Christmas in the Snow (17 page)

She was screwed.

She could demand back her job. Threaten to go public with the text. If the
FT
ran the contents of that text on the front page, PLF’s shares would nosedive.

But . . .

But . . .

Blackmail was beneath her.

And a discrimination case would hit the deadlines. It would destroy Pierre’s reputation, but her name would be blackened too. That was how it worked. No one likes a tattletale. She’d
never work in the City again.

There had to be another way . . .

She looked for the answer on the pavements, running hard in the cold frost, her lungs screaming as she raced past the muffled office workers all striding in the opposite direction to her. She
ran past St Paul’s, scaring the pigeons off the steps as her feet slapped the ground, her hands held in fists, her arms pumping like pistons, fury and despair the fuels that drove her forward
as last night’s faces swam in front of her eyes – Pierre’s shark-like eyes, Sam’s contempt, the smirk on Crivelli’s mouth, Tilly’s perfect make-up . . .

She was at the end of Isobel’s road before she realized where she was – her feet on autopilot and bringing her back to her sister, the only person in the world who might possibly
comprehend the magnitude of her actions – that there was nothing else outside of her career, that she was nothing outside of her career.

Her hand was up, ready to knock, when the front door opened suddenly and Lloyd – on the other side of the threshold – jumped back in alarm.

‘
Jee
-zus, Legs! What the hell are you doing here?’ he cried, dropping his briefcase and slapping a hand across his heart, his words indistinct behind a cranberry-red
cashmere scarf that he had wound round the lower part of his face like a muffler. The collar of his grey coat was turned up, his hands were gloved in sheepskin mittens, and he was wearing a
peculiarly ignominious trapper hat for the brisk walk to the Tube. ‘It’s six thirty in the bloody morning.’

‘I’ve got the day off,’ she replied, panting hard, with her hands on her thighs, thinking quickly. ‘Thought I’d spend it with Iz and Ferds.’

‘You? Have a day off? Pull the other one!’ he laughed, quickly tugging off the mittens and pocketing them in his coat.

‘Yeah, I have. For, uh . . .’ She blanked. What did people do if they didn’t work? ‘For Christmas shopping, that’s it.’

‘Oh.’ Lloyd pulled a face. He supposed even she had to do that. ‘Well, they’re still asleep.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, but you know me – I never can sleep in. I’ll just make a cup of tea and wait, shall I,’ she said rhetorically, rubbing her hands and blowing
little white plumes into the air. It was freezing out here, she realized for the first time.

‘You’d better get out of the cold,’ Lloyd said, frowning at her thin – albeit thermal – running layers, her ankles bare and only three-quarter-length running tights
on beneath her shorts.

‘Thanks,’ she said, dipping past him into the warmth of the hall. Now he was on the step and she was inside the house. With a smile, she picked up his briefcase and handed it to him
– a strange role reversal that left Lloyd even more confused.

‘Uh, right, well, see you later, then,’ he said, looking unsure whether he should peck her on the cheek too.

But she made the decision for him. ‘Yep. Have a good day,’ she said briskly, closing the door on him. She pulled off her trainers and padded quietly down the dog-leg hall into her
sister’s kitchen, feeling soothed already.

Her sister’s house conformed to all the usual South London stereotypes that seemed to matter – granite surfaces, the entire range of Jo Malone scented candles, a sludgy-grey palette
and the ubiquitous black-and-white family portraits on the walls – but it somehow never looked like the neighbours’ kitchens. It was never tidy, for a start – cookbooks towered
perilously on buckling shelves, piles of paperwork mushroomed like fungi on the island, and the tea towels were always stained, even after a boil wash. But then, that was why Allegra loved it here.
She could almost guarantee there would be a tub of hummus and an orange Le Creuset of spaghetti bolognese in the fridge, a bag of Cadbury’s giant buttons secured with an elastic band in the
fruit bowl and a half-drunk bottle of cava with a spoon in the top.

It was perfect in its imperfection and the closest thing she had to a home.

Making a pot of tea – taking care to shut the kitchen door to stop the sound of the kettle boiling from travelling upstairs and waking Ferdy – she settled down on the charcoal-grey
sofa in the far corner and turned on the TV, flicking straight to BBC News 24.

The first rush of anger was gone and emotional and physical exhaustion were beginning to hit. By the time Isobel descended the stairs an hour later, Ferdy on her hip and yawning, Allegra was
curled up on the sofa, fast asleep, her hand still holding on to her phone.

