Flawless (54 page)

But other forces were at work too. Living with her parents, a lifeline when she’d first split with Danny, had rapidly turned into an unhealthy situation. While she lived under their roof, they felt entirely free to bombard her with unwanted advice, about the
baby, Danny, her divorce, everything. The ceaseless background noise of criticism was making it very hard to maintain the Zen-like inner peace that her unborn child apparently needed if it wasn’t to run amok with a machine gun in the high school cafeteria the moment it turned thirteen.

When Brogan first suggested she move back in to the marital apartment, Diana rejected the idea out of hand. Their divorce might be on perma-hold, but the truth was she was still in love with Danny. She needed time to grieve for that relationship before she could even think of beginning another. As for going back to Brogan, every shred of logic and reason that had survived the onslaught of her pregnancy hormones argued against it. She’d been unhappy with him for so many years, quite apart from the issue of his violent, unpredictable temper. Their marriage, as it had been, was no environment in which to raise a child, whatever lingering affection she might feel for him now that he was sick.

And then of course there was the cancer itself. The operation to remove his primary tumor had been successful, and since then the army of specialists caring for him had declared his response to chemo to be “satisfactory to good,” whatever that meant. Brogan still referred to himself in conversation as “dying,” but whether that was the reality or a cynical attempt to maintain her sympathy levels and attention, Diana didn’t know.

What she
did
know was that his need for her, emotionally, was real. Unlike Danny, Brogan bombarded her with calls, sometimes as often as fifteen times a day. His solicitousness for her health and happiness bordered on the obsessive—it was almost as if he needed to focus on her to distract himself from his illness and to keep his spirits up, something the doctors had told her could be vital for his recovery. On a more practical level, with Brogan hospitalized four weeks out of five (every four weeks he had a break from chemo to recuperate and regain some strength), she would have the apartment almost entirely to herself. In the end the lure of regaining her privacy and getting away from her
parents proved too much. She’d accepted his offer and moved back in.

So far, despite her misgivings, she had to admit the arrangement had worked out well. Brogan was once again picking up all her bills, quietly making sure she was taken care of. She visited him daily in the hospital, visits that he let her know meant everything to him, although he was careful not to push her on the subject of their getting back together. There’d be time enough for that once he was well—whatever he might say to Diana, in his own mind Brogan never doubted his recovery—and after the baby was born. For now, he was happy to have her home again and, though she might not have realized yet, back under his control.

“You can pull over here,” she told the cabbie as they approached Minx, the new, hot Asian restaurant in the West Village. Released from hospital this morning, Brogan had insisted he was well enough to eat out and arranged to meet Diana for dinner. He carefully hadn’t termed it a date, although clearly that was what he believed it to be. In a masterstroke of tact he had even checked himself into The Plaza for the week with his nurse instead of coming home to the apartment, because he “wouldn’t want to invade Diana’s space.”

Diana was duly impressed. Putting others’ needs before his own was certainly something only the “new” Brogan would do. He kept telling her that the cancer had changed him, but it was actions like this that spoke so much louder than words.

Winching herself out of the taxi—she was only six months along but already felt comically huge and ungainly—she paid the driver and, with a smile at the windswept doorman, hurried inside the warm restaurant.

“Do you have a reservation? Name?” The frazzled Asian hostess barked at her crossly. In a crotch-skimming minidress and silver go-go boots, the girl looked like she’d just walked off
the set of an Austin Powers movie. Diana felt fatter and frumpier than ever.

“I’m meeting a friend,” she said. “His name is O’Donnell.”

Immediately the girl replaced her scowl with a smile as broad as it was fake.

“Of course,” she beamed. “Welcome to Minx, Mrs. O’Donnell. If you’d like to follow me, your husband’s already at the table.”

“How the hell do you do it?” Brogan, with the aid of a cane, got to his feet as Diana approached his corner table, the best in the house. “Six months pregnant and you’re the most beautiful girl in here by a country mile.”

