Duly Diligent

Chris was a riot of color. In a pink sweater vest over a light peach top and black stretch pants, she sailed into the breakfast room on a sea of English grays, blues and tweeds. Harry could only think of it as classic American cockiness. Lou noticed her right away. Craig, a few seconds later. Harry caught the hint of guilt in his eyes as they shifted away from Chris and back to his menu. Lou had no such reservations as he moved his body in his chair so as not to have to crane his neck so far. Harry put his menu down and walked over to the small table where Chris had sat down.

“Good morning.” He said, a slight smile playing on his face.

She looked up and shot a glance at Lou and Craig. “Hi.”

“Care to join us?”

Her brows furrowed. “Not a good idea.” Harry didn’t let it discourage him.

“They won’t bite.”

“Thanks. I’m going to have to hustle through breakfast though. Thanks.”

“Sure. See you later.”

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Nice outfit.”.

She glanced down at herself for a second “Thanks.”

“You’re pretty in pink.”

Her brow furrowed again but Harry saw the shadow of a smile on her. She said nothing and he went back to his table to order.

“So, do you think he’s taking someone for a ride?”

”Huh?”

”Lou, focus.” Harry said, smiling, “Do you think Adrian is on the level, or is there something he’s holding back from us?” Lou smiled his ‘got me, didn’t you, you son of a bitch’ smile back.

“I’m sure he’s a fine businessman with an acute sense of the market and we’re just un-necessarily suspicious because we’re consultants trying to impress the client.”

“Go on.” Harry said.

“Trouble is, the client is already impressed with us so we’ve got little to prove. We have to make certain it’s a good partnership but that’s all. The fact that we’re still suspicious doesn’t bode well for Adrian if he’s really up to something not quite above board. If everything checks out and he’s doing what he says he’s doing and can deliver on all his promises, good for him. We owe him an apology for being rude and heartily recommend that TBH moves ahead with Adrian Wallace at the helm. If, on the other hand, he is not entirely forthcoming with us, then we are obligated to report our suspicions and concerns to our client.”

“His numbers don’t add up.” Craig said.

“Precisely. They don’t.” Lou dropped some of his usual sarcastic tone, “So we need to ask the hard questions of Adrian and he needs to answer them and we need to chase down every lead.”

“Due diligence by proxy for Owens Media,” Harry said.

“Yes.”

“So we still don’t have enough information.” Craig said.

“Not nearly enough.” Replied Harry and Lou nodded.

“Not even close. What we have is one introductory interview with Adrian that didn’t go well.” Harry avoided wincing. It wasn’t easy. “We have Adrian’s line and we have our own research and there’s a gap but we don’t have any other back up. We need to talk to him again and have him clarify any points we have an issue with and give us access to the data that will back him up, or not. Answer our questions.”

“Road trip.” Said Harry. The waiter returned for their order. Harry would have the ‘classic English breakfast’ featuring ‘backed bins’. He hoped the writer was hooked on phonics and that baked beans would grace his plate.

“I’m thinking so.” Said Lou, “Adrian needs to give us his contact information and we need to vet every bit of it. See if stories match . He’s got four in-house people. Presumably a managing editor, a senior editor, some sort of art or production person and I would guess a personal assistant. It looks like he’s doing all his ad sales himself. If those four are the mix, or close to it then he’s getting everything else on a freelance basis. Stories, first edit, copy edit, fact check, art and photo, page assembly, layout. We need to visit to every last one of them. Check out their business, check out their operations. Get his advertising clients and talk to them.”

“Glad we got weekly tube passes.” Said Craig.

“Might need weekly train passes.” Said Harry. “This could be a lot of traveling.”

“So it’s a plan?” asked Lou.

“It is.” Answered Harry “I love when that happens.”

Breakfast came. Harry was glad to see that he had guessed right on the baked beans. Lou ordered another cup of coffee and asked that the pot be left on the table. Lou usually drank a cup or two in the morning but there was something manic about him when he got involved in a project. It made him a caffeine addict. You could usually tell where Lou was in his work by the intensity of his coffee drinking.

“Harry?” Lou was stirring, trying to distract himself from himself.

“Um?” Backed bins. Yum.

“Harry, what’s going on with her?” Harry stopped eating. Lou stopped stirring. Craig shifted nervously. This was Lou’s line of questioning. Whatever Harry was or wasn’t doing was something that Craig would turn a blind eye to. He didn’t want to wrestle the issues, he wanted to get the project done and go home to Susan. Lou looked forward to seeing Maria again, but he also wanted to know where his friend was.

“Nothing. We’re having dinners together. Seeing the town. She’s good company.” Harry didn’t know why he didn’t tell the whole truth. Lou knew. What was the big deal?

”Oh fuck off Harry! Don’t lie to me, I’m your friend remember? Look, don’t think this is about the first Adrian meeting because it isn’t. That’s done and past. But remember that I come to your house too? And I have to say hi to your wife and make pleasant small talk. How was London? Very nice. Did you boys do anything? Not together at nights ‘cause Harry was fucking around with this blonde he met but I don’t know anything else, is that a new painting in the living room? Come on Harry. This isn’t fair to us.”

Craig had put his knife and fork down and was staring at his coffee cup. Lou was staring at Harry. Harry was staring at the wall.

”She’s trapped in a burning building.”

”And you’re the hero who’s going to rescue her?” Lou asked in a level voice.

“No, I’m the guy on the sinking ship.” No one said anything. Harry put his utensils down and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Chris looked over and he caught her eye for a moment. Then she looked away.

“She’s in a burning building and I’m on a sinking ship and we both jumped for each other at the same time. That’s about all there is to it. At least all I want to say. You can fill in the details if you want to Lou.”

”So we never saw a thing? We all go home and nothing happened?” Lou asked.

“To be honest Lou, I don’t think you’re going to have to cover for me to anyone once we’re back.”

”Harry, what’re you saying?” Craig fairly jumped out of his seat.

“I don’t know. I don’t know yet but I’m getting a sense that something’s going to change because something has already changed here.”

”You’re not getting rash are you?” asked Lou, “The city’s an awful romantic place and you can walk down by the river and get a little crazy. Back home you’ve got bills, laundry, garbage to take out.”

”No one to talk to, a wife that’s never there, I might as well be single.”

”She won’t be there either Harry.” Lou nodded in Chris’s direction, “ That’s not a class ring she’s wearing.”

”Maybe…”

”Whoa pardner! Aren’t you going off a little?” Lou’s level tone had vanished, “What, you meet her here and suddenly you’ve got a life together there? Harry, what the fuck are you doing? You’re married. And even if that’s going to change, you think she’s just going to dump her old man and come running ‘cause you had some fun over here? What are you thinking? Do you think this is a movie? Harry, snap out of it for a second, will you?”

Harry stared back at the wall and said nothing. His face was cold and the chill was moving down his back. The chill was the realization that Lou was stating facts Harry had either never considered or willfully ignored as he drank deep of Chris. What was he doing? What did he think was going to happen? He had been living a movie. Now the film had stopped and Harry realized he didn’t have answers to half his questions and the ones he did have were stupid and made up. Like a kid in a test who hadn’t studied a thing.

“I don’t know.” He said slowly.

Lou had become animated while talking and had drawn Chris’s attention. She began to look over at the three men. Not dwelling on them, but glances became more frequent. Harry looked back now. Their eyes met. He still didn’t have an answer for Lou, or for himself for that matter. He got up and walked over to Chris’s table.


”Hey again.”

”Hi.” Said Chris.

“You have plans tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“Good. Join us for dinner.”

”What, all of you?”

”The four of us. The boys and me. It’ll be fun. I’ll find a place.” And he gave Chris a look that assured her they were not going back to either the nondescript or the Italian tratorria.

“Sure, sounds like fun.” But Chris’s voice didn’t belie fun.

“Ok, I’ll call you with the details. Once I make them up.” And Harry tried to smile a rakish smile but it didn’t belie rakish.

“See you later.” Lou looked at Harry when he returned to the table but said nothing. Craig had returned to finishing breakfast. Harry replaced the napkin on his lap and tucked back into his beans and eggs.

“I invited her out to dinner tomorrow. I’d appreciate if you guys could join us.”

”All of us?” Craig asked, Harry cut him short.

“I’ll pick up the tab. I don’t expect Intaglio to foot the bill.”

”I didn’t say I had a problem with that, did I?” Craig’s voice had an edge. Harry paused for a moment.

“No, I’m sorry. You didn’t. I’m sorry.”

”We’ll expense it.” Lou said. “Bury it somewhere.”

”Is all of us a good idea Harry?” Craig asked.

“I don’t know guy. I don’t know but I want to start finding some things out.” Lou looked at Craig, who’s face was expressionless. Then he looked over at Chris, collecting her bags and soft-side briefcase. She was arranging some papers in a side compartment. She didn’t look over.

“I guess we’re all going to dinner.” Lou said, his voice even again.

***

Adrian welcomed them warmly and immediately sent Sara out for coffee and water. The three Americans were directed to the same three leather chairs they had uncomfortably sat in a few days ago and Adrian settled back into his leather chair-throne was more like it- as he had days ago as well. The seating for Lou, Craig and Harry was still uncomfortable but the mood was not. They had spoken and planned further at breakfast and on the tube trip over. They knew what had to be done and were now going to do it.

