How hard could it be, investment banking? As far as she could figure, they took people's money, and when it didn't look like things were going to work out, they dumped the poor sods in the shit. Dom could do that in a heartbeat.
Her steps slowed as she neared the end of Cheyne Walk. What exactly would she say to him? That she'd had it? That she should have gone home with the lovely guy from the club last night? That she should go out with Giles, the anorak from work who fancied her like mad? (She tried to ignore the little voice that said she didn't fancy Giles at all, no matter how hard she'd tried.) That Dominic Scott was going to ruin her life, and her career, if she didn't put a stop to it?
Kristin rang the bell at Dominic's house, heard it chime musically. Suddenly she felt queasy and almost turned away, but the door swung open.
It wasn't Dom. Ellen Miller-Scott stared at her, one perfect eyebrow raised quizzically. She wore designer yoga gear in pale gray, and Kristin felt sure the outfit had never seen a particle of sweat. Her blond hair was flawless, her makeup understatedly glowing.
"I want to talk to Dom," Kristin blurted out, sounding to her own ears like a petulant child.
"I'm sorry, darling, he's not here." Ellen smiled. "I rather fancied he was with you. Can I give him a message?"
Kristin felt a painful flush of color rise to the roots of her hair. "I'll ring him. Or I'll tell him when he rings me." Bitch. She could feel the woman laughing at her humiliation, was sure she would have snickered at Kristin's attack of middle-class morals last night. "Thanks," she forced out, turning on her heel.
"You're welcome," Ellen called after her, silvery sweet.
Kristin started back the way she had come, eyes on her feet, face still burning. It was only when someone knocked into her shoulder, hard, that she looked up and saw Dom coming towards her along Cheyne Walk. Her heart did its usual flip-flop, regardless of her wishes. He hadn't seen her.
She had an instant to take in the too-long hair, unwashed, brushed back from his face, the suit jacket and dress shirt over jeans and trainers, worn with a disregard that spoke not of style but of his having thrown on the first things within reach on the floor. Where the hell had he spent the night?
Then he looked up and saw her. "Kristin!" He paled, a hard feat for someone whose skin already looked like putty. Reaching her, he touched her shoulder, then her face, gazing at her with a painful intensity. "What are you doing here? I tried to ring you-"
"You did not." She stepped back. "I checked my messages. You left me stranded at that fucking club-"
"I can explain-"
"No, you can't." The words seemed to come from an unexpected place within her. "There's no excuse, Dom. I deserve better than that."
He stared at her. Passersby parted around them, as if they were the Rock of Gibraltar in a moving sea. "No, you're right," he said slowly, and a fear she couldn't explain shot through her.
Her resolution failed. "Look, I didn't mean-"
"No. You're right. There's no excuse." He was still looking at her with that gobsmacked expression, his gray eyes wide. "No excuse for expecting you to deal with me being fucked up. I'm not worth it." He touched her cheek again, and she shuddered with a sinking dread. "I think maybe we shouldn't see each other for a bit, while I try to straighten things out," he went on. "If there's anything, you know, with the job, Harry can let me know. That's for the best, don't you think, love?" He waited, head slightly bowed, as if expecting absolution.
"You bastard." Planting her feet a little more firmly, Kristin pulled back her arm and smacked him across the face as hard as she could.
It wasn't until Kincaid had gone up to check on Gemma after her bath that he thought to ask her about Erika.
Gemma lay curled under the duvet, Geordie snuggled beside her. "Sometimes I think this dog is out to replace me," he said, sitting on the bed and fondling one of Geordie's dark gray ears.
"He can't do the washing-up, so I think you're safe," Gemma answered drowsily as he pulled the duvet up around her shoulders a bit more firmly.
"You never told me what Erika wanted last night."
"Oh." Gemma blinked and pulled herself up a little. "She lost a valuable brooch during the war, and it's turned up for auction at Harrowby's. She wants me to look into it."
Frowning, Kincaid said, "How are you going to manage that, with your mum ill? Can't you tell her it's too much?"
"I can't not help Erika. I'll manage somehow. I could stop at Harrowby's in the morning, once I've been to check on Mum."
"You can't ask questions officially unless Erika's filed a complaint," he protested.
"I'm sure I'll think of something," Gemma said firmly. "Official or not."
CHAPTER 5
…auctioneering was for centuries regarded as a rather raffish-even dishonourable-activity.
– Peter Watson,
Sotheby's: Inside Story
Gemma took the Central Line straight to St. Paul 's tube station, glad that it was Sunday and the crowds were light, and grateful that for once the weekend tube closures hadn't affected her travel. Emerging into the sunlight, she walked west up Newgate Street, worry over her mum running like a treadmill in her head.
That afternoon, she had got on the Internet and looked up types of leukemia, treatments, and prognoses. The prospects had terrified her.
But as she passed an opening leading to St. Paul 's Churchyard, she glanced up and stopped, transfixed. A slice of the cathedral appeared in the narrow gap, the great dome dead center, like a jewel in the eye of the needle, glowing in the setting sun.
A man bumped into her and she murmured, "Sorry," but still she hesitated, then on an impulse turned and walked down into the churchyard itself. The weekday City bankers were absent, and she guessed it was mostly tourists who sat on the cathedral steps, faces turned to catch the last of the afternoon warmth. The days were lengthening. It would be summer before she knew it, and for just an instant the passage of time seemed inexorably fast.
A sudden hollow feeling possessed her, and for a moment she considered going in, then chided herself. She hadn't any idea how to pray, and would feel silly trying.
And besides, she thought St. Paul 's, glorious as it was, was more a commemoration of Christopher Wren than an offering to God. She turned back, and as she threaded her way towards Newgate Street, she wondered if Wren would have liked the pristine and sterile place his City had become. In his day it would have been teeming with refuse and smells and colors, and the cathedral would have risen out of the muck, a monument to higher things. What awe must have filled people as they looked at it, and what was there now to take its place?
Giving herself a mental shake, she lengthened her stride and left St. Paul 's behind. But as she reached the hospital, its ancient walls looked grim as battlements, and she had to steel herself to walk in through the main gate.
The courtyard, with its gentle fountain, came as a relief, and shrill childish voices echoed through the open space-familiar voices, Gemma realized, as she saw a flash of red curls bob up on the far side of the fountain. It was her niece and nephew, playing hide-and-seek, her brother-in-law watching.