I hand the remainder of Rory’s corn casserole and the Kit Kat pie back to him.
“Keep the pie,” he says. “It’s for you.”
“But don’t you want the pan back?”
“Give it to me next time. No big deal.”
I like that thought:next time.“I’ve never had anyone name a pie after me,” I say. “Or name anything after me, for that matter.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?”
“First time for everything,” I agree. And I surprise both of us by leaning up to kiss Rory’s cheek.
It’s not at all like the passionate make-out session I once fantasized about with Alexander. It’s just a G-rated peck, but it stirs something deeper. Because as unromantic as it sounds, the place where I feel the kiss is in my feet. They’re light and heavy at the same time. Light because I get the notion that if I kicked off the ground, I could stay suspended in the air for a while. And heavy because they feel firmly planted on the slanted floorboards of my flat. Like nothing can knock me over.
Rory seems as taken aback as I am.
“Sorry, I was just keeping with European tradition,” I say quickly, already wondering what came over me. “It’s good manners to kiss cheeks to say goodbye.” I feel myself reddening to the color of the pomegranate punch.
“Can’t mess with tradition,” Rory says. He doesn’t kiss me back, but he gives a homey kind of hug, which transports me away while also keeping me present in a very pleasant sort of way. “Thanks again for hosting,” he says as we break apart. “Cheerio then, as they say around here.”
I’ve never actually heard a real British person saycheerio, but I grin and go along with it. “Ta-ta for now.”
Rory heads out, down the rickety staircase of Marlow House and out the front door. Heading to the window, I watch as he waits at the bus stop. Once he boards a northbound bus, I close the curtains and take another forkful of Kit Kat pie, feeling more thankful than I have in a very long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Thanksgiving spirit doesn’t last long. It plummets the next week when Oliver pings me to see if I can swing by his office for a quick catch-up.
It’s either about the promotion or the Harold investigation, and my stomach is writhing with nerves as I take a seat in his office, facing out onto the monochrome gray and steel of Canary Wharf.
“Kat,” Oliver says, looking up from one of his three computer monitors. He swivels his chair toward me, but only halfway, almost like he doesn’t want to face me head-on. “You alright? Miserable commute this morning in the rain, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t too bad,” I say, resenting the canned small talk. It rains just about every day in London, so it’s really nothing to comment on. “What did you want to connect on?”
“Well, see here,” he says, and there’s a certain apprehension beneath his placid expression. “I’ve got some good news and some … decent news for you.”
My chest tightens as my stomach drops. It’s not difficult to intuit thatdecentis a euphemism forbad. “Let’s start with the bad news?” I suggest.
“Well now, I wouldn’t call itbad. But there’s no point talking around it, is there? Reckon the best thing is to just tell it to you straight.” Avoiding eye contact, he rushes out the next sentence. “You’re not getting promoted this year, Kat.”
The words slap my face like an ice storm as my lungs freeze over too.
I told myself I’d been prepared for this. That the odds of getting promoted weren’t great. That I’d be fine either way. But now I know just how much I wanted it. I know just how much I really did believe it was going to happen. That I’d done enough to prove I deserved it.
“I tried everything, I really did,” Oliver carries on. “But there just wasn’t the headcount this year …” He trails off, peeking cautiously at me as if worried that I might unleash a spate of anger—or worse, burst into tears.
But it’s not difficult to keep my composure. I feel dazed and deadened. “Does this have anything to do with Harold?” I ask.
“Not in the least,” he assures me. “Harold put in a good word for you, he did. It was on the Leo & Sons side. With the macro backdrop, purse strings are tight.”
It’s the lamest of all lame explanations. It’s like they hand out a script or something. I wonder if Harolddidactually put in a good word or if that’s just more fallacious fluff. “So what’s the good news?” I ask.
“Ah yes, the good news.” He looks relieved to move on. “Well, Turpi has extended our scope of work for three more months. Thecase will run through April now, given it’s more of a … nuanced situation … than we originally thought.”
Nuanced situationis a euphemism forshit show, as we both know.
“I’ll be stepping off for another case after Christmas,” Oliver says. “And I—we—would like you to lead it from here. It’ll be a brilliant opportunity to demonstrate you’re already operating at the partner level. You’ll be a shoo-in for the promotion next year, not to mention you’ll have your pick of cases to work on when you’re done. Dubai, Sydney—you name it.” He flashes a rare smile, like I should be wringing his hand with gratitude. “You hear what I’m saying?”