“And how are you gentlemen today?” Adrian launched into his opening monologue that included observing that the weather was holding up quite nicely, the rain they had had a few days ago had not returned and the days were generally sunny, pleasant and dry. Had they had any time to see any of the sights? Really must see the British Museum and the Elgin Marbles before hordes of the politically correct force their return to the uncultured boors who held them without knowing what they were in the first place.

Coffee and tea and water was served. Harry and Craig each grabbed a plastic “VITA” water bottle while Lou busied himself with coffee. He was stirring in milk:

”So Adrian, what can you tell me about the people that work here?”

”Well, there’s four as you saw on Monday. Sara is my personal assistant, Emily more or less manages the editorial workflow, Louise reviews all the copy from an executive editorial perspective and Keith is our layout expert. He prepares the files to go to the printer.”

”Who sells?”

”I do right now. I have hopes, I think you’ve picked that up from the strategic plan, to hire on additional staff but for the moment I’m taking care of our accounts.” It was all Harry could do not to kick Lou under the chair. He casually turned. Lou was worrying his spoon around the coffee cup and Craig’s lips were slightly pursed and the corners of his mouth tucked downwards. Cat that ate the canary face, if cats had lips.

“Well, we’d love to talk to your staff. Get some ideas of how they envision their jobs filling out as you grow the business.” Lou said, looking out of Adrian’s office window onto the office floor.

“I think they’d enjoy that.” Adrian said. “I’ve chosen them all personally or from personal recommendations. I think you’ll be as impressed with them as I was and am.”

”I’m sure. We’d like to visit your freelance people too. Editors, writers, art people. The American version of Towards Better Health has a very distinct voice that I’m sure you’re aware of. I’d like to be able to tell Owens Media that you’ve done a fine job of recruiting the talent that will capture that voice. I’m sure you have.”

”Yes, of course.” Adrian’s voice had dropped a half octave and slowed, “I’ll see that Sara prepares a list of people you’ll need to speak to.”

“Good, good. Thank you. I’m presuming you haven’t set up any printers for the magazine yet? Its still early on.”

”I’ve spoken to some people in a general way, but no commitments have been made beyond the test issues, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I’m interested in the whole picture. What about distribution and logistics?”

”I can arrange a discussion with those people.”

”Well, I think that that should cover us then. This is very helpful Adrian. Thank you.”

”Think nothing of it.” Adrian said, brightening.

“I’m impressed with the early projections of advertising revenue. Craig was looking at the numbers and there are a healthy amount of pages in the test issues and the endemic base predictions are promising. You must have worn out a few pairs of shoes getting all those clients.” Lou smiled.

“Ah yes. Fortunately we still have high regard for cobblers here.” Adrian smiled back.

“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about ad revenue from these numbers. Craig has extrapolated them out by a year, eighteen months and two years and the book is pretty much self sustaining from the start.” Lou was still smiling. The smile was not shared by Craig. He kept a blank face but had the slightest of worry furrows forming on his brow. He had done no such analysis and was wondering why Lou was wandering so far, and so dangerously, off script. Harry was wondering the same thing but he also saw Lou working on his second coffee and knew the manic place had been gotten to.

“No, I have to tell you Adrian. And I’m not often this candid. But I had some concerns about advertising dollars. The market is so dramatically different. We sell a lot of pages to pharmaceuticals in the States but that’s not the case here.”

”No, I’m afraid it’s illegal in England.”

”Yes. And the dollars are very lucrative back home and I didn’t see a similar advertising base. But here you have assembled it. Very nicely too.”

”Yes, well, thank you again.” Adrian said cordially, settling back into his leather chair. The leather squeaked a bit under him as he relaxed.

“I’d like to visit some of your accounts if I may. A sampling; large, small, endemic and one shot sales.” Adrian’s settling stopped. He did not come forward but he stopped any further sink into the back of the chair.

“I would think that some sort of visit and discussion could be arranged.” He said slowly, “I could introduce you to the buyers and we could all go over whatever it is you’d like to ask.”

”Well, I was thinking that we’d visit them independently.” Lou said. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover between your freelancers, your staff and your accounts. We’d be unnecessarily taking you out from your work.”

“Well, I appreciate the consideration but I don’t think I can arrange independent meetings.”

”If we had contact people, we could take care of setting those up.”

“I’m afraid that would be impossible.”

”Why?”

“Its not how we conduct business here.”

This will be good Harry thought. He settled back in the chair that seemed to have come back into the realm of the comfortable. He watched, knowing Lou could handle himself but stayed off his wing tip just in case. The way they always did for each other.

“And how do you conduct business here?” Lou was asking.

“When it comes to selling advert pages, it’s a very personal affair. Its frankly all based on the quality of the relationship and I’ve spent a fair amount of time and money cultivating those relationships. A number of years as a matter of fact because the idea for extending the English brand of Towards Better Health didn’t just pop out of my head last Tuesday. There has been extensive groundwork laid and its all still rather precarious because right now all these people have is my word. Now that is worth quite a bit and will see us through. However, unless I actually produce a physical magazine within a few short months, complete with proper editorial content and actually sell the thing, that, those relationships will all whither away to naught.” Adrian got up to continue. “I appreciate you gentlemen have work to do. I appreciate that there is due diligence involved on Owens part to assure they are making a sound investment. I can personally assure you they are. On top of which I think I have been very forthcoming with my organization, thank you very much. However, I am not, repeat not, going to let you walk into our primary advertiser’s office to destroy what has taken so long to build.”

Harry looked up at Adrian. He was an imposing man; six foot or better, well groomed with silver gray hair. Not a strand out of place. His suit was perfectly cut for his frame, spotless, pressed and no doubt very expensive. He had a silk handkerchief folded in his breast pocket. Probably the real thing. Full sized, pressed and neatly folded. Not the three creased polyester number stapled to cardboard he remembered his old man wearing, looking like the head waiter at the Metropole. No, Adrian looked more like a well polished, well groomed, well spoken con man. All that was missing was the lapel rose and fake gold tooth. He could have sold Bibles in Kansas. Harry didn’t know why he immediately jumped to con man but he did and apparently so did Lou. Trouble was they couldn’t prove a thing and whatever Adrian’s indignation and bluster had achieved, it had also blunted Lou’s attack. The trap had loosed its moorings.

“I’m sorry.” Harry said, “I think you’ve misunderstood us. Of course we’d be much more comfortable with you around, particularly on an advertiser’s tour. But really, as you say, if there isn’t a physical magazine in a couple of months there’s going to be a lot of questions asked. We’ll cover the production and editorial review. It would be great if you could set up a few short meetings with some key accounts. Something convenient for you and them. Perhaps a dinner? Whatever works.”

”When did you have in mind?” Adrian was still cool, although he had sat down.

“We have another six days in town. If you can manage, next Monday. think we could be flexible. We are, after all, your guests.”

Lou was slouched back in his chair, scowling. He usually feigned a scowl. He and Harry had run this good cop, bad cop routine before. But this expression was real. Adrian had pissed him off, side-stepping as he did.

“I’ll see what I can do. It is rather short notice, there is a busy time we are headed into.” ”I’m sure we all appreciate it.” Harry smiled slightly. No teeth, just professional friendliness that the others in his team were meant to pick up on.

“We’d appreciate that.” Lou said, almost under his breath and let his scowl relax ever so slightly. Harry smiled a bit harder and Craig did too and Adrian appreciated the wedge he thought he had driven into the team and said:

”I’ll make some telephone calls and see whom I can make time with if any. I can’t make promises.”

”Of course not.” Lou almost grunted but settled for a quick exhalation.

“Anyway, I think we should get started with your people if that’s ok Adrian?”

”Yes. Yes, I think that’s convenient.” Lou shot out of his chair and pulled a notebook out of his case. “Thanks for your time.” As he passed Adrian. Craig followed and set up his laptop on a spare desk. He looked a little embarrassed. Harry stayed behind with Adrian. He had risen but not moved towards the door. Now he sat down again.

“I’m sorry if he’s a little on edge.”

”He was rather rude.”

“He is very focused. He zones in on his work and sometimes forgets that his work is or involves other people. He’s tremendously insightful but again, there are shortcomings.”

”Quite.” Adrian said.

“Well, I’m sorry if he offended you.”

”I’m sure we can overlook that. Let me make those telephone calls and I’ll see what we can arrange.”

”Thank you. Monday will be very productive.”

”Again, I’ll see what we can arrange.”

Lou managed a slight smile three hours later when he and Harry and Craig left for the first freelancer’s office. They had spoken to all the staff; Lou taking notes in notebooks, Harry, yellow legal pads, Craig tapping it all into a laptop. They had drawn up lists of addresses, directions, restaurants nearby. Harry had sketched out what he conceived was the workflow of the magazine and had had it checked out and approved by Emily. Louise and Lou had talked about writers and editors and whom they knew in common and whom they didn’t. Not many on either count but that didn’t matter, Lou picked up on who was easy to work with and who was not. Craig looked over Keith’s shoulder and understood how the files would be prepared. He did not talk of a disparity between potential ad rates and actual revenue projections. That was Adrian’s question to answer. He was busy both on the phone and ordering Sara from place to place, in and out of his office. There would be a more appropriate time to answer those questions. Monday had been arranged and four accounts had agreed to see Adrian and his American consultants on such short notice and Harry was grateful for all Adrian had done for them and sorry once again for the misunderstanding.

”I’m sure its not the first time he’s been a thorn in someone’s side.” Adrian said to Harry as he detailed the last of Monday’s visits to him alone in his office. Lou and Craig were still busy with the staff.

