Goodness, that was all she needed.

Inside, the enormous room was dimly lit and brimming with suits.  Rows of chairs filled the floor facing a temporary
podium, where a long table and
six chairs were set facing the audience.  The stage was illuminated from behind by a huge projected rectangle of blue light, welcoming the delegates in various languages.  Christine found a spare half-row, halfway down the room.  In a worryingly similar fashion to a school classroom, the majority of the back rows were already full, mostly with men, many of whom would undoubtedly use the two days seated in a dark room to catch up on some nap-time.  Christine put her bag on the chair next to her and looked around.  No sign of any familiar faces so far.  Sally from the London office was also to attend, but she had told Christine that she
might not
make the first day's talks.  A general sweep of the room revealed the anthropological demographic she would have expected.  Eighty percent men in suits, a smattering of bearded, hippie-types dressed like lumberjacks.  The women were almost all under the age of thirty, and standing or seated next to one of the older, suited men.  The few older women she could see were almost exclusively in ill-fitting skirt suits.  Christine crossed her legs and smoothed out the fabric of her new wool trousers she had bought herself at the weekend.

“Is this seat taken?”

She jumped and looked up to see Mark carefully lifting her bag and placing it on the floor at her feet.

“Oh, hi.”  She silently cursed herself for blushing.  “I'm sorry I missed your call earlier.  I was about to phone you.”

“That's okay,” Mark looked like he doubted her.  “I phoned from the cab on my way from the station.  I thought I wasn't going to make it, but the traffic was surprisingly light.”

“Great.  How was your flight?”

“Early,” he yawned.

She couldn't help it, she yawned too.  They regarded each other for a second, and laughed.
  Christine looked away first.  She really didn’t want to get into a heart-to-heart about –

“I have some good news,” he interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh?”

“Lucy.  She's going to be okay.”

Tears involuntarily sprang to Christine's eyes.

“
Shay
phoned me as I was boarding.  She came 'round late yesterday evening apparently, and spoke to them all.”  Mark nodded.  “It's great news.  She asked for her teddy, and a drink of milk.”

Christine closed her eyes in a silent thank you.

“
Shay
said that she slept well last night.  Well, for a few hours anyway.”

“I'm just so glad,” Christine said, wiping her eyes as discreetly as she could.  The person charged with chairing the conference started to speak from the podium.

“I know,” Mark whispered.  She could feel him looking at her, and she kept her eyes trained on the projected slides above the stage.  They sat listening to the speaker outlining the two-day event.  He then introduced a B-list politician to formally open the conference.  The man took his place behind the microphone and started speaking with a voice that had all the tonality of an expiring bluebottle.

Christine found she couldn't concentrate.  It was fairly inevitable that the conversation they, well she, h
ad successfully avoided having thus
far, would happen in the next twenty-four hours.  How could it not?  She could guess how the evening would go already.  They would go back to their rooms after the last talk, then they'd meet for a drink at the bar before the conference banquet.  They'd still be sober enough to keep their counsel at that stage, and there wouldn't be any opportunity of having a personal conversation at the dinner table seated next to eight or ten other delegates. 

But then there would be the awkward moments between the end of the meal and bedtime.  They'd both have had a few glasses of wine by then, and the chances of them not discussing New Year's Eve would be slim.  If she were honest with herself, she knew that they probably needed to talk things through.  Draw a line under it.  Clear the air, whatever.  She glanced at Mark as he listened intently to the man droning on from the stage.

What she mustn't do, is end up back in bed with him.  Even if it seemed like a good idea in twelve hours time.  She considered writing a note on her hand, a sober reminder of her current resolve for later on when all resolve would be forgotten.  But the idea of inking 'DON'T SLEEP WITH HIM AGAIN' on the back of her hand right now seemed a little ridiculous. 

“So what parts should I really pay attention to?”  Mark spoke in a low voice as the politician continued his rant.

