Sleepless Nights Read Online Free Page B

vacation to really think through the next step.”
    “I don’t want to push Luis too hard, he’s still talking about trying to get them to revisit the partner decision,” Tom fretted; and then, in response to a lift of my eyebrows, “Yeah, I know. Not realistic. But look, there’s my professional reputation at stake, Q. Skipping off for two weeks just isn’t done.”
    “People know you in town, Tom, it’s not as if you don’t have friends and associates in other firms,” I said reasonably. “Paul himself, for example. He might be willing to put in a word for you at Prince, or another Wall Street firm for that matter. Not everyone’s tanking—people say Mahon and Mackey are actually recruiting; and with your skills—well. You don’t need to impress Crimpson anymore. In fact, I think you should view their decision not to promote you as sortof liberating. Otherwise you’d never have risked jumping ship. The stress of being at Crimpson, especially in these circumstances, is really wearing you down, Tom. I can see it in your face. I want to get you out of there. At least for a few weeks.”
    My husband pulled away, sat on the window seat, and looked out into the evening. The sun was spreading its last colors across the millions of windows outside our own, a sea of orange fire engulfing the office buildings of Manhattan. Samuel sneezed in his sleep.
    “We can start again, Tom,” I pressed, coming to stand in front of him.
    “You were playing me last night,” Tom remarked, shaking his head at me, but the corners of his wide mouth were soft, his eyes gentle. “I see it all now. Trying to get on my good side. I thought it was too good to be true. ‘You’re so expert at mothering, Lucille, can you show me that burping position again?’ ‘Peter, tell me more about minimally invasive coronary bypass procedures.’ Very subtle.”
    I sat beside him. “I want a vacation with you.” I took his hand in mine. “And Jeanie—”
    “You know she’s going to want wall-to-wall cocktails and parties and stretch limousines when she gets here, that’s why she’s coming out to New York.”
    “Leave Jeanie to me, I can persuade her. And she’s not really like that, you know,” I murmured reproachfully. Samuel stirred again, and opened his mouth in a cat’s yawn; this time, after a second or two, he whimpered and opened his sleep-darkened eyes. I glanced at the clock; it was time for a feed. I picked him up and curved him into the crook of my arm, lifted my T-shirt, and spilled myself into his tiny, insistent mouth. We listened to his gentle suck-swallow, suck-swallow as the window square blackened and the stars appeared to prick out the sky.
    “Okay,” Tom said slowly, at last. “You win. I’ll phone Paul tomorrow.”
    4
    Jeanie
    I Love New York” (Madonna). “I Feel Safe in New York” (AC/DC). “Summer in the City” (The Lovin’ Spoonful). “Skylines and Turnstiles” (My Chemical Romance).
    My iPod was brimming with New York-themed music. Before leaving London I spent two days downloading songs and even the occasional album to get myself in the mood, although I hadn’t quite gotten around to organizing it all. I’d start nodding off to Paul Simon then get woken up by Busta Rhymes. It was a little bit disorienting.
    I’ve always loved flying. I love the adrenaline rush as the jet speeds down the runway. I love the little dinky dinners in square white boxes. I love sipping gin-and-tonics at eleven in the morning while watching movies of scenically catastrophic destruction. Not that flying is without its downsides, of course: I don’t like tucking my knees into my belly button (a necessary feat if someone belonging to the human race is to fit into an economy class seat), and I don’t enjoy being told off by gaunt ladies with ugly hats. But there’s always the pleasure of needling the ugly ladies through mild acts of rebellion, e.g., reading a magazine four and a half seconds after being asked to put