The three Americans packed up their papers and laptops and double checked directions and ensured they had the right maps. ‘Thanks ever so much. We’ll call to confirm Monday and I’m sure we can manage the tube and rail system.’

The weather had continued to be fine with more blue sky than cloud. Harry wondered if they should all have dinner outside tonight and then caught himself at the inappropriateness of that idea. Anyway, he didn’t know the restaurants well enough to figure out who would have outdoor dining.

On Adrian’s suggestion, he had taken the number of the Café Blue. A fusion grill right on the Thames, about a half mile away from Tower Bridge. There was an easy tube stop nearby and they could, and would, all meet on the large promenade in front of the restaurant. He called for reservations and got eight thirty. Then he called Chris on her cell and confirmed the time and place. Yes, they would all be there. Lou and Craig, other than agreeing to the dinner hour, said nothing. They all continued walking to the tube.

The platform was empty compared to the rush hour crowd that they had fought on the way over to Adrian’s. It was early afternoon. The lunch crowd was either still out dwelling on pints, their afternoon shot anyway or they had eaten and were back at their desks. In any case, there was room to stand out of earshot while they waited for the Jubilee line train to arrive. Harry looked at Lou.

“And the award for royally pissing off a Brit with righteous indignation goes to…”

”I’d like to thank my mother for allowing me to be the fucker I am.” Lou smiled.

“There’s still a big dollar gap, isn’t there?” Harry asked.

“A lot of explaining to do.” Craig said. “A lot.”

”Should be an interesting start next week. Your mother know you talk like that Lou?”

Dead Soldiers

Chris looked wonderful. She was wearing blue jeans, a pink something or other and a white wool sweater. It was June but Harry knew, and apparently Chris did too that London could cool off in a heartbeat if a front moved through or the sun set or it just felt like getting cold all of a sudden. It had rained most of the day. The sun had broken through blue-gray clouds in the evening and had thrown off just enough light and warmth to dry up the streets and goad the restaurants into putting up their outside dining tables.

Harry had jeans, a white shirt and an olive blazer on. Cowboy boots too. He figured the baseball cap was a little superfluous. Let the locals look twice to figure he was a Yank. The boots gave him the slightest boost in height. He was about as tall as Chris was, maybe a half inch taller on a good day and seeing her made it a good day. Tonight he had a delicious little stoop to make to kiss her hello. It was so novel, he kissed her twice in the lobby. She didn’t complain.

“Hey.” She said.

“Do I know you?”

She smiled. Flash. Blue, green, blue. Those beautiful eyes. “Are you always such a whack job?”

“Are you always this radiant?”





”You’re sweet.”





”And well-mannered. You can never underestimate good breeding.” Flash. Blue, green, blue.





“Anyway, any preferences on dinner? I reckon if we walk around aimlessly long enough, we’ll run into almost any cuisine.” Harry took her arm and guided her out the door. He winked at the doorman. It had been a good day. He had gotten his mojo back, he had Chris on his arm. Even though he was still puzzling about Wallace and the things that didn’t add up, he had enough due diligence done that he felt he could mentally put T.B.H’s business off to one side without regret.

“I reckon we will.” They walked up Thayer. Harry limped. The knee was a little better and it wouldn’t stop him but it was far from cured. They walked. Close. Together. Chris would slow to look at a store window, Harry would wait. He’d look at Chris. They rejoined each other and headed towards Barrett Street; the pedestrian mall where the nondescript restaurant was. It was the path of least resistance for Harry. He wasn’t interested in cuisine.

“So how was the rest of your day?” Harry asked.

“Good. Real good. Got a lot deeper into the collection. There’s some pretty amazing stuff there.” Harry reached out for her hand and took it. They intertwined fingers. She had smooth, dry skin. Not overly soft, but smooth.





“What are you going to do with it all? Catalog? Print it out?”





”Told you. Not sure. A book project about the rest of it.” Right, Harry thought. She told me. I was paying attention, not. Asshole.

“Yeah. You told me. Sorry.”





”S’ok. Not a lot of people can wrap their brain around looking at pictures just to look at pictures. I like it, but its an acquired taste. Rob could never get it.”





”Maybe he isn’t trying.” Harry said and regretted taking such a disparaging tone. There was a pause. Chris looked at another window on the street. They were turning onto Barrett, walking past the nondescript café.

“Someplace different, right?” she asked.

“I was thinking so.” They walked up Barrett and turned right down Stratford Place; a short, narrow street. There was a Bennetton across the street. Harry hadn’t seen one since he had left New York. It was alight, a wall of glass and chrome in the London twilight. He remembered when Bennetton had come to New York in the early eighties. They were upscale, chic and trendy. He and Claire were students at NYU, threadbare and poor and barely able to afford stuff off the sale rack at Unique Clothing Warehouse. Bennetton was snooty and elitist and made him feel insignificant. And when Harry finally could afford the place, he chose not to. First impressions were lasting ones.

Their side of Stratford was a back to back to back series of small ethnic restaurants with tables outside on the sidewalk. Greek, Italian, Italian again, the end of the street, corner of Oxford and its hustle, even at the eight o’clock hour.

“Little busy here.” Chris said.

“How about the one back there? The Italian place. In the mood for Italian? Or is there something else I can sweep you off your feet with?” She smiled.

“Italian will be fine. The company’s good.” It was Harry’s turn to smile. They walked into the small restaurant. It was busy but not full. The outside tables were empty.



“Sir?” A waitress came out from behind a small counter.

“Two please.”





”Inside, or outside?”





”Chris?”





”Ah. Um.” She looked around the place, pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. Then she turned and looked out at the empty tables lining the sidewalk. “Outside. It’s nice out tonight.”





”Outside it is then. Please.” Harry smiled at the waitress. She took them out and offered them the first table next to the door. “Fine, thanks.” Harry said as an afterthought. Chris was already sitting, looking in her purse.





”Can I get an ashtray please?” she asked the waitress. “Ok?” She asked Harry.

“We’re outside. “ He sat down, wondering why Chris always asked permission to smoke. There was a wine list on the table. He picked it up.





“Glass of wine?”





”Let’s get a bottle.”

Harry looked the list over. “Chardonnay?”





”How about something lighter?”





He looked again. “There’s a nice Riesling.”

Chris smacked her lips. “Nah. Not Riesling. Not tonight.”

Shit. When did she become a wine snob? Harry was nearing the outside edge of his wine appreciation and knowledge. “I’m assuming you want to stay white and not red?”





”Red gives me one hell of a headache.”





”Right then.” He went back to the list. How about this Sauvignon? He pointed out the label to her.





“That’ll work.” The waitress came out with menus.

“Could we have wine first? I’m not ready to order.” Chris asked the woman.

“Yes, certainly.” Harry ordered and the wine was brought out with a cut marble chiller. The waitress opened the bottle and presented the cork. Harry checked it. It was moist and had the proper dampness to it that ensured the bottle had not just been turned on its side just before the dinner crowd arrived. She poured a small amount that Harry swirled, tasted and handed the glass to Chris. ”What do you think?”

She smiled, took a sip, let the wine dwell and then swallowed. “Its fine, thank you.” She said to the waitress who then filled Harry’s glass. He handed the glass to Chris and took her now empty glass back. The waitress filled it and went back into the restaurant. She came out a few minutes later with menus that she handed to Chris and Harry. Chris closed hers and put it down. Harry laid his flat but open on the table. Chris lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, exhaled, then took a sip of wine.

“No, he isn’t trying.”





”I’m sorry?” Harry asked.

“Rob. He isn’t trying. At least not anymore. And now I’m not sure he’s ever tried.”





”I’m sorry.” Harry said.

“Not your fault.”





”I know. I’m still sorry. Can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t have an interest in you.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit it. Old habits dying hard, he reclined slightly in his chair, pulled and exhaled slowly.





”I have a feeling I’m corrupting you? Am I?”





”Already corrupt. You’re too late.”

Chris smiled and smoked some more. She sometimes flicked her cigarette into the ashtray, sometimes out onto the street absentmindedly. She took another sip, drink actually of wine. Harry refilled her glass

“Trying to get you drunk.” He said.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. You got me.” She took another drink.

“Takes all the fun out of seducing you.”

“So tell me about your wife.”





”There’s a segue.”





”Does she love you?”





”In her way, I suppose she does.”





”Do you love her?”

“Yes. In my own way as well, I guess”



”What’s the problem?”





”Our ways don’t seem to match up. She thinks I’m a drunk and I think she’s never there. I probably drink a little too much now and then and she probably could afford to stay home one more night a week. Trouble is, neither of us do. We won’t. We won’t do it for the other person and I’m starting to think its because we don’t care. I don’t care about her sensitivity to drinking and she doesn’t care about my chronic loneliness. Do we love each other? I guess we love something about each other but I don’t know that that something is who we are anymore. I wonder if we love the cardboard cutouts of each other during college or just into our first jobs or who we were ten years ago and we’re afraid to let go of that. There’s no one, or worse, someone different behind those cutouts and recognizing that would mean admitting our feelings have changed. I’m not sure we want to face that.”





”That’s pretty fucking intense.”





”Probably more than you wanted to know.”





”Not really. I want to know about the man I’m sleeping with.”





”Slept with. Past tense.”





”Sleeping with. Present tense.”





”So I don’t have to pay for dinner?”





”Fuck you!” She laughed and her eyes, shaded behind the backlight of the restaurant against the dark street were surely aflame.