“Those drugs must have affected your eyesight.” She smiled, kissing him gently on the cheek as she took her seat. It was an effort to hide her shock at his appearance. She’d seen him every day in the hospital, but somehow out in the real world, in a suit rather than a medical gown, his bald head, taut, green-gray skin, and wasted frame looked a thousand times more pronounced. “I’m a whale.”

“You’re a goddess,” he insisted. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Cranberry juice, please. And let’s order food right away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” laughed Brogan. “Never come between a pregnant lady and a meal, right?”

It was bizarre, sitting down to dinner together at a swanky restaurant. As if the last two years—Danny, the baby, the cancer, the divorce—had never happened. But the atmosphere was buzzing, the food ambrosial, and to Diana’s surprise she soon found herself relaxing and even, dare she say it, enjoying herself.

“I hope it wasn’t too much for you,” said Brogan, his voice full of concern as she stifled a yawn. “Coming out so late.”

“Hey, I’m only pregnant,” she joked. “You’re the one with cancer. I’m sure the doctors said you were meant to be resting this week.”

“They said ‘relaxing,’” said Brogan. “This is relaxing. I do have to catch up on a little work later, though. Once you’re safely tucked up in bed.”

“Work?” Diana raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Darling, you know me. If I can’t work, I might as well be dead,” he said cheerfully. “Aidan’s meeting me here at eleven for a drink and to run through some stuff. It shouldn’t take long.”

Diana wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Aidan Leach? You still use that guy?”

“He’s a great lawyer.”

“He makes my flesh crawl,” she said, shuddering to emphasize the point.

“He makes a lot of people’s flesh crawl,” said Brogan. “That’s part of what makes him a good lawyer. He’s been very loyal to me.”

“I’m not sure it’s loyalty if you have to pay for it,” said Diana bluntly. “I wish you’d get rid of him.”

Brogan looked at her quizzically. “Really? I’m surprised you care.”

Realizing she’d given something away, Diana blushed and tried to backtrack.

“It’s not…I mean, it’s your life and your business. I don’t like him, that’s all I’m saying. I never have.”

But it was too late. Brogan was already wrapping up her flash of concern in silk, like a spider stashing away its paralyzed prey for a future meal. It was tiny moments like these—admissions of a continued involvement in his life—that sustained him through not only the chemo, but the slings and arrows being fired at him from all sides professionally.

He’d listened to Scarlett’s NPR program from his hospital bed, eaten alive by rage. How dare they broadcast such a biased, bullshit piece of propaganda? This was one of many items on the agenda for his meeting with Aidan later. Brogan might be down,
but any enemies unwise enough to consider him “out” were about to receive a rude wake-up call.

Diana had also heard the show. Moved to tears by some of the miners’ stories, she’d begged Brogan to intervene, something he’d promised solemnly to do.

“Believe me, honey, I felt terrible too when I heard those interviews,” he said. And it was true, he
had
felt terrible. Just for very different reasons. “I intend to take urgent action, sweetheart. You can depend on that.”

Diana had taken this as another sign of his improved, reformed character. Struck down with a serious illness himself, he could at last begin to appreciate what those poor, desperate men were going through.

Suddenly shattered, Diana waved away the dessert menu and asked the waiter for their check.

“Don’t be silly,” said Brogan, as she reached beneath the table for her purse. “The day I let a woman split the check is the day they carry me off in a wooden box.”

“OK,” she said reluctantly. “Well, thank you.”

“Not at all,” said Brogan gallantly, getting up to help her out of her seat. He was so weak it was an effort to pull back the chair, but he managed it, handing her her shawl as he bid her good night.

On the way out, she ran into Aidan, straightening his tie anxiously on the street outside.

“Diana.” He pressed his sweaty cheek against hers. “Long time no see. How are you? How was dinner? Great place, no?”

“Dinner was fine,” she answered frostily.

“So I hear you moved back in. Things didn’t work out with Danny Meyer, huh?”

Every word was laced with spite. Diana could feel her upper lip curl with revulsion.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said curtly.

“Hey, look, I wasn’t being funny,” said Aidan, feigning innocence. “I’m just happy to see you and Mr. O’D are working things out. He’s always loved you, you know.”

