Christmas in the Snow (15 page)

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.

‘It looks like we’d better take our seats,’ Lam said reluctantly, noticing that everybody was now sitting and that Pierre would shortly be getting up to make his annual
Christmas toast. ‘Would you like me to escort you to your table?’

‘Why not?’ she replied, seeing his chivalry for what it was – face-time with the senior management committee – and admiring it. Most of the ambition she encountered
wasn’t gloved in gallantry. Tonight was a rare treat.

They walked over the floor in silence, Allegra caring less about the stares, which were more brazen now. Lam didn’t dare to place his hand on the small of her back, instead walking stiffly
like a wind-up soldier beside her. Her dress had a split in it, at least allowing her to walk at a sensible stride, instead of tottering about in pigeon steps, although it did also mean everyone in
the team was afforded a flash of her legs.

‘It is Pasha, Pierre’s wife?’ Lam asked nervously.

‘Yes. But I suggest you address her as Mrs Lafauvre.’

‘Right, yes, of course,’ he nodded, and Allegra wondered whether his palms were sweating. ‘And the blonde lady beside her?’

Allegra frowned. She didn’t have a clue as to her identity, although she was facing away from them, showing only glossy hair, which had been blow-dried to fall down her back in enchanting
waves. Allegra scanned the table quickly, wondering whose wife she was. Not Crivelli’s, she knew that. Not Pasha. Definitely not Bernadette Henley, the outgoing COO’s wife, who was one
of the few women who still believed in the allure of a blue rinse in her couture.

They stopped at the table, Allegra resting her hand lightly on the back of a chair. ‘Hello, everybody.’

Pierre, on the opposite side of the table, sat back in his seat and folded his arms at the sight of her. His black eyes were cold and merciless. ‘Allegra! I’ve been wondering where
you were.’ Sarcasm tainted his welcome and bled it of any friendliness.

Allegra smiled, the five martinis doing a fine job of hiding the sickness she felt. ‘I’ve been engrossed in conversation with Kevin Lam, one of our quants.’

‘How unlike you, Allegra, to fraternize with people who can’t help your career.’ The ambient temperature round the table dropped by ten degrees.

‘Isn’t that the point of the Christmas party? For everyone to mingle and connect?’ she smiled, showing off her girlish gap for once. ‘Besides, I think Lam probably
can
help my career. He’d make me look very good in meetings. He’s been riveting me with his thoughts on Apple’s iWatch. Very interesting,
very
interesting. We
need to hold on to this one,’ she smiled, patting Lam’s shoulder lightly as though she and Pierre were of the same mind.

Lam nodded as though he was meeting an emperor. ‘It’s a pleasure, Monsieur Lafauvre.’

Pierre, not fooled for a minute by her routine, nodded back disinterestedly – an acknowledgement and dismissal in one – his eyes coming straight back to Allegra and running a swift
up-down of her in the dress. Allegra pretended not to notice, quickly making introductions to Lam of the rest of the executive committee and their wives.

She got to the blonde.

‘We haven’t met. I’m Allegra Fisher, president of luxury goods, and this is Kevin Lam, one of our star analysts.’

‘Tilly Bathurst. I’m Sam’s date.’

‘Sam? Sam Kemp?’ He was on this table? Allegra’s eyes scanned the place settings. Three were still sitting empty – hers, of course, but two others. Two? She counted
again, but the place settings came to the same even number, and if Tilly was Sam’s date, then who was the other place for?

‘That’s right.’ Tilly’s eyes were wide and clear in a pale blue that had been brought out by some expert blending of grey shadow on her lids. Her make-up had been applied
immaculately, coming over as lighter than it really was, and she looked elegant but appropriate in a black mousseline silk dress that only worked on a flawless figure. For once, Allegra felt like
the overdone, gauche girl – like Jessica Rabbit to Goldilocks – and she wished she’d stopped at one and a half martinis. She felt a little . . . de trop by comparison. Tilly was
the woman all the other women in the room wanted to be, even though she had introduced herself merely as someone’s date, and Allegra could see – without needing Sam even to be there
– what a striking couple they’d make.