“Promises, promises.” Chris took another cigarette from the pack. She fumbled in her purse for the lighter. The cigarette was put down on the table. Harry picked it up along with the pack. He withdrew another cigarette and put both in his mouth. Chris came back with the lighter and Harry took it. He lit both and inhaled. Then he handed one back to Chris.

“I am corrupting you.” She said. Then she inhaled deeply.

“Too late. Told you.”



The waitress came by and anxiously scanned the table. The menus had not moved. Chris’s lay closed to one side of the ashtray, Harry’s was open but his wine glass was resting on the antipasto listing.

“I’m sorry,” said Chris, “we really haven’t had time to look. Could you come back in a while? Oh, we could use another bottle though.” The bottle was removed.

“Should we get an antipasto or something?” Harry asked.

“You can if you want to. I’m not that hungry.” Harry was a little woozy from the wine and would not continue drinking on an empty stomach. He ordered a small plate. The waitress seemed relieved.

“Anyway,” Harry said, “That’s kind of us in a nutshell.”





”What are you going to do?”





”I don’t know.”





”Leave?”





”I don’t know.”

“I’m not asking you to leave her for me or anything like that. I don’t know if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m just curious. Isn’t everyday you meet someone in the same shitty situation I’m in.”

“Let’s say leaving was an option I’ve been playing with.” Harry almost added ‘lately’ so as not to lie. He didn’t. He had, before the trip, no more thought about leaving Claire than he had swimming naked in the Thames. This was a business trip, pure and simple. He had looked forward to having some free time in London to chase down sights missed on his last vacation here. He had looked forward to being with Lou and Craig and haunting some pubs without Claire looking at him disapprovingly. He had looked forward to being away from her for a few weeks. He had looked forward to the exotic idea of working in a foreign country. Now all bets were off and he was faced with this woman Chris who had walked into his life, with whom he had made love and for whom he was beginning to have feelings that did not seem right. Or seemed all too right. Not that they were anything other than affection and attraction. That was to be expected. What felt wrong, or right, was their intensity. They grabbed on to him and held him and he was spending his day thinking about her. The night they had spent together, their day at the photo archive, looking forward to tonight’s dinner, looking forward to, what? Another night of sex? No, it was more than that and that confused Harry. Sure, they would spend the night together. Hadn’t Chris pretty much said that? So where was the anxiety coming from? He had this woman and yet he felt that without some grand gesture, some dramatic act, she would slip away from him. Slowly. Surely. That was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Harry had put his cigarette out after a few drags. He was dizzy. The cigarette was stupid but it seemed romantic at the time. Romantic was not stupid right now. He’d deal with sucking wind next run with Lou. The gesture was worth it as much as sharing too much wine was.

“I’m corrupting you.” Chris said. Harry looked at her and snorted. Say, that was classy. He shook his head.

“So when you go home…” He knew immediately that that was the wrong thing to say. He had suddenly focused on not the night ahead, not the next day or the fact that they still had ten days together in England. His mind had shot ahead to what his life was going to be like when he got back to the States. He knew something was going to change, big time. He just didn’t have the emotional courage to say it to himself yet so he reached out for a life preserver. The idea that Chris would be there with him the way she was here. He overshot the target. She looked at him. Critically; her brow was furrowed and her lips pursed. He had made her mentally go where she didn’t want to be.

“When I go home he’ll fucking be there and it’ll start all over again.”

“What will?” as long as I’m screwing myself here…

“Us. The mistrust. The fighting. His accusing me of whatever the fuck he is suspicious of this week. I drink, I smoke, I sleep around. The arguments, the hitting…”

“Hitting.” She had mentioned that at the pub a few days ago. Harry had been angry then. Now he was angrier. Now there was the indignation of putting up with an abuser topped off with the investment he was making.





”He has a temper.”





”So do I.” Harry more growled than anything else.

“So do you throw things around when you get mad? Do you slam doors? Do you kick the wall?”





”Sometimes. If I get really pissed.”





”So you hit?”





”Not anybody.”





”Its not a far step.”





”From?”





”From hitting and throwing things to hitting people.”





”It’s a quantum leap. Look. I have a temper. I’m not proud of that and I sometimes lose it and act stupid and do stupid things and lash out but I don’t hit anyone. You don’t do that. Not if you have any decency or control or respect. You just don’t fucking do that.”





”He does.”





”Motherfucker.”





”Yeah, well.”





”He hits you.”





”He has.”





”Mother-“

“Its not chronic and it hasn’t happened in a long time and he mostly takes it out on the house and the furniture. But yeah, he’s throttled me. He’s punched me. I’ve almost called the cops on him.”





”Why didn’t you?”





”That would be sweet. Explaining to the cops about your husband and laying out all your marriage problems to a bunch of guys who really just want to get their shift over with. Easier to go to a hotel and let him cool down. Anyway, he hasn’t done anything in a while.”

“Get out.” Harry said. It wasn’t a question.

“I told you, he’s not ready to be left.”

“But you’re ready to leave him.” It wasn’t a question either.

“I’ve got a plan.”





”Yeah?”





”Get my financial shit in order. Find out how much the house is worth. Figure out what we all owe and to who. Talk to a lawyer. End of the year. End of the year.”





”What then? What are you going to do?”





”Do?”





”Work? Moving? Life? What do you do when its all over?”





”Be myself.” ”Room in there for someone else?”





”Maybe. Eventually. Not for a while.” Chris said it with an absentness that told Harry she had not gotten the hint.

“I’ll…” No. It was not the time to ‘be there for you’ and Harry let the sentence drop.





“You have my card, right? You know where I am back home?” Chris nodded. “I’d like to stay in touch, committing as much as he thought safe.

“I’ll try.”

The waitress came out with Harry’s antipasto and looked hopefully for some movement on the menus. There was none. She checked the wine and seeing about another glass and a half left in the bottle, asked if they wanted another.

“Yes, please.” Chris said. “Oh, and could we get some water too. And I think we should order.” Harry delighted in the use of the plural pronoun by her. The waitress’s step seemed to lighten and she returned to the kitchen for another bottle, having poured and now taking that dead soldier home. They ordered. Dinner came out and it was delicious. They ate and made small talk over forkfuls of food.
They tried each other’s dishes, fed each other and Harry wound up wearing an errant red streak on his shirt. Chris giggled and apologized and wetted a napkin and blotted the spot so it wouldn’t set and offered to pay to have it cleaned. As she moved her chair next to his and was working on the spot Harry stroked her hair and removed the barette holding it up. She stopped, looked at him and he brushed the hair aside and let his hand caress her cheek. He lingered and then ran his finger over her jawline to the other side of her face and caressed that cheek with the back of his hand. Then he leaned forward and they kissed.

“Wasn’t that good.” He said quietly.

“You’re sweet.” ”And you’re special. I can’t tell you why. There’s something about you.”





”I’m easy.”

“No, things are easy. You make, I don’t know, you just make things seem right. It just feels right to be with you.”





”They do seem right. At least right now they do.”





Chris blotted once again and then moved her chair back to her side of the table. They finished dinner. Dishes were cleared and dessert was offered and Chris declined. Harry followed suit. The waitress smiled as she picked up the dessert menus and prepared the bill. The dinner crowd had come and gone. Chris and Harry had been there over four hours but the place had never been so crowded as to seem that they were taking up a table. There had been a couple one table, then two tables down from them. Harry remembered that there had but remembered nothing else about them. The waitress, a woman in her late forties, seemed to smile every time she was at the table catching Chris and Harry in one intertwined moment or another. The smile was not there at first, when they were talking about home and how things were there. But it was when they ate together or held hands across the table and took a moment away from food to watch the goings-on of the street. This waitress knew and that seemed to make her happy.

Harry paid the bill and said Good night and Thank you and pressed a cash tip into the woman’s hand.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, “ Harry said, holding Chris’s hand as they walked away, “But I hope you don’t want to head back just yet?”





”Big dinner, huh?” Chris smiled. “Same here. Let’s walk around a little. Harry squeezed her hand ever so slightly and she smiled at him and they wandered down a bit of Oxford street.

There was a store, a dressmaker’s shop of the classic kind. No mannequins and cutting edge windows but three examples of the craft displayed on headless forms with single silver poles supporting them to the floor. No other decoration but the window ledge was painted a light periwinkle and the whole thing was brilliantly lit. They stopped in front of the window. Chris turned to face it and Harry stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

“Which one do you like best?” Chris asked.





”The dresses?” ”Yeah.” Harry thought for a moment, which is to say he had no idea. Dresses were not anything he consciously considered, unlike what was underneath or where the zipper might be. And he couldn’t remember the last time Claire had asked his opinion of dresses. Or anything else for that matter. He looked at the three displays. There was an aqua, conservative cut frock that had nice lines but was interrupted by a wide sash-like thing around the waist. The center sample was a straight, clean dress made of a light fabric with medium blue and green striping over a white background. The rightmost one was a linen example. It was long and flowing and had loose soft folds wherever it might have to snug up against a woman’s body.

“The middle one.”





”Really?” Chris’s voice almost squeaked with genuine surprise. “Why?”





”The lines. Look at them. They’re clean. Straight. There isn’t any unncessesary ornamentation. It can’t hide. It is what it is. I’m not entirely crazy about the fabric pattern but there’s no arguing with the lines.” Harry was amazed at how concise and reasoned his opinion seemed. It was like a lot of other things that had come out of his mouth in the last days around Chris. They seemed right and it was easy to say them.