‘There you are!’ Isobel grumbled, as Allegra pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowds to where her sister was standing, grim-faced, as she rummaged
through a sale bin of French baby clothes. Ferdy, who was strapped to her back in one of those curious baby backpacks, was delighted by the melee around him and kept pulling other women’s
hair if they got too close. ‘I want your thoughts on this.’

Isobel held up a delicate baby-blue and ivory silk sailor romper suit, complete with flapping collar – more like a mini cape – at the back.

‘No, I’m not sure you do,’ Allegra replied.

Isobel sighed dramatically. ‘Not funny. I need something for Ferdy to wear on Christmas Day.’

‘And have you met your son? Let’s just take a moment to consider the facts. He is the child who eats like a cow, having to spit up his meal at least once before finally committing to
digestion.’

Isobel snorted with laughter. ‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Iz, you are blinded by love, but I am telling you now, no sailor who ever sailed the high seas could do to that costume what Ferdy will do to it. Navy. Navy is your friend. Go for
something navy.’

‘But this has got seventy per cent off.’ Isobel pulled a pained expression.

‘Which should give you some indication of just how many other people knew it was a bad idea too.’ She patted her sister’s arm.

Isobel tutted. ‘I hate shopping with you. It’s like shopping with Lloyd. Everything has to be
practical
. What’s wrong with wanting to celebrate my beautiful boy? One
day, he’ll be too big for me to dress and it’ll be dirty jeans and hoodies all the way.’ But she took one look at Allegra’s expression and let the fey sailor costume drop
back into the bin.

‘Close one, buddy,’ Allegra said to her little nephew, stroking his cheek as he kicked his legs in reply.

‘You’re unusually acerbic today.’

‘Thank you.’

Isobel regarded her sister suspiciously. ‘Why are you really here? I usually have to get the lowdown on Kirsty’s divorce before she’ll book me in to see you.’

Allegra looked surprised. ‘Kirsty was married?’

Isobel groaned. ‘Ugh, God! How can you not know that? She’s been your PA for almost five years!’

There was a short silence. ‘Well . . . the office isn’t the place to discuss personal matters,’ Allegra mumbled finally.

Isobel just rolled her eyes and they moved away from the sale bins, wandering slowly over the packed shopping floor. Slowly was all they could manage. It was lunchtime and all the local office
workers had emptied out of their buildings to try to get ahead on their Christmas shopping before the weekend began and it was fast becoming hard to move. Carols were being piped through the
speakers everywhere, and at every escalator, a stall had been set up with freshly baked gingerbread and mulled wine. Isobel nimbly sidestepped a double buggy with sleeping twins inside.

‘
Not
for boys, Iz,’ Allegra said, taking a pair of ‘cute’ striped tights out of her sister’s hands.

‘I don’t know why you’re knocking my taste so much today,’ Isobel said, as Allegra silently pulled her away from the velvet duffel coats too. ‘You look really good
in
my
clothes. Much better than in your own.’

‘Thanks.’ Allegra looked down at the clothes Isobel had lent her: boyfriend jeans that hung comfortably on her hips, chequered Vans skate shoes, an oversized tweed jacket and a grey
marl sweatshirt with red sequinned lips on the front. Isobel had told her she looked ‘on trend’, but to Allegra’s mind, she looked like an overdrawn student and she had seen the
way the security guard’s eyes had narrowed slightly on their way in.

‘Again, that was not intended as a compliment.’

A woman stampeding towards the hallowed shoe department caught Allegra’s arm with her bag, the hard corner jabbing against her, but the woman didn’t stop, apologize or turn round,
and within ten seconds she’d disappeared again, swallowed up by the crowds.

Ferdy began kicking his legs and wriggling in the backpack – tired now of being constrained and a grizzly look brewing on his chubby pink face. Isobel bounced softly on the spot, trying to
soothe him, completely unaware of how conspicuous she looked, ‘boinging’ in the middle of Selfridges. ‘All I’m saying is you should respect my opinion a bit more. I know
you’re a maths genius who actually knows what a derivative is, but when it comes to clothes, I know what I’m talking about:
my
clothes make you look five years younger than you
are;
your
clothes make you look twenty years older than you are.’

Allegra refrained from rolling her eyes – there was no point in explaining that a boardroom was one of the few places left on earth where women didn’t want to look younger than they
were.

