Christmas in the Snow Read online

  She watched him go.

  Nurse Barry, an unlikely hero, but the only one they had.

  Chapter Ten

  Day Twelve: Tin Trumpet

  Cinzia was already sitting outside her office when she walked in, Kirsty jumping up as Allegra shrugged off her coat and swapped it for the bunch of messages on Post-its in Kirsty’s hands. The DNA test hadn’t taken long, but even an hour out of her schedule created a logjam.

  ‘Hi, Cinzia. Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Her eyebrow arched with satisfaction as she saw how many of the messages were from Sam Kemp. He wasn’t the only one who could conduct meetings in secret and she had spent most of the day holed up in the Mayfair office with Bob, revising and redrafting their investment strategy into something a lot bolder. Garrard’s name hadn’t come into the discussions once. She wouldn’t stoop to his level.

  ‘And this is the report you were waiting for,’ Kirsty said quietly, handing over a thick file of trades. Allegra glanced at it: Kemp’s work for the Leo Besakovitch pot.

  ‘Great, thanks. Just some coffees, please, and then you can head off.’

  Kirsty nodded gratefully. It was only 6.30 p.m., but the Christmas benefit was the company’s biggest event of the year and everyone – even cool-headed, sensible girls like her PA – liked to have proper time to get ready. ‘Uh, you should know Mr Kemp’s been very anxious to get hold of you this afternoon, Miss Fisher.’

  Allegra glanced at her unflappable PA; she understood Kirsty’s understatement well enough to know that meant he’d been hitting the roof. ‘I see that,’ was all Allegra murmured, with a cool smile, as she strode into her office, dropping the Post-its into the waste-paper basket as she passed. ‘Come in, Cinzia,’ she said, noting with a small stab of alarm that her personal shopper had only a single bag hanging over her arm, and one large carrier.

  Allegra walked to the desk, throwing her report file behind her desk and quickly bringing up the Dow Jones, FTSE and her emails on the trio of large screens, even though she’d been replying to others in the taxi from Duke Street.

  She looked up, a businesslike smile on her face. ‘So, what have you got for me?’

  Cinzia unzipped the hanging bag. ‘Give this a chance.’

  Allegra straightened up, already cautious. Any dress that came with a warning . . .

  Cinzia pulled a long, strapless, black guipure lace dress from the bag. Allegra’s eyes slid from it to Cinzia. ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘That’s all I had for your brief. I’m sorry. We had an unexpected visit from the Qatari royal family. Our stock was almost cleared out in a day and I had to hide this, as it was. The only other thing I had that was remotely suitable in your size was a gold mesh thigh-high.’

  Allegra pulled a horrified face and walked over to the sofa. Her hand reached out for the fabric.

  ‘I’m sorry, Allegra. I know you think lace isn’t appropriate for business functions, but it’s long and the cut is modest by contrast. Plus I think the shape will really work for you.’

  Kirsty came in with the coffees, her eyes widening with surprise as she saw the dress in Cinzia’s hands. ‘Mmmm,’ Allegra said, echoing her thoughts. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Trust me. Just try it on.’

  Allegra took a sip of the coffee, feeling her shoulders drop from her ears a little as the warmth revived her tired body. ‘Well, I guess I’d better,’ Allegra said, walking towards the private bathroom.

  She shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, bitterly wishing she could, for once, go home to curl up on the sofa. Last night’s disastrous visit to her mother had left her unable to sleep again, and after a day of number-crunching – and the Yongs still infuriatingly uncontactable – the thought of pushing her feet into a pair of heels was almost more than she could bear.

  She slipped out of her suit and stepped into the dress. It almost stood on its own thanks to the boning that ran down the front and side seams, and she had to inch it up slowly over even her lean hips. She pulled it up over her bust, tipping her head admiringly as she saw the scoop of the neckline, which somehow managed to plunge from under her arms without creating acres of cleavage. It was lined with a champagne silk lace that gave the appearance of nudity beneath – she would have preferred black, but on the plus side, at least it wasn’t red.