“Really?” This time, she didn’t squeak.

Harry hugged her from behind and ran his mouth across the nape of her neck. Neither one said anything for a moment. “Which one do you like?” He finally asked her.

“The white one. The one on the right.”





”Why?”





”It’s graceful. Look at it. The way it flows. It’s like watching a dance.” Harry could see its flow but couldn’t see a dance. He said nothing and continued to hug Chris.

“Its getting cold out.” She said, and pulling his arms gently away from her, she turned to him. She moved his arms back around her and put her arms around him. Then she kissed him softly. He could taste the wine and inhaled her perfume, deep into his lungs, holding the breath.





“Let’s go inside and warm each other up.”

***
Harry half sensed the morning light and half woke up. He turned over and craned forward, looking for Chris, finding an empty pillow.

A warm, empty pillow. He turned his head back slightly.

“Hey.” She said.

“Hey.”

“I was watching you sleep.”



“How’d I do?”





”Pretty good.” She leaned down and put her lips on his, tongue jutting into his mouth while her hand ran down his chest and on below the tangled covers, “Pretty God damn good.”

The Worst Fish and Chips in London

Harry worked over the notes from Good Health magazine most of the morning. It was Thursday. He had gotten lucky yesterday. Phillip at DK had been friends with the managing editor at Good Health and had introduced Harry to the man, named Desmond. Harry and Desmond, one a former M.E. the other a current one, had hit it off famously. Desmond had a dry as dust sense of humor that matched Harry’s and they spent an hour trying to top each other. Then they got down to business and Harry got a boots-on-the-ground lesson in how to run a magazine in England. Harry had bought Desmond dinner and a bottle of wine to go with it and they had talked for about two hours afterwards. Then Harry had walked back to the hotel. He had reams of notes to go through, organize, write synopses of and cross-reference. But he had also eaten a full breakfast, lunch and dinner and right now felt that he could easily stand in for a whale exhibit down at the Aquarium. He felt bloated and lazy and wanted to run some of that feeling off. So he dropped his things in his room changed into his shorts and shoes and headed out for Regent’s Park about eight blocks away. Some of the pathways were closed for construction and a dirt trail had been worn away on the grass in their place. Harry took it. It was uneven but he bounced along, working through all the information he had mentally and working up a good sweat for a low sixties overcast London evening. He didn’t pay much attention at all to how uneven the paths were and how many mid-course changes he had to make just to keep his balance. The trail eventually led back to the even pathways. Harry followed one to the inner ring path of the park, sprinted two laps around it, then went home. He stopped at the front desk, not really caring that he looked and smelt like he had just run hard.

“Harry Moss, 307. Any messages?” he asked.

”No sir.” Harry went upstairs. It was late and there was work to do.

***

It was just after eleven a.m. The synopsis was pretty much ready for Lou and Craig to read. He picked up the rest of his notes from where they had been scattered on scraps of paper around the bed, the tiny writing desk, the window sill and whatever other level surface he could find. Everything was put in order and put into his briefcase. He saved the file out to disk and powered down his laptop. The front desk would probably be able to point him to the English equivalent of a Kinko’s. They might have messages for him too. You never know.

The phone rang. He picked it up but didn’t get to say hello.

“How’d you like to have lunch at the worst fish and chips place in London?”

“Chris.” There was a pause.

“Well?” she asked.

"Is this payback for taking you through the Imperial War Museum Sunday?"

"No, this is me bored and not wanting to eat alone. Payback for Sunday is gonna hurt a whole lot more." She could have asked if he wanted to go swimming near the water intake pipes to the Battersea Power station. The answer would have been the same.

“Where are you?”

”I’m at the Hulton Archive. It’s a photo archive on Westfield Road. Take the tube to Westbourne Park Street, cross the street to the bus garage, take a left and go about four blocks. Its on the right, about one building in. It’s got a black marble front with ‘Hulton Archive/Getty Images’ spelled out on the front. Look for it. Its not hard to miss.”

"So you think I have time to drop everything and come charging out there just for lunch?"

"No, actually, I'm only hoping."

“See you in about a half an hour. Maybe sooner.”

Harry grabbed his jacket and Red Sox cap, stuffed the disk in a pocket and left the room. Going downstairs, he became aware of a soreness, ever so slight in his right knee, just to one side of the kneecap. The doorman let him out of the lobby and when he hit the sidewalk the soreness became a twinge. Painful, a bit, but manageable. It was raining again. Not heavily but an annoying drizzle. He put on the Sox cap. The last time he was in London he had been a tourist. A few summers ago. He was starting to lose his hair then and either un-, or fully consciously, began to wear a baseball cap everywhere. Including England which ensured that he was one step away from putting a t-shirt on that said “Hey, look at me, I’m American.” Claire had taken a picture of him riding the London Eye. They showed the pictures to Harry’s old boss and good English friend; Alison. She noted that ‘there was the American with the ubiquitous baseball cap.’

“Keeps us dry in your ubiquitous shitty weather.” Harry had responded.

Harry walked, or now kind of slightly limped to the tube station. The manageable pain had become quite sharp and persistent and was starting to slow Harry down. He worried a little that he had bent or sprained or stretched something in his knee. He worried a little more that, now in his forties, his knees had decided to blow out entirely on him. It was the same kind of anxiety he had had with his hair but now he couldn’t very well put a hat on his knee. By the time he got to the tube station he was full out hobbling. The pain was sharp and intense and unrelenting and he should have turned around for the hotel but Chris was just one short tube ride away, wasn’t she? He should be able to get a seat. It was the middle of the day.

The train got to Harry’s stop and he limped to the “Way Out” stairs. It took a minute getting up them Wasn’t this nice? The road he had to take to the archive went up a lovely, steep hill. Just what he needed to put the cherry on the disaster sundae. Harry had give Chris a first impression of being a pretty fit guy. She’d even remarked on how toned he was. She could feel it in the dark. But now in the cold, flat noonday light her first impression would likely be thrown out for the hobbling, middle-aged guy in a wet Red Sox cap. Harry hoped she wasn’t a Yankees fan as well. He thought about calling Chris on her cell and lying about having to run into a last minute meeting. Then he thought otherwise. They were here, there was a magic to their being together that Harry couldn’t understand or explain but he wanted to exploit every opportunity of it. Granted, you’re in a foreign city, you get a proposition out of the blue and spend a night together like two tigers on Vaseline and you want to beat your breast in a testosterone orgy. But there was something else. Something Harry couldn’t yet fully define. Sure he had checked messages like a man obsessed but he missed Chris. Not just the sex, but her, the sound of her voice, the conversations they had had over dinner. That was what he had focused on. Making love to her was great and he hoped for it again but it was the intimacy, not the stimulation that lit him up. That intimacy was the something he had missed with Claire. Those shared moments with Chris were the ones he would never have if he’d been connected to Claire in any way other than a marriage license. It was why the idea of leaving her had run across his brain once or twice. It was a consideration he was still afraid to face so he didn’t. Fully, anyway. Right now anyway, he was in London, there was Chris and he could figure the rest out later.

"Chris Adams please. Harrison Moss to see Chris Adams." Harry told the receptionist. She spoke into the phone, listened to some instructions from the other end of the line then put the receiver down.

"Miss Adams is in the glass plate storage area. If you'll go through those double doors and continue straight to the back of the building, I'm sure she'll be easy to find. Please don't touch anything on your way. We're not supposed to let in visitors unescorted but I'm sure you won't be there long." No I guess not he thought, nodding thanks. Didn't she just want to come up here? This was lunch, wasn't it? But Harry followed the directions and at the very back of the big box that was the building that housed Hulton's archives, he found Chris.

She was on one knee looking through a box of kraft paper wrapped glass plates. She had an oversized pair of white gloves on, a man's white dress shirt, blue jeans and New Balance sneakers. She looked up at Harry as he limped down the narrow aisle. She smiled and Harry thought her eyes were greener than blue today but what did it matter? They were still the deep pools that he had a crazy mental image of diving into.

"What's with you?"

"Knee."

"Poor baby." She said as a statement of fact. No sarcasm.

"It'll be ok."

"You should stay off of it."

"Not an option."

"Uh huh. You can take the cape off, it's me." She walked the last five feet to meet him. Harry stopped. Chris put her arm out straight and rested it on his shoulder. She looked at him and moved her mouth to his, stopped. Opening her eyes just before what Harry thought was a kiss, she looked at him, lips slightly parted. "I felt the strangest thing today." she said.

Harry cocked his head slightly.

"I missed you." She closed her eyes and pressed her mouth to Harry's. He fell back slightly and she caught him with her left hand hooking around the small of his back. Harry wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back as hard as she had kissed him. No one had missed him in a long time.

"Silly." Harry said, "You just saw me and I just saw you thirty three hours, forty six minutes and eight seconds ago. Not that I'm counting." They kissed again.

"So what’s wrong with your knee?"

"I don’t know. Something zigged when it should have zagged. Or maybe it’s the weather." Chris' hand had come off his shoulder and was being run up and down his chest. Then she moved it over his belt and down.

"Kiss it and make it better?"

"Knee. You're a little too high."

"I'll get there. You've just got to be patient."

"Um. I know we're in an isolated corner of this place, but aren't you a little concerned about being walked in on?" Chris was back down on one knee.

"Lunch. They're all at the worst fish and chips joint in London. But it’s convenient."