Christine laughed.  “All of it, of course.”  She flicked through the itinerary.  “The talk on energy markets should be useful to you.”  She turned a page.  “And the talk on emissions trading tomorrow morning.  I know the guy giving that.  He's an analyst with CBR in New York.  He's a good speaker.”

The noise level in the room was beginning to rise as the politician warbled on, apparently oblivious. 

“So do you know many people here?”  Mark looked around.

“Not really,” Christine said.  “Sally will be here tomorrow.  There are usually a few analysts I recognise from attending other talks.  Sometimes you'd spot a college buddy or two.”  She looked up suddenly, and cast her eye around the room. 

“Know him?”  Mark covertly pointed to a man seated in the row in front of them.  Apart from the obviously expensive wax hat he held on his lap, his attire suggested that he had wandered in off the road having slept in a ditch the previous night.

Christine rolled her eyes.  “There are always a few tree huggers at these things,” she said quietly to him.  “I bet you fifty quid that someone is breast-feeding a baby somewhere in the room right at this moment.”

“No,” Mark looked behind him, his eyes wide.

“Oh, she'd be in the front row,” Christine laughed.  “Making her point.”

Mark smiled and crossed his arms.  “You lot take this environment stuff very seriously, I see.”

“You'd think,” Christine sighed, raising her voice to the level of the insincere applause that had broken out, signalling the end of the politician's speech.  “There's a lot of talk about climate change and peak oil, and then they still issue these single-use plastic badges,” she pointed at Mark's name tag, “and provide air-mile laden bottled water to the speakers.  A jug of tap water would be good enough for that last guy, I'd have thought.”

Mark looked amused.  “Too good for him,” he said.  “But don't knock the badges.  I'm collecting them in a shoebox under my bed.”  He looked down at his jacket pocket.  “This is only my third CEO one.  I'm quite proud of it.”

Christine looked at him and laughed.  But the mention of his bed made her a little uncomfortable, and she was glad when a man with a strong Scandinavian accent took to the podium, and the room hushed.  She sat back and listened as Sven Hendriksson spoke about leveraging value from low carbon investments, trying to ignore the tingling in her leg where Mark's knee was almost touching hers.

~

Mark wiped his hand across the mirror and rubbed his chin.  He should probably shave.  He hadn't done so since the previous evening after squash.  A memory of Jennifer telling him that she liked his stubble popped into his head uninvited.  It must be five years ago she had said it.  He had just come in from work, and she had told him he looked sexy, and they had ended up doing it on the couch.  He tried to see his reflection objectively in the mirror.  He decided against shaving.  Work-wise, he had no one he needed to impress this evening.  He didn't n
eed to be preened.  And maybe -

He walked away from the mirror to try and break his train of thought.  He did not want to go there in his head.  Christine had made herself brutally clear.  She was not interested.  He was fairly sure that she knew he and Jennifer were over.  She was just using Jennifer as an excuse to get away from him.  So, that was that.  He couldn't force her to love him.  And at least they were able to get on together, pretty much.  Today hadn’t been so awkward.  That was all he could ask for.  He would just have to hope that he could move on himself.  Get over her.  Mark dropped the towel from his waist and pulled on his boxer shorts.  He stood before the standard issue full length mirror stuck to the hotel bedroom wall.  He didn't look too bad.  He sucked in his stomach.  He should probably start running again.  It was asking a lot of his twice weekly squash game he conceded, especially now he was soon to be forty.  Christ, why had that number such significance?  He dressed, and splashed on some aftershave anyway.  Well, it couldn't hurt. 

~

The hotel bar was mobbed with conference attendees and other hotel guests, and yet his eyes fell on her within seconds of his walking thro
ugh the door.  She was standing
talking with an extremely good
looking, olive-skinned man whose
fitted trousers instantly identified him as Mediterranean – Italian maybe, or possibly Spanish.  Mark walked over tentatively, until it was clear to him that Christine was relieved to see him approaching.