  She bobbed her hair lightly with her hands, annoyed that she had let the day run away from her, but there wasn’t time to get it done now – the party started in under an hour, and she still had her make-up to do. She opened the door and walked back into the office.

  Cinzia’s face broke into a delighted smile as she saw her client. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Well, it fits, at least. Just. Can you zip me in?’

  She held the sides of the dress together at the back, elbows out, as Cinzia walked round her, checking the fit.

  ‘You look incredible,’ Cinzia said, beginning to inch up the zip.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Allegra bit her lip, staring at the clock on the wall and wondering whether she could get back to her flat, change and over to the party in time. What did she have in her wardrobe that would work for tonight? ‘I think it’s too . . . much for a work event.’ It was the kind of dress models wore to red-carpet events. How was this going to go down at a party in the finance sector?

  ‘Just because you work in a man’s world doesn’t mean you need to look like—’

  The door burst open and both women looked up in astonishment.

  Sam Kemp was standing in the middle of the room, fury in his eyes. ‘Where the hell were y—’ His voice cut out like a shorted fuse as he took in the sight of her, half dressed, overdressed by the sofa. ‘Kirsty’s not at her desk,’ he said, as if by way of explanation for arriving unannounced.

  Allegra jerked her chin in the air, mortified to have been caught like this – as if she was ‘dressing up’ like all the women huddled into the loos. ‘What do you want?’ She hadn’t seen him since their spat on the executive floor, when Pierre had pitted them against each other in the clearest of terms, and she scanned his face for signs that he had edged ahead of her, leveraged his contact as required to get that signature on the dotted line. Because if that happened . . .

  ‘Where the fuck were you in the ex co meeting?’

  ‘What?’ Allegra’s blood ran cold. ‘What are you talking about? I postponed it. It’s been rearranged for Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘No. It just happened. And I’ve just sat through a grilling from Pierre and Crivelli with absolutely no numbers support. Is that your idea of . . . what? A joke? One-upmanship?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m ridiculous? We’re supposed to be working this thing together. Instead, you’re keeping me out of the loop, not cc-ing me on the reports, and if I come by here, you’re in fucking off-site meetings that I’ve been told nothing about.’

  ‘Ha! You want to talk about meetings happening without your knowledge? What about you and Zhou hooking up in New York and God knows how many other times? Don’t think I don’t know that it’s you telling him to get his office to blank my calls.’

  Sam stared back at her, shaking his head disgustedly. ‘I’ve never made any secret of my friendship with Zhou; I’ve got Pierre’s express instruction to use it to our advantage. But you . . . playing cat and mouse and then throwing me to the sharks like that—’

  ‘I did no such thing,’ she said angrily, pulling away from Cinzia, the dress still unzipped and gaping at the back as she clamped her elbows to her waist to keep it up and strode over to her desk. Sam followed after as she entered her passcode and brought up her diary on the screen. ‘See? I clearly . . .’ Her voice faded away. She clearly hadn’t. She’d been so focused on moving the numbers, on finding new growth as she pushed through the long night hours, that it had completely slipped her mind to actually get Kirsty to rearrange the meeting at which she would present them. ‘Oh shit.’

  She turned back to Sam, the whites of her eyes clearly visible as she
immediately took in the ramifications of her oversight.

  He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘You think I’m buying this act? You think you’re going to convince me it was accidental? We may not have to like each other, Fisher, and I sure as hell don’t know what your problem is, but if you want a war, you’ve got one. I don’t give a shit if you get thrown out on your ass, but keep up your games and we’re both going to get fired. Pierre’s on the fucking warpath. He wants your head on a plate, and after the stunt you pulled today, I’ll goddam serve you up to him myself.’ He marched back to the door, his eyes flicking up and down her lightly. ‘And don’t think looking like that’s going to save you.’

  Allegra stared at the door as it slammed shut behind him, feeling light-headed. Several minutes passed in stunned silence before she remembered Cinzia standing there, discreet and silent as a maid. She smiled wanly. ‘Sorry about that, Cinzia . . . Uh, it’s been a tough day.’