"Apparently."

***

Lunch was good too. Chris passed up the fish and chips for a slightly less convenient Indian restaurant that served Chicken Tandoori, eight kinds of bread and plates of yogurt to soak up the effects of the chicken. They washed it all down with some cheap French Pouilly Fuisse and were making an afternoon of it. Talk went to Chris’s work at the archive.

“The glass plates literally haven’t seen the light of day since the thirties. They’re all stringer shots from the old Illustrated London News that Neville published from the late twenties until the war started. Its amazing; backyards, busses, the King, soldiers parading, it’s like a time capsule. He paid these guys by the published shot, but also bought up their entire exposed sets. Went out of business during, what was it, the bombing?”

”The blitz probably.”

”That. Couldn’t afford the paper for an illustrated magazine. What was available was being bought up by the print newspapers and the government so he shut down. Everything stayed in boxes until the war was over and then Hulton found it, bought the entire collection, never unpacked it, just catalogued what he could and brought it to the warehouse that used to be here. They’ve since built something modern to house it all but it’s been pretty much here untouched. Fucking amazing.”

”So what are you doing?”

”A lot of the records are unclear. I’m going in, spot checking but I also want to see for myself what they’ve got.”

“Who for?”

”This time, me. “

”You?”

“I’ve got a few ideas. Some books I want to do. One in particular but I’m getting distracted right now. There’s so much good stuff here. So I’m playing for a few days, looking through it all. Then I’ll get serious and get back to the research and put the book together.”

“You’ve been playing here, then?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yesterday?”

”I’m sorry.” she paused. She looked down at her plate and idly played with a leftover piece of bread. She took a deep breath and then exhaled it. She looked at Harry. “That was kind of shitty wasn’t it? I’m sorry Harry. I should have called you. Even to let you know I was out. I just needed a little space. I’m sorry.”

”Forget about it.” Harry said, suddenly feeling a little small.

“I thought I had freaked you out.”

”You did.”

”Asking you to sleep with me like that?”

”No. Disappearing in the middle of the night right after you did.” Chris laughed. Her eyes lit up and the smallest of laugh line wrinkles formed on each side of her face.

“You mean you’ve never had a lover who walks out on you?”

”Not after I made her come that hard, no.” She laughed again, hoping, as did Harry, that the waitstaff wasn’t within earshot.

“Dinner tonight?”

”Love to.”

”Meet me in the lobby. Seven thirty o.k?” Seven thirty would be fine. Chris paid for the lunch against Harry’s objections. She was stubborn and the more Harry offered to split, the more stubborn she got and the more pointed Harry’s arguments about the bill became. A test of wills, but eventually Harry backed away. Seven thirty was a time he meant to keep. The Indian place had not been far from the archive, which was good. Chris kissed him hard in the rain, told him to stay off the knee. Harry hobbled back to the tube station and took a train to Oxford Circus. He had to fight the crowds but he found the copy shop he was looking for and soon had three sets of his research summaries. He tracked down Craig and Lou on their cell phones and proposed a meeting at the pub up the street for five.

Lou was already there, working on his second tonic and lime, no gin, when Harry showed up. Craig came in a few minutes later. They spread their papers out on the small pub table Lou had grabbed in the dark corner of the pub and began to share their notes.

“The circ numbers hold up.” Craig began. “Everything’s auditable. They are selling what they say they are selling and returns can be verified. They’ve run two single copy tests. A sample magazine each time. They sold in November and then again last month.”

”May. So?” Harry asked.

“Each copy test was tracked. They printed almost three hundred thousand magazines.”

“Recycled U.S. content, but the copyright was clear.” Lou added.

“Yeah. So after complimentary copies and giveaways, they put about two hundred ninety eight thousand magazines on newsstands in England, Wales, Ireland, Scotland. They took rack space where they could get it but cut a deal with Tesco, that’s one of the big supermarket chains over here, to get two time only prime space, right by the checkouts, one for each test.”

”So far, so good.” Harry said. “They got lucky. U.S. magazine space is a whole lot tighter and the tests are run on a smaller scale. Who paid for the print runs?”

”Far as I can tell, Wallace.” ”He’s got that kind of capital?” ”Somebody’s got it over here. Somebody with a vested interest in making Wallace work. Owens media sent over content but that’s the extent of their involvement. No big capital outlays to finance Wallace. They think there’s a market here and they think they can make a go of it.”

”Which is why they sent us over.” Lou said. “So is it all working according to plan?”

“Seems to be.” Answered Craig. “Sell through each test was in the forty to forty five percent range. Returned copies were tallied and the count variance was plus or minus three percent so it all adds up.”

”In other words,” said Harry, “Three hundred thousand magazines go out on the rack, a hundred thirty five K sell, and about a hundred sixty thousand copies, give or take, get counted before they are trashed. No problems, right?”

“Right.” Said Craig. “Doesn’t feel right. But right.”

“That’s kind of it, isn’t it?” asked Lou. “It doesn’t feel right but on paper it all adds up.”

”On paper it does.” Answered Craig.

“What’s missing?” asked Lou.

“He is getting a hell of a lot done without a lot of help.” Said Harry. “For starters, his regular staff is four. He’s putting out 160 pages of edit, granted, his copy is free, but he is anglicizing it and laying it out and picking up new art and photos and securing rights and going to print. All with four staffers. Friend of mine in the business wonders if he isn’t getting elves in at night. Even the U.S. operation runs with about four times as many staffers. And that’s lean and they need to write or buy all their stories.”

“So he’s a good manager.” Said Craig.

“But a lousy sales rep.” Lou jumped in. “Look at his page rates. They’re published and the projected rates are in the business plan he submitted to Owens. I did some quick comparative studies. He could be getting between nine and twelve percent more per page for this kind of ad space at these circulation numbers.”

“But that’s his problem.” Said Harry. “If he’s short-selling, the only person he’s hurting is himself. He pays Owens a flat licensing fee for the name and some, some free edit. Then he had to fill in the rest of the book, put it on the shelves and hope that he sells enough copies and enough ad pages to pay next month’s rent, licensing fee, payroll, lights and so on. He pockets what’s left over or, if he’s smart, plows most of that back into the business so he’s not a one trick pony hoping Towards Better Health is going to provide for his kid’s college fund.”

“I don’t get that.” Said Craig.

“Neither do I.” Said Harry. “He’s a pompous ass but he’s not a stupid pompous ass. He knows he has to make it on what he sells here. There are no subsidies from home. So why short change himself?”

”Can he be discounting ad space until the book really picks up, really takes off and then ad pages come at a premium? Reward everybody who advertised early, nail all the Johnny come lately’s with premium rates? That’s on way to build a core endemic advertiser stable.” Craig wondered.

“Could be.” Said Lou. “But he’s taking an awful big risk if he’s going to pick up premium ad rates from later advertisers. You want to grow your client accounts at the same time you’re growing your circulation. Everybody wins. You pick up some more copies, advertiser picks up some more eyeballs on their page, feels good and then six months later you present solid sales numbers and advertisers are only too happy to pay a higher page rate.”

”Well that’s not entirely true, is it?” Harry wanted to know the obvious.

“No, of course not. Advertisers always want something for nothing. But if you deliver the numbers, they piss and moan a little less about your raising the rates.”

“Why don’t we ask Mr. Wallace himself tomorrow.” Harry said. “We have an eleven o’clock meeting and the afternoon set aside for just this kind of question and answer period. Ought to be illuminating and we’ll start to find out if Wallace is the publishing value he says he is or if TBH is making a mistake.” Both Lou and Craig had finished their drinks. Now that the meeting was over Craig suggested that they order another round, this time something a little more potent.

”Bartender keeps giving our three pints of club soda a dirty look.”

“You are going to have to face down his wrath without me.” Said Harry happily, “Its almost seven and I have to be clean and presentable in a half an hour.”

“Dinner date?” Craig looked at him.

“A pal from the museum.” Lou stepped in. “We’ve done enough for now. Lets take a break. We’ll meet at breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock as usual boys?”

”Sure.”

Craig was up and heading to the bar for a proper pint of something. “See you later then, Harry.”

“Harry.”

”Lou. I’m back. I won’t fuck up like I did.”

”I know. But be careful Har. Just be careful.”

Coyote Ugly

Harry rolled over to the place he had found Chris on the next pillow two or three times during the night and craned forward. Nuzzling that soft spot on her neck., the one just below her hairline seemed to tickle her. She had, chortled? Was that what she did? He didn’t care. It had sounded wonderful. A crescendo above the refrain of her slow, deep breathing.

He pressed his face into a cold pillow. The rest of Chris wasn’t there either. In an instant, he was awake. Bathroom. Did she go to the bathroom? He looked at the black, square shape of the door’s opening. Nothing. Harry’s room was a pretty typical English hotel room. If you walked sideways, you could move on either side of the bed. If you put your suitcase right on the bed instead of on the floor at the foot of it, you could walk to the window and back. He turned the light on to scan every corner for Chris. She wasn’t here. You usually find coyote ugly in the morning, not in the middle of the night. Rather chew your arm off than risk waking the person next to you by moving. Was Chris ahead of a curve? Harry picked up the phone and called the operator. Still lost in the confusion you get when you wake up from a dream of one place only to find yourself in another, so you straddle two realities until something, the drip of a faucet, an air conditioner, a cat’s meow brings you to the place you are and the other place disappears. No matter how real it seemed at the time.