But Allegra didn’t care about that, or, rather, she refused to. That wasn’t her currency or what she traded in. She looked down and stared at her own hands gripping the chair back,
only one thing whirling through her mind: when had
he
been invited onto this table? Only yesterday Kirsty had confirmed the attendees for her. It must have happened this afternoon, after
the meeting.

Her eyes briefly met Pierre’s, and she wasn’t surprised to find his still on her. He was like a cat pinning a mouse by its tail, watching her squirm, and she knew exactly what it
meant: the Queen is dead; long live the King.

‘So where is Sam?’ she asked Tilly, turning away quickly, refusing to show either her hurt or fear even as the foundations of her world began to shake and crack.

‘He’s somewhere around here,’ Tilly smiled, her pretty eyes eagerly scanning the room for her date. ‘He had to take a call.’

Lam cleared his throat and Allegra glanced back at him. He indicated discreetly to a spare place at the table and she realized he thought he was doing her an enormous favour by becoming her
plus-one.

Tilly straightened up excitedly. ‘Oh, here he is!’

Allegra straightened up too, but she refused to turn round; Sam’s arrival didn’t prompt the same happiness in her as it did Tilly. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Tilly’s chair scraped back and Allegra heard Kemp’s voice. ‘And this is Tilly Bathurst, my date.’

‘Your girlfriend?’ a man asked.

Her head jerked up at that. That accent – the trace of American with something fuller, she’d heard it before.

‘My . . . uh . . .’ Sam hesitated.

Allegra turned.

Zhou Yong – he who had been so unreachable, so internationally unavailable – was standing not two feet away from her. And Sam was standing beside
him
, one hand resting
proprietorially on his friend’s shoulder.

Allegra looked straight back at Pierre, who was beginning to rise from his seat, understanding slowly dawning on his features. She watched his eyes brighten like hot coals as he walked round the
table to greet them, a personal welcome from one power player to another, Sam rewarded with a warm back slap. He was in the club now.

It was another few minutes before she was even introduced. First the other members of the board had to make their acquaintance, then their wives, before finally . . . her.

‘It is good to see you again, Mr Zhou Yong.’ She bowed her head – although not as low as she once would have – before offering her hand.

‘Miss Fisher! I scarcely would have recognized you.’

She hesitated fractionally before nodding, unsure whether he had intended to insult or compliment her. This dress, of course, made no apology for her gender, unlike her Armani suits.

‘
Two
dates, Sam?’ she muttered under her breath as Pierre and Zhou exchanged formalities. ‘You are a busy boy.’

‘Well, I was told I could absolutely rely on you not to bring one,’ Sam said in an equally unfriendly voice as Tilly came and stood closer to him, her hand finding his and her slim
fingers intertwining like ivy.

Allegra looked away. All around them, the guests at the other tables had begun pulling crackers, and many were already squeezing paper crowns on their heads. Lam was nowhere to be seen. The
sight of Zhou had clearly overpowered even his ambition.

‘Shall we sit? The chef’s ready to serve,’ Pierre said, ushering everyone back into their seats. Allegra walked round the table, looking for her name, hoping she wouldn’t
be beside Pierre, hoping she would be beside Zhou Yong.

She was right on one count at least – with Crivelli to her left and Henley to her right, she was in no-man’s-land, beached between an imminent retiree and a man who’d been
gunning for her dismissal for years . . . She slumped back in her chair as the almost-elderly men either side of her shook their napkins onto their laps and Tilly brightly led an open-table
conversation about the lights on Regent Street.

A waiter almost immediately set down a plate of mackerel tartar in front of Allegra and she turned her head to speak in her ear.

‘Bring me a cucumber martini on your way back,’ she said quietly. Why the hell not? Pierre’s message was subtle but clear enough. It was game over for her. Kemp had won. It
didn’t matter that he’d looked a fool in the meeting earlier today (even that was better than not being there at all); he’d brought the prize catch out of the river and into the
infinity pool. Contacts, not numbers, were going to swing this.