  ‘I see that,’ Cinzia replied in a low voice, watching her with quiet concern. ‘You’re sure you have to go to this thing tonight?’

  Allegra shook her head, staring up at the ceiling to ward away the first tears threatening to prickle her eyes. ‘Trust me – if I thought there was any way to get out of it . . .’

  ‘He was tough on you.’

  Allegra shrugged. ‘I dropped him in it with the executive committee. I’d be livid too if the tables were turned.’

  ‘But anyone can make a mistake.’

  ‘Not me. Not here. My head is constantly above the parapet. There’s no margin for error.’

  ‘You mean because you are a woman?’

  Their eyes met. ‘That’s how it is. I’m visible at all times.’

  Cinzia looked down at the dress, frowning as she took in its dramatic silhouette. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I’ve let you down.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, that dress . . .’ Cinzia gestured one forlorn hand at her. ‘It may as well come with its own spotlight.’

  The company had gone to town this year, taking over the penthouse of the Gherkin, and she had been able to see the pink lights through the latticed glass as far away as Whitechapel in her taxi. Stepping out of the lift, she half wondered whether she needed a passport – or at least a heavier coat: tons of landscaped fake snow and a herd of reindeer harnessed to a sleigh were arranged in the entrance as the warm-up act.

  In the cloakrooms, she didn’t want to shrug off the black velvet coat that had kept the statement dress a well-hidden secret up till now and she kept it on as she touched up her make-up; but she couldn’t stay swaddled and hidden forever. She shivered slightly as her bare skin came into contact with the cooler temperature, quelling the burst of panic that shot through her as she took in the mathematical proportions of her own hip-to-waist ratio – courtesy of the dress’s firm but lightweight boning – and the paleness of her skin against the heavy black lace. But the coat had to stay off and she had to go out there.

  With a toss of her head, she walked out into the crowds and for a moment, as she felt herself swallowed up, wondered whether she’d been blowing the problem out of proportion. Why should anyone even notice her? Hemlines were up, cleavages were out, skin was orange, and eyes were on stalks, a light, flirty atmosphere pervading the room in readiness for the night’s later promises. Last year’s party had led to a pregnancy, a long-term, not-so-discreet affair and one marriage break-up. (She’d got a promotion on the back of impressing Pierre over dinner with her views on euro-zone monetary-policy makers being behind the curve on deflation.) The vodka luge – this year carved as an Alpine downhill race jump – stood menacingly at the bar. As the cause of most of the carnage, it had a lot to answer for.

  Moving slowly through the throng, she noticed a crowd was gathered around a tall man in a dandy coat with Byronic hair who had a way with scissors. Allegra walked slowly past, staring with rare interest as he snipped quickly at a sheet of black paper in his hands, his eyes all the while on Vicky from accounts as he traced her profile – face and hair – into a perfect miniature cameo.

  She went up to the bar and ordered a cucumber martini. It never bothered her, walking into a room alone; she had done it hundreds of times and refused to think that sanctuary lay in another person. This dress, though . . . She sensed, though couldn’t quite catch, the stares coming her way. Not that she needed to. She was senior in rank to every male in the room bar five – Pierre, his CFO, his CEO, his soon-to-retire COO and Sam Kemp – and she knew none of the other eighty or so would be foolish enough to think that the Christmas party was a warrant to make a pass.

  The bartender handed her the drink – made to perfection – and she walked towards the glittering view pressed up against the windows. London looked bedecked in diamonds, the Thames a ribbon of silk rippling behind the buildings at their feet. She pressed a hand to the cold glass, staring down into the anonymity of the city night, as she always did at the office. Same view, different angle. Same woman, different dress.

  She ran the pads of her fingers over her thumb before smoothing a hand over her hip, ironing out wrinkles that weren’t there, and she realized that – for once – she was nervous standing here alone. She didn’t feel as invincible as usual. The repeated loss of her mother was rubbing her emotions raw, and with today’s cock-up visible on everyone’s radar, she needed someone to hide behind. She actually wished she’d brought a date. She never bothered with them since Philip had got in the way at an event a few years back, wanting to talk to her about a winter-sun trip to Mauritius instead of allowing her to talk to the then head of futures. It was precisely because of the plus-ones thinking they were there on a date that made her prefer going on her own. But Iz would have bolstered her spirits, sparked her courage like she always did. Then again, the thought of exposing her sister to the brutality of the industry she operated in . . . Allegra shook her head and took a sip of her drink.