“Chris Adams, please.” ”Yes sir. It is three thirty sir.” ”Thanks. Would you connect me?” The line clicked over and the phone began to ring. On the second ring she picked up. ”Huh?” ”Everything all right?” ”Huh? Yeah. Yeah.” ”You left.”

“You looked pretty peaceful. I need my space.”

“What…” ”Tomorrow.” And she hung up.

Harry put the phone down and exhaled long and low. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling.

“What the fuck?” He swallowed. At least she wasn’t a sleepwalker, drifting up and down the hallways in her nightgown, or worse. They had come back to their floor, both were on three. Like post prom teenagers, they wrapped around each other. It was stupid and awkward and Harry didn’t care. He could not, would not let go of her. He fished his key out and reached to the door lock when she stepped back into the hall. ”I’ll be back.” She said in a low, hushed tone. Harry didn’t answer. He quietly turned the lock.

“Leave the door open.” She said.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. He had no idea what to do. He turned the overhead light off and turned on the small bedside lamp. Then he turned it off. In darkness, he felt vulnerable. He turned the light on again. He stared at the wall. The door pushed open. She walked in in bare feet. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown that surprised Harry as much as if she had walked in nude. He expected her to have brushed her teeth or combed her hair or any of the things he was too busy flicking lights on and off to have remembered to do but certainly not come in ready for…

What? ”Still dressed?” she asked.

“Wasn’t sure.”

“Of what?” There was a note of incredulousness in her voice and Harry had to move fast to get out of looking like a complete geek.

“Boxers have a pretty bold pattern. Wasn’t sure if you could handle it.” Chris exhaled a laugh past her tongue pressed against her front teeth and by the light of the bedside lamp Harry could see her blue green eyes light up in delight. She was unbuttoning his shirt while sitting on top of him. He reached under her to get his belt. The shirt pulled open she leaned down to kiss his chest. He abandoned his belt and began to stroke her, down across the small of her back and over the backs of her legs. Each pass of his hand drifted closer to the edge of her nightgown and when he reached it, he reached underneath to run the tips of his fingers up her skin.

“What the fucking fuck?” Harry now said out loud to the ceiling of the empty room. Satisfied that no amount of rhetorical expletives would make Chris suddenly reappear, he reached over and turned the light off. He had turned it off earlier, when they had begun to pull the last of each other’s clothes off. Chris had objected and turned it back on. Harry, now alone in the dark, wondered how many other bad habits had carried over from his lovemaking to Claire.

“Fucking A.” Out loud. To the ceiling. To himself. He exhaled, then yawned, then rolled over and closed his eyes. Her perfume was on the pillow. He crumpled it up and pressed it against his face. Inhaled deeply, then again.

***

The travel alarm sounded promptly at seven. He rolled over to the empty pillow, pushed his face in and inhaled her perfume again. It was less apparent now but still there. He got up to shower. Harry, Lou and Craig were to meet for breakfast at eight. They then had a nine thirty appointment at Towards Better Health offices with the Managing Director. Adrian Wallace. He was going to walk them through the operation. Meet all four staffers, tour the two rooms they worked out of and then lock them in a rented conference room to pick apart the business plan. TBH had yet to publish their first UK issue but Adrian had rushed ahead and assembled a staff nonetheless. The home office was none too happy with that commitment to human resources and had sent Intaglio over to as much police the thing as help the launch.

Craig was already at a table for four when Harry got to the breakfast room. Neither Chris nor Lou were anywhere to be seen. Harry scanned the tables for a hint that she might have already eaten. Half finished coffee cups, broken croissants, but the staff had empty tables cleared. Harry sat down across from Craig.

“Sleep well?” Craig asked over his copy of the Guardian.

“Not bad.” Harry lied. “Isn’t that a bit left wing for you? Ah, coffee, yes, please. Lots of it.” He told the waiter while waving at Craig’s paper.

“It’s a rag.” Craig said. “But it’s the only rag they had.”

The waiter poured coffee and put down the carafe. Thank God, thought Harry. Between jet lag and booze and the late night, he should have been face down on the table, sound asleep. Some kind of nervous energy was keeping him awake. There was a basket of different breads on the table and Harry grabbed what looked like a slice of white. Craig had a half a whole grain muffin on his plate and kept reading the paper. Harry opened a small jar of blackberry preserve and began to dole it out on his bread. He looked around. The breakfast room had about twelve tables. The place was decorated in a light peach with English hunting prints hung on the walls. And nobody that could have been mistaken for Chris was in sight.

“Didja call Susan?” Harry asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. It was around eight at home.” ”Everything all right?” ”Yeah. She misses me.” ”Lucky you.”

“Hey.” Lou sat down and reached for a croissant out of the bread basket.

“Sleep well?” Craig asked.

“Uh huh. You?” ”Out like a light. Did a little reading. Letter from Mrs. Owen on setting up Towards Better Health United Kingdom. But nodded off and finally bagged it. Harry, how was dinner?” Lou smiled with one corner of his mouth up, the other down. Not quite a smirk but something that said more than I’m happy to be here and awake.

“Fine. Thanks. You should have stayed for the sea bass.”

“Something special?” Craig asked.

“Depends on the company.” Lou said.

“I don’t follow.” ”Harry apparently can do a lot better than either of us for dining companions.” ”Meet someone Harry?” Craig said it with an intonation that more meant somebody useful to the business than anything else.

“Had dinner with a woman named Chris. She was in line at the front desk with us yesterday. She’s a photo editor.” ”And she’s?” said Lou.

“And she’s in town doing something for the next two weeks and she’s pretty and blonde and she’s fun to talk to and she’s none of your fucking business beyond that.”

“Spend the night?”

“Care to have your face pressed through a plate glass window?” Harry was joking but there was enough in his tone to ensure Lou got the hint.

“Harry, you’re married.” Said Craig.
”I am, Craig. I am. And we’ve got a nine o’clock with Wallace. So what do we need to do?” ”His numbers don’t add up. Look.” Craig laid some pages out on the table. Sample circulation numbers for a United Kingdom edition of Towards Better Health. “He’s projecting one hundred thousand circ by the end of year one.”

“Sounds better than good for a first year launch.” Harry looked at the papers. Craig’s work was well laid out and easy to understand at a glance. It belied the complexity that went into finding the data. That was Craig, making the essentially simple out of the apparently complex. “So what is he, bullshitting his numbers? Lifting response rates and he really can’t support the circ?” “That’s the easy answer. The one I went after first.”

“The one that didn’t pan out at all.” Lou said.

Craig looked almost embarrassed. “It didn’t.” He added, “But you have to look at the obvious. Sound of hooves coming around the mountain, you don’t expect zebras and all.” “Today’s cliché is brought to you by Craig and the fine folks at Post cereals!” Lou affected an announcer’s voice.

“I’m getting with Harry on the window thing.” Craig grumbled. “Although holding your head under water might be fun too.”

“We are on an island. Lots of water.” Harry joined in. “So what’s the hard answer that you did find?” “His test issues support first year circ numbers, assuming nothing goes ridiculously wrong.” “Let’s assume.” Harry said.

“Ok, lets. Nothing goes wrong, his projections hit, the magazine is off to a flying start and Owen has a pretty property here.” “We all live happily ever after and Intaglio saves the day.” Lou had lost the voice.

“Except that if you further assume that the ad to edit ratio over here is the same as the American edition, that’s where the numbers go south. There’s not enough projected revenue to account for the number of pages.” “Accounting error?” Harry asked.

“Can be I guess…” “But you don’t like to guess.” Harry continued.

“No. The number of pages he should be selling for the circ and page count of the book should be bringing in between twelve to fifteen percent more revenue than Adrian is building into his projections.” ”What’s the English playing field look like? How’s it compare to America?” Harry asked.

“Not entirely sure. I don’t know who the advertisers are and how endemic they are. Adrian’s defined a per page rate that checks out when you look at competitive sets, but I don’t know who advertises and when.”
“Editorially they don’t seem to be in a bad spot.” Lou said. “I walked around a little yesterday while Harry was hog-tying his filly…” ”Plate glass window Lou, plate glass window.” Harry did not look up from buttering his croissant.

“An-y-way,” Lou said, stretching the syllables out; “TBH doesn’t have a lot in their way, competitive set-wise. There are a couple of magazines aimed at a general health market, but with a lot of cosmetic coverage. Health and beauty are close, but these books land square in the beauty field so there’s not much crossover. If TBH can cover beauty, and I say cover, not focus on, with a strong health core they won’t have many other people playing in their arena.”

“So, who’s advertising?” asked Harry. “Beauty pays. Health products. TBH in the States relies on a lot of prescription advertising. That’s illegal here so where do they turn? Why the shortfall in potential revenue? Is Adrian not selling or selling too low or what?” ”Or what.” Said Craig ”What do we know about Adrian?” asked Lou.

“Solid publishing background.” Said Harry. “Packager, good edit background in some of the bigger houses over here, struck out on his own in ’92. Had made a go of it with some specialty magazines, a small book line and sold off international rights to some local authors. Strictly speaking, he has more book experience than magazine, but he can put an editorial team together and get product out.” ”That’s not what we need right now.” Said Craig. “He’s going to need to sell more ads, he’s going to need to get newsstand space.” ”Edit’s coming in from the U.S.” Lou added. “His strong point is his weak point. He’s got muscle where he doesn’t need it then.”

“I guess so.” Said Harry, scanning the room.

