“Of course she does. But I’m not wrong, am I?”
I don’t know why I bother engaging in staredowns withNefeli Laskaris. I’ve never won, not once. I take an audible, long-suffering breath through my nose. “That has no bearing on whether I get my job back.” Seized by a sudden worry that itmight, I rather timidly add, “Does it?”
She taps her keyboard and shouts at herARJassistant, Rhys, “Tea, darling! Why am I staring at this empty cup like a beggar?” Directing her focus back at me, she says, “You’re not going to work here, Alekos.”
I straighten in my chair. “Why not? Because of Sage?”
“No. I have something better for you—not that you deserve it. The more fool me. I coddle you indecently.” She shoves her empty teacup to the edge of her desk. “And it’s nothing to do with Sage Sikora. Christ, I’m just relieved to hear you haven’t entangled yourself romantically with that stick-insect American who writes the sport-mum blog.Eeuugghh, the woman is so—”
“Steady on,” I interject. “The… do you mean CJ Ardley? Why on earth would you think I was involved with her?”
“Oh, stop it this instant—you with the same manufactured indignation you’d wear when ‘falsely accused’ of stealing biscuits from the kitchen as a child. A hustler from the cradle.” She chuckles in a disparaging way. “Murmurs got back to me the night of the publishing gala. Youcanoodlingwith that classless mare.”
Rhys enters, setting down a fresh cup of tea and whisking away the empty. He gives me a sympathetic nod as he passes. I’m hardly well liked around the office, but working so closely with my mother, Rhys knows how trying she can be. The door closes quietly behind him, and I renew my refutation.
“Ms. Ardley cornered me for a bit of conversation,” I insist, “but it went no further.”
“Relieved to hear it, love.” She picks up her tea and sips, shooting a sly look at me over the golden rim of Spode Stafford White. “At any rate, the editor of the jazz section ofCaterwaulis retiring this summer, and… well, frankly it can’t happen soon enough. He’s an old bore, and the section is dull as ditchwater. I’d like you to step in, shake things up.”
I’m honestly surprised. I made my pitch to work for one of our music magazines a decade ago but got stuck withARJ. “Me?” I manage.
“Your heart was never in racing. I said as much to Kon years back, but your father has his own mind about things.” She pulls a wry face. “He saw music as rather soft—despite having been the one who was militant about your piano lessons—and hoped to point you at something… hmm,grittier, in adulthood?” She sits back. “So. Enjoy a few more months of being a skiver. Provided you don’t disgrace yourself again, you’re gainfully employed in August. Does that suit?”
“Yes! I’m chuffed. Great news.”
A chirp from Mother’s laptop draws her attention, and she taps at the keyboard. “I need to take that call. Why don’t you poke around in the back issues ofCaterwauland send me a report about what’s shit in the jazz section? End of the month?”
“Good as done.” I stand and button my jacket.
“Lovely.” She skewers me with a look over the tops of her glasses. “As to the issue with Sage, at least now we’ll avoid a libel suit—however you achieved it.”
“Erm, glad to have been of service.” I take a step toward the door.
“Not to be one of those tedious old marrieds who mustoffer ‘wisdom,’ but if you care for the girl… do work on this one a bit. You two might be a good match. She’s fierce. She doesn’t bloody need you, and that’s exactly whatyouneed.” Before I can muster a reply, she taps open her call and starts chattering in Italian.
As I leave theARJoffices and head downstairs, I’m overtaken by anxiety. It’s as if my mother saying all this somehow increases the chances of a miserable irony wherein I get my hopes up and Sage has already moved on.
I pull my mobile out in the lift and stare at it, wondering what message I could send her that would sound suitably casual. I keep staring as I wander through the lobby, nearly colliding with a tall ginger beauty who glares silently at my apology in such a way that I have to assume I slept with her at some point, and things didn’t end well.
After getting into my car, I spend another minute strategizing a message, finally typing,I’ve landed on my feet—new job starting in August. Thank you for not suing me. Am I approved to see you in Ravenna?
I’m gratified to note that she’s activated read receipts for our texts—not the case before. TheRead 14:13pops up immediately, and I cautiously smile, both eagerly anticipating and dreading her response, which could be a brush-off.
After what feels like an eternity of studying three blinking dots, a reply:
Salvia officinalis:You’re approved for more than seeing me, honeybee. Ci vediamo in Italia.
18
RAVENNA, ITALY
ONE WEEK LATER
ALEXANDER
The last time I eagerly anticipated the sound of an arriving car was when I was ten years old, the year the Xbox was released. My father had gone to America for a business trip and couldn’t be home for Christmas, and to make up for it, he was bringing home an Xbox. It was newly available in the States, but not slated to make it over here for several more months.
I spent that rainy day in a fever of anticipation, prowling back and forth to the windows looking out on the drive leading up to our big house on the hill, my ear trained for his Lamborghini Diablo (he was “in the throes of a midlife crisis” at the time, as my mother put it).
