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Carrie laughed. “Shade of white?”
“Yes. You know, it’s really rather deceptive. People hear ‘white’ and see paper. But there are so many different versions. Ecrue, egg shell, cream, off-white, beige white. Look.” She pulled, as if a rabbit from a magician’s hat, a whole swatch of creams from her Balenciaga bag.
“What else have you got in there?”
“Just the bridal essentials,” Juanita promised seriously. “Now listen, we have to focus; I have a manicure to get to after this.”
Carrie resisted the urge to point out that her meeting was, probably, marginally more important, given that it would have a huge impact on the future of her business. Like all self-respecting Bridezillas before her, Juanita saw nothing as mattering more than her upcoming wedding. Nothing. Not world politics, not global warming, nothing. In fact, it was remarkable that Carrie’s time with Gael had even got a look in.
She pushed thoughts of Gael from her mind. Or rather, she tried to. But like the proverbial water seeping through fine cracks in a vase, flashes of memories punctuated their conversation. His hands, dark and strong, moving over her body. His eyes, sharp and probing, staring into her soul. His mouth, insistently tasting and teasing hers. She was relieved when Juanita looked at her slim gold wrist watch and squawked.
“I’m so freaking late, my manicurist is going to fire me.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Carrie consoled, watching as her best friend packed everything back into her Mary Poppins Bag.
“I’ll call you,” Juanita promised, blowing a kiss from the door.
Carrie shook her head slowly from side to side. As long as she’d known Juanita, she’d been just the same. Scatty and brilliant at the same time.
Carrie opened her MacBook back up and clicked into her projected profit spread sheet. It was good. With a healthy looking financial position to interest the serious investor, Carrie had no doubts she could swing the ancient Terence Newman into splashing his cash.
Nothing a cranky old man liked better than a technology start up. In Carrie’s experience, it made them feel young and relevant, even though they had no real clue what the product involved.
And NewNetwork wasn’t any ordinary app.
It was a money making machine.
Unfortunately, it needed money first. More than she had. And Terence Newman, with his oil billions and desire for immortality, would hopefully prove to be the cash cow she sought.
Carrie pressed print and moved across her office, to collect the seven pages of figures. She slipped them into one of her folders, emblazoned with the CB logo, and then checked the office. Carrie hadn’t wanted her business to feel like a business. She’d kept the stuffy boardroom furniture at bay, and opted instead for plush cream carpet, white sofas, impressive and intimidating, beautiful and elegant: furniture that screamed success.
She topped up two crystal glasses with sparkling water, and then ran her hands down her silk shirt. It was tucked in tight to a black pencil skirt that fell straight to her knees, and on her feet, she wore a pair of bright red heels. Her favourites. They said ‘confidence’ with each step she took.
The scene was set; all she needed was for the old man to arrive.
She looked across at the wall clock, and a frown briefly marred her beautiful face. Finally, twenty minutes after their scheduled meeting, Carrie’s phone rang. She snatched it off her desk and swiped it to answer. “Carrie speaking,”
“Miss Beauchamp? It’s Noris Newman here. My father Terence was supposed to meet with you today?” His accent was thick American. Carrie knew they hailed from Texas, but even without that knowledge, she would have picked it in a second.
“Yes,” she responded, her tone clipped. She mentally braced herself for the bad news that was imminent.
“He’s not well, I’m afraid. Just a stomach flu, but he’s asked me to handle matters in his stead. I’m tied up today. Can you catch up tonight?”
“That’s no good,” she remarked, hoping her voice had the right amount of sympathy in it. “But I’m absolutely fine to reschedule. You tell me when and where.”
“Do you know the bar at the bottom of the Pyrmont?”
She closed her eyes, as butterflies assailed her stomach. Know it? Of course she knew it. It was where Gael was staying. Where they’d made love on Friday night. Her heart squeezed.
“I do. But I’m happy to meet you in my office, if that’s better?” Her heart was pounding, and a fine bead of perspiration had broken out on her forehead.
“I’m sorry, Miss Beauchamp.” Like most people, he pronounced her surname incorrectly, ‘bow-chomp’. It always made her lips tingle with a smile. “I’ve got a dinner at nine in the hotel restaurant, and a conference call in my room scheduled for seven. I can only squeeze you in at eight tonight.”
“Of course. That’s fine. I’ll see you then. And please tell your father I wish him a speedy recovery,” she added, remembering her manners before ringing off.
* * *
He was pleasingly kind looking, with sandy coloured hair, blue eyes, and a dimple in either cheek. Carrie smiled, fully aware of the effect she was having on him, as she leaned closer, to present the figures.
