What the City Requires

Thursday came faster than she'd prepared for.

Marcus drove her to the station at seven. They stood on the platform with five minutes to spare, her overnight bag over her shoulder, and she had the distinct feeling of watching herself from a small distance — efficient Clara, conference-ready, heels on the platform tiles, the city pulling at her like a tide she'd spent half her life swimming in.

"I'll call," she said.

"You don't have to account for yourself," he said. "I'm not keeping score."

"I know. I want to."

He looked at her steadily. "How long is the Meridian project?"

"The presentation is Thursday. The account itself — if we win it — six months minimum. Maybe a year."

Something shifted in his face, fractionally. He schooled it back. She saw it anyway.

"Marcus."

"That's not a problem," he said.

"It might be."

"Clara." He put his hands in his pockets. "I've been here for eleven years. I can be here for six more months."

The announcement came over the platform: the 7:14, four minutes. She looked at the board. She looked at him.

"I'm going to ask you something," she said. "And I want you to be honest."

"All right."

"Is the bookshop — is this — is Millhaven—" She stopped. Started again. "Are you happy? Not waiting, not sustaining — actually happy. Because if you've been putting your life in a box waiting for me to make a decision, I need to know that. I won't be responsible for that."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"The bookshop makes me happy," he said. "Millhaven makes me happy. I have friends, I have work I care about, I have a life that fits the shape I want." He met her eyes. "You are not the condition for my happiness. You're an addition to it." He paused. "Does that answer your question?"

She exhaled.

"That's the right answer," she said.

"I know." He smiled, faint. "You always could tell."

The train pulled in. She picked up her bag.

"I'll call Sunday," she said. "I want to tell you about the presentation. And about the twenty-five thing — there's more I didn't say."

"I'll have coffee ready," he said.

She kissed him once on the platform, quick and certain, and got on the train.

She was four carriages in when her phone buzzed. Marcus.

You left your scarf on the bench.

She looked back. She could see him through the window, holding up a grey scarf. She pressed her hand flat against the glass.

She spent the whole journey to London thinking about the shape of six months and what it would take to close the distance, and whether the life she'd built for herself had room in it for something she'd been carrying for eleven years.

It did.

She arrived at Paddington and went straight to the office.

She was on her third cup of coffee when Alcott knocked.

"Clara." He closed the door. "The Meridian presentation — there's a complication."

She set down her cup.

"What kind?"

He handed her a folder. She opened it. Read the first page. Read it again.

She looked up.

"This is our client," she said.

"Was our client," Alcott said. "As of this morning, Meridian Capital is merging with Hartwell Group." He paused. "Hartwell is owned by—"

"James Hartwell," she said quietly.

Alcott nodded.

James Hartwell. The man she'd spent three years refusing to think about. The reason the year at twenty-five had been a bad year. The reason she'd driven to the motorway junction and turned around.

She closed the folder.

"I need a day," she said.

"You have until Thursday," Alcott said.

She picked up her phone. She started to type a message to Marcus. She stopped. Deleted it. Looked out the window at the city gray under March clouds.

She thought: some things you have to face before you can come home.