  It was a moment before she detected the heat, the buzz, around her, the quiet, quick snipping as tiny triangles of jet paper fluttered by her feet like black butterflies.

  She looked back, but the scissoring artist stopped her with the slightest shake of his head. She couldn’t change angle.

  ‘I don’t want my cameo done, thank you,’ she said quietly – although not moving out of respect.

  ‘Nearly done,’ he replied, his eyes never leaving her, his fingers never hesitating. She felt as drawn by his mere scrutiny as if he’d laid her on a sheet and traced round her with a felt-tip. He was bringing attention onto her for all the wrong reasons and Allegra’s eyes flicked warily over the faces watching her, all of them intrigued by the sight of her bare shoulders, her feminine silhouette in the hourglass dress . . . The scissor man didn’t know she was the most senior-ranking woman in the room, one deal away from making the board. She was just another woman in a pretty dress to him, and she hated it. Without even trying to, he had made her feel lost and disempowered. She could be the keynote speaker at a conference of 500 CEOs, but to have the office juniors looking at her, appraising her as a woman . . .

  ‘That’s enough,’ she said, breaking the hold suddenly, at the exact moment he said: ‘There.’

  He smiled and held out the mini masterpiece – for it was exquisite – a four-inch rendering of her entire silhouette, not just her profile, and she saw with private eyes that he had caught the tiny bump at the bridge of her nose, the small kick of her hair that showed she should have had it done tonight, the ‘noggins’ at her wrist that she’d inherited from her father. He hadn’t missed a thing and she briskly nodded her thanks, wondering what else he could see.

  She moved off into the crowd again, knowing she needed to get involved, to start making small talk, but it was always a trial for her if a party wasn’t about networking or winning deals. Socializing, connecting on a more personal level left her mute and she didn’t need a psychoanalyst to explain why that was.

  Across the room, she saw Pierre talking to the Collateral Management team,
one hand resting lightly on Pasha’s hip.

  Allegra turned away, knowing the crowd she instinctively chose to stand apart from would be her only protection tonight – until dinner at least; there’d be no escape then. Her eyes met those of Kevin Lam, a quantitative analyst, and she saw the ambition light up in his face as he realized this was his moment to make an impression.

  A waiter stopped in front of her, seeing her glass was empty. ‘Another martini, Miss Fisher?’

  Allegra nodded. ‘And get rid of this, will you, please?’ she asked, sliding her miniature cameo onto the tray, just as Lam’s polished shoes stepped into her peripheral vision.

  ‘Of course.’

  The waiter headed for the bar as Allegra steeled herself for Lam’s assault. She was used to the quants trying to outdo her with their ‘mathletics’, but it was the syrupy conversation that accompanied it that really sapped her spirit. She didn’t notice the waiter stop by two of the only men in the room in bespoke dinner suits, his head inclined as one of them placed an order. Nor did she see the other reach out his arm and discreetly lift the cameo off the tray, sliding it into his inner jacket pocket like it was a business card he intended to keep.

  Chapter Eleven

  The master of ceremonies had already announced dinner and most people were gathered round the tables, holding on to the backs of chairs as they talked with the animation that immediately preceded full-blown drunkenness. Allegra hadn’t moved in over an hour from her shadowy spot by the bar. She and Lam had decamped there after they mutually decided the waiters weren’t refreshing their drinks often enough, but in truth, she felt safer there. Bob, the only person in the building she remotely counted as a personal acquaintance and actively wanted to speak to, was standing too conspicuously on the dance floor, which was already flashing pink, red and blue squares. Several times she had seen Pierre scouting the room, and while she couldn’t be sure he was looking for her, per se, Kemp’s words earlier had left her with a bad feeling even five martinis couldn’t shift.