“For your information, Brogan and I are friends—nothing more. I’d appreciate it if you kept your misinformed comments about my private life to yourself.”

Aidan waited until she’d hailed a cab and sped away before muttering, “Stuck-up bitch,” to her retreating taillights. Brogan must be out of his mind to want her back. Who took a fat, middle-aged, holier-than-thou cow, six months gone with another man’s kid, over the stream of nubile hotties offering themselves up on a plate at Premiere?

Aidan had other reasons not to want Diana and Brogan to patch things up, not least the fact that she clearly loathed him and could easily undo the close working and personal relationship with Brogan he’d tried so hard to build this past year. Finally, after years of loyal service, his boss was starting to show him the respect he deserved. Cozy dinners with Diana did not bode well for that. He’d have to figure out a way to make himself completely indispensable before she sank her claws into Brogan any deeper.

“Hi, boss.” Marching purposefully over to Brogan’s table, he sat down and ordered himself a dirty martini and a sashimi salad before getting down to business. “I ran into Diana outside. I hope I didn’t offend her.”

“So do I,” said Brogan, frowning deeply. “What the fuck did you say?”

“Nothing!” Aidan looked hurt. “Jesus. I asked her if she’d enjoyed her dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I don’t know what it is. I’ve always had the feeling she doesn’t like me, that’s all.”

“Sure she likes you,” lied Brogan. “Stop being so paranoid. So, tell me. Where are we?”

“With what? Where d’you want me to start?”

“Yakutsk. That fucking radio show. What’s the latest?”

“It’s all in hand,” said Aidan smoothly.

“Meaning?”

“I’m dealing with the little Scottish piece of shit who wrote it—ask me no questions and all that. And I’m working with Fleishman-Hillard here and Freud’s in London to try and limit the negative press.”

“Has there been much?” said Brogan. He still got all the major international papers delivered to his hospital bed every morning, but recently he’d been too weak to read more than a fraction of the business pages.

“Some,” said Aidan. “It aired on BBC Radio Four in the UK, and on the World Service, which was unfortunate. But Matthew Freud’s been quick to play the ‘heartless media kicking a sick man when he’s down’ card. And Fleishman-Hillard got a great quote in the
Wall Street Journal
, about the allegations being completely unfounded, with not a shred of medical evidence to link these cancer cases to conditions in our mines.”

“I should think so. There
isn’t
a shred of evidence,” said Brogan, coughing heavily into his napkin.

“As many people responded negatively toward the BBC and Trade Fair as have taken a pop at us,” said Aidan, hoping to calm him down. He wasn’t well enough to get mad about this shit. “On the other hand, it
has
raised awareness. Sooner or later we’re going to have to be seen to be doing something to address the problems over there.”

“Hmm,” Brogan grunted. “As it happens I’ve already got something in mind. And what about the Drummond Murray girl? I’ll be honest with you, Aidan, that kid is starting to seriously irritate me. She doesn’t know when to quit.”

“We have to be careful about going after her directly,” said Aidan. “There were rumors after we took care of things in
London, which we don’t want to stir up again. Plus, now she’s closely linked with the Meyer brothers, who everyone knows aren’t top of your Christmas card list, as well as making herself the voice of fucking Siberia. Much as I’d love to run her off the road or have Fleishman-Hillard start a whispering campaign, it’d be too easy to trace that shit back to us.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Brogan. “We let her get away with it?”

“Come on, boss,” Aidan frowned, “this is me you’re talking to. Of course she doesn’t get away with it. We have to play things a little smarter, that’s all. Come at this laterally.”

Brogan looked unconvinced. “You have something in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Aidan’s face brightened. “A little tidbit for the British papers. Take a look.”

Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out four black-and-white photographs and pushed them across the table.

“Jesus,” Brogan whistled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I just ate, man.”

“I know,” Aidan chuckled. “Pretty hard core, aren’t they?”

“Who is it?” asked Brogan.

“Cameron Drummond Murray,” Aidan replied. “Scarlett’s brother, and heir to the family estate. He works at Goldman in London.”

A malicious smile spread across Brogan’s face. “Not for much longer he doesn’t.”