She tilted her head, trying to look interested as Pasha joined in the discussion – had she ever seen Red Square at Christmas? Magical!
Magical!
– but it took everything she
had just to set her facial muscles to neutral. She was out. Her world was falling apart as everyone laughed and partied around her, and it felt like only the dress was holding her together.

The waiter came back with her drink within minutes. She picked up her fork and looked at her plate, not sure she could force down the food. Her throat felt constricted and her dress too tight
over her ribs, making her feel like she couldn’t take a breath . . . She took a sip of the martini instead, making no attempt at small talk with the men either side of her. There was no
point; she felt spent.

Tilly was still sparkling like crystal, delicately spearing her mackerel as she vied for Sam’s eye.

‘Zurich was special, wasn’t it?’

It wasn’t so much the question Allegra heard as the silence that followed and it was a few moments before Allegra realized all eyes were upon her.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Zhou smiled back at her. ‘I think it must be the reflection of the lights on the water.’

She wondered if she had missed another drift of the conversation but smiled wanly anyway. ‘Uh, yes. Right . . . the water.’

‘Everyone says Paris is the ultimate Christmas city, on account of the bridges, I suppose, but give me Alpine splendour any day. It’s the purity of it that I love. Probably because
clean air isn’t something we get much of in Beijing.’

Allegra tried to climb back out of her head again. ‘Of course, yes. Someone told me they actually televise the sunrise now.’

‘Sadly true.’

She fell quiet, but he continued to smile at her, so that she felt obliged to continue the conversation. ‘And are you, uh . . . in Beijing much of the time?’

‘I used to travel a lot more,’ Zhou replied with a smile. ‘I was based in the States until recently, but my father is getting older now and he’s preparing me to take over
the running of the companies. I’m having to spend more and more time there.’

‘Meaning you don’t get to see your old friends so much,’ Sam said, patting Zhou on the shoulder matily, a smile on his lips but none in his eyes as he shot a warning glance at
her. There was only one person who could claim Zhou as theirs.

She fell quiet again. What could she do? Zhou was Kemp’s pet tonight and Pierre knew it.

‘Well, Zurich’s beautiful, I grant you,’ Bernadette Henley interjected, clearly pleased for the opportunity to cut in. ‘And Paris too, of course, but for Christmas
opulence it has to be Vienna.’

‘No, Frankfurt! The markets there are to be seen to be believed!’ Crivelli’s wife added. ‘I do all my Christmas shopping there.’

‘Yes, but Red Square, Zhou,’ Pasha exclaimed with impressive focus and little tact as she leaned in to the guest of honour with a winning smile. Had Pierre instructed his wife to
flirt with the star client? It didn’t seem likely. He had looked as surprised as any of them to see Zhou attending a staff party. ‘I mean, you’ve been there, I take it?’

Zhou, who had been watching Allegra impassively, turned back politely to Pasha, sitting on his right. ‘Of course. Who hasn’t?’

It was the cue everyone needed to break up the conversation into smaller clusters and allow everyone to eat again.

‘So are you taking the Richemont team to Verbier again for New Year’s Eve?’ Henley asked her, making a fuss of cutting a tomato.

‘That’s the plan.’ She kept her eyes away from Pierre, in case he was listening in. She didn’t need to see the rebuke in his eyes, the correction that she wouldn’t
be going on the company’s time or expense account. Not now.

‘Well, I must say it’s awfully good of you to continually give up your New Year’s Eves like that. Every year you do it.’

She shrugged. ‘It suits me fine. And I like skiing.’

‘But don’t you ever want to ring in the new year with loved ones?’

‘I’m not sentimental. It’s just another day to me.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I mean, it’s not like it’s Christmas, is it?’

‘It honestly wouldn’t matter if it was.’

Crivelli’s wife interrupted, clearly shocked. ‘What? But why ever not?’

Allegra just shrugged. She was under no obligation to explain herself to this woman, and frankly, she found Mrs Crivelli’s overreaction tiresome and bourgeois.