Another woman – also in a half-run – trod painfully on her toe, although at least she had the courtesy to apologize over her shoulder. Allegra turned on the spot, irritated and fast
losing her patience. She could use her elbows as weapons along with the best of them, but she didn’t have the reserves for shops as warzones today. She saw the illuminated sign and grabbed
Isobel by the arm. ‘Come on. This way.’

‘What? Where are we going?’

‘I can’t do this. Ferdy’s getting upset, and life is too short to spend it being knocked over by strangers.’

‘But I haven’t bought anything for Mum yet,’ Isobel complained, still walking with a peculiar bounce to pacify Ferdy, who was nonetheless escalating to full-on tears, as
Allegra pressed the button for the lift and the doors pinged open. ‘And Lloyd’s desperate for a jacket. I have to go down to menswear,’ she protested as Allegra pressed to go up.
‘What are you
doing
?’

Ten seconds later, the doors slid open to reveal a perfumed suite with bronze walls, tulip-wood floors and dip-dyed silk rugs. Books were clustered in coloured groupings on shelves, and heaps of
powder-pink flowers were arranged in bowls on low tables. At one end was a bar, and at the other, a library, the sisters’ reflections echoed back to them from numerous mirrored surfaces.

Isobel’s mouth fell open and even Ferdy – distracted by the sudden calm – stopped crying. Momentarily, anyway. ‘Where the hell are we? Is this someone’s
house
?’ Isobel whispered, just in case it was.

Allegra shook her head as they stepped out. She forgot her sister’s expensive tastes always had to be filtered through Zara first. A woman in a skinny black suit and studded heels, with a
fluoro-orange necklace at her throat, came towards them. She was smiling, but there was hesitancy in her demeanour. Was it their clothes, the bawling baby . . . ?

‘Hello. May I help you?’

‘I hope so, but I’m afraid we don’t have an appointment,’ Allegra replied briskly, her hands fishing in her pockets for the credit card she’d had the presence of
mind to slip into her running shorts before leaving/escaping the flat this morning. Her voice was thin and lifeless, and she knew she sounded snappy.

‘Ah. Well, I’m sorry—’

Allegra silently handed over her black Amex card with a knowing look. Regardless of whether the inevitable ‘sorry’ was down to the clothes or the bawling baby or both, she knew
exactly how to trade here. ‘We need to get our Christmas shopping sorted, you see, and my nephew here is hungry. He needs . . .’ She turned back to Isobel. ‘What does he
need?’

‘Um, like, maybe a finger sandwich or a banana?’ Isobel offered weakly, intimidated by the elegant decor and drawing up damage-limitation plans in her head. He was, after all, the
child who ate like he had more than one stomach. She started bouncing on her toes as discreetly as she could in an effort to placate Ferdy, who was beginning to grizzle again.

‘Can you do that?’ Allegra asked, looking back at the consultant, her hands clasped in front of her in an authoritative but relaxed stance.

‘You couldn’t have timed it better,’ the woman replied. ‘All our consultants are booked today, but we have
just
had a cancellation. Would you like to take a seat
on the sofas and I’ll arrange for some refreshments to be sent up to you?’

‘Thank you.’

Allegra led the way round a glass shelving unit to a drawing-room area with turquoise lamps and plump sofas studded with jewel-like velvet cushions. It felt like a 1950s film set, like
An
Affair to Remember
, or a Doris Day–Rock Hudson collaboration.

Isobel sank gratefully onto one of the sofas, jumping straight back up again as the boy terror began to holler with renewed relish in her ear. Isobel planted her feet wide and dropped into some
frantic pliés.

‘Should we let him go free?’ Allegra asked, imagining the personal shopper’s strangled expression when she encountered
this
scenario. God, did her sister have
any
idea . . . ?

‘What? Here? Are you mad?’ Isobel hissed, dropping particularly deeply. ‘Have you seen how much glass is in this room? Even if he doesn’t break anything, just imagine the
smears
.’

Allegra pulled a face. ‘Oh yes. The smears.’

The woman came back. ‘All ordered,’ she said, her voice trailing away as she watched Isobel rising and falling with rhythmic determination. Recovering herself, she stopped staring
and sat daintily on the sofa opposite. ‘So, I’m Tanya,’ she smiled, her hands fluttering over her chest to reinforce the point.