“Harry, you’re going to have to do better than guess.” There was a sudden sharp note in Craig’s voice. “We don’t, or Adrian doesn’t meet revenue potential, we’ve got a problem.” ”We won’t green light it if we’re not convinced.” Harry said.

“That assumes we’re paying attention.” Craig shot back. “I don’t care if you’ve decided that this is a trip you play around on, just get your work done first. Please?” He added, softening his tone, “You’ve got to do the hard analysis just like the rest of us.”

“I’m right there with you.” ”Harry’s ok.” Lou said. “I was just yanking his chain. Don’t worry about anything.” There was an unconvinced look in his eyes as he looked across the table at Harry. Harry looked past Lou, back at Craig but let the rest of the room rest in his peripheral. She was not here. Had not come in. Was just not here.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.” Harry said.

“Harry.” Lou looked at him and the cautionary stare intensified, “You ok?”

“Fine.”

“OK. See you in the lobby.” Lou turned back to his coffee.

Harry pulled a block of paper out of his briefcase and wrote out a note: Missed you. Call me when you’re back. Room 307 (but you knew that) cell 12102320.

“Please leave this for Chris Adams.” Harry handed the folded paper to the front desk clerk then crossed the lobby and sat down on the leather chair. The one that afforded a view of the whole room.

“Do we have tube directions?” Craig asked, straightening his tie, coming upon Harry. Always formal, Craig had a gold tie on with a white shirt with a brand new Brooks Brothers gray-green suit. Dressed to kill. Harry wore khakis with a blue blazer and blue oxford button down shirt. Tassel loafers. Harry pretty much always wore khakis with a blue oxford button down. Pretty much always had tassels on too. Lou thought that Harry dressed like a quintessential single guy. Finding something that was both comfortable and that he looked relatively good in, he’d stick with it day after day. Kept him from having to make fashion decisions. Lou sometimes wanted to know what Claire did or didn’t think of the way he dressed himself. In bars, over a drink and a club soda , Harry would admit to her really not paying attention. That was all he ever said.

Lou wore blue jeans, a black jacket and a Syracuse University t shirt. Maria hated that he wore that as a business outfit but she had given up on getting him to change years ago. It was just a different aspect of Lou to love, so she did with the occasional resignation. Lou was a ‘Cuse graduate and followed their basketball team closely. He didn’t anticipate talking basketball much on this trip since neither Harry nor Craig were game fans. He’d stick to business. They exited the lobby and headed out into London.
”Guys?” Harry and Craig turned. ”Look at us, we get a fourth and I take my shoes off? We got a Beatles’ cover.”

***

Wallace Media was Adrian and four assistants. It aspired be Towards Better Health U.K. but truly was located on Axe and Bottle court; a nice way of saying: Alley. In two large rooms plus a bathroom right next to a plumbing parts wholesaler, Adrian had set up his business. Wallace Media Plc. struck Harry as a front for something , but Harry could be suspicious from time to time. It struck Lou and Craig much the same way and they could not. The receptionist was a pleasant, very white skinned woman named Sara. She was punked out in leather, ripped nylons and safety pins. She sat in an open area away from the other desks but Harry didn’t immediately assume that that was because of her appearance. What he did think was that she was about a quarter century late to the movement that Harry had basked in the dawn of . He also thought they might lose Lou right here and now, he being known for his love of the iconoclastic.

“We’re Intaglio Consulting. We’re working with Owens media.” Lou announced. So far, so good, they still had him but there was the slightest of smiles on his face. “Here to see Adrian.”

“Mr. Wallace, our Managing Director?” ”He’ll do as well.” Lou’s smile was a little more than slight.

“I’ll ring him.” ”That would be delightful.”

She picked up the phone and buzzed Adrian who presumably was hidden behind aluminum venetian blinds in the one anteroom, other than the bathroom, off of the large main room. She waited and then said: ”Some American gentlemen to see you. Consultants for Owens Media.”

Harry watched the blinds being pushed by air pressure and the door to the anteroom open almost immediately. A tall, elegant man, clean shaven with a square chin and wavy silver hair in an immaculate black suit stepped out. He was smiling.

“Gentlemen. I’m Adrian Wallace.” He extended his hand to Harry first.

“Harrison Moss. Harry.” Adrian’s reception made it clear that he knew who they were and what they were here for. Harry didn’t bother to elaborate.

“Lou Fugazy.” ”Craig Smith.” ”Do come in please. May I offer you something? Coffee, tea, water perhaps?” Harry took coffee, as did Craig. Lou opted for water. “Sara, would you please?” Adrian commanded and led them into the office, closing the door behind him.

“First time in the U.K.?” Adrian asked. He sat in a black and chrome leather chair behind a glass top desk. Lou, Craig and Harry sat in smaller leather and chrome chairs across from him. There was very little space in the office. They felt cramped. There was, aside from Adrian’s work surface, no other place on which to rest anything. Presumably the venetian blinds were drawn for privacy but, Harry thought, they also allowed Adrian the ability to scan his editorial floor when he needed to. Every level surface that was not a bookshelf heavy with some “Wallace” imprinted volume was covered in a color print of Adrian with one person of note or another. Harry recognized some the royal family “b” list but most of the people were strangers. He wondered how Chris would organize a photo collection like this. Which shots she would keep, which she would throw away, didn’t matter who was in them. Shit! He had to get back into the action. Adrian was going over something about his future contracts and publishing plans and Harry had missed it. Adrian paused.

“So you’re hoping for a partnership with John’s Hopkins?” Harry asked, parroting the last few words he could remember and stitching them together. “An underwriting for TBH UK?” ”Well no, we have their endorsement for the health column, as I mentioned.” Adrian answered, “I’d like them, as I said, to solely sponsor an issue and I’m thinking the third or fourth. Something to give us a bit of a lift off the ground.” ”Uh, sole sponsorship is a pretty risky proposition.” Craig said. “Towards Better Health didn’t look at sole sponsorship until late into the nineties and I would remind you that they were almost in publication for fifty years at that point. You’re talking about the third or fourth…” ”Yes well, we are not building Rome anew.” Adrian interrupted Craig. “Towards Better Health United Kingdom…” he stretched the title out, “Well, we’re not blazing new trails as it were. We’re treading in the well worn steps of the mother edition. As such, I think we can well afford to take a few risks resting on the laurels of the established brand.”

Craig was red. He was not an argumentative person and he was exquisite with numerical analysis. Where he was weak was in parrying tit for tat which was what was happening now. In past encounters, the three men relied on each others qualities to compliment the other’s shortcomings. Craig could quote numbers with a passion, Lou had a sense for editorial, Harry was quick and eloquent and almost lawyer-like as he synthesized facts quickly, succinctly, tossing them at an opponent’s in rapid fire succession. He never lost an argument or failed to state his case or make his adversary understand with whom he had just grappled.

“I’m sorry, could I make a phone call?” Harry asked Adrian.

“Yes, of course. Please.” He rose and opened the door and beckoned someone. A young, thin, equally white woman named Emily took him to a desk in the far corner of the room. He sat down, thanked her and called the hotel.

It was eleven thirty. “Harry Moss, room three oh seven. Any messages for me?” ”No sir.” Said the front desk operator.

“Thank you.” He hung up and walked back into the meeting. Craig was rustling through papers and questioning numbers of Adrian who responded in a quiet and measured manner. Lou shot Harry a look. Harry wondered what had happened to Chris that morning.

“Shall we order lunch?” Adrian asked.

“That might be a good idea.” Lou answered and menus were produced. The men picked sandwiches off of a menu from a local shop. While they all made small talk with Adrian and waited, Harry sat quietly. Lunch came and was eaten and cleared and Craig asked a few more questions about projected circulation numbers that Adrian answered but only half so. Quite comfortably too. Harry stepped out to make another phone call. At two thirty, Lou suggested that they had taken enough of Adrian’s time.

“Its been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Adrian answered. “May I offer myself for any other questions?” ”Not today thanks.” Lou smiled. “May we make an appointment for tomorrow? I’m sorry, but I think jet lag has affected some of us more severely than others.” Lou looked at Harry.

“I’m afraid I’m in France tomorrow.” Said Adrian. “And I may well be Wednesday.” ”Well, may we take some time with you on Thursday?” Lou asked through teeth that were almost clenched trying to keep a smile up.

“Yes. Thursday. I’ll have Emily arrange it.” And the meeting was over and they confirmed a nine o’clock appointment with Emily Thursday then left.

They walked silently to the tube, ran their weekly passes through the gate and caught the train back to Oxford Circus. Craig had gotten the stop wrong. The hotel was not immediately near any tube station but could be walked to from Bond Street in one direction and Oxford Circus in the other. They opted for Bond Street in that its approach ran through quieter neighborhoods. Oxford Circus meant fighting their way through London shopping crowds which is what they were doing now. After two blocks, Lou pulled them sharply right onto Swallow Place. ”Let’s get a drink.” Lou pointed out The King’s Head pub sign ahead.

“Its not even four.” Harry said.

“Close enough.”

Craig followed them in. Lou picked out a small booth in the very back and motioned them both to sit down. He went to the bar, spoke to the barman quietly for a few moments and then returned with three English pints of beer. Harry presumed ale, lager was a more continental brew. Craig didn’t care. Lou sprinkled salt on his napkin. Classic drinker’s trick, it kept the condensation on the glass from making the glass stick to the napkin. Harry followed suit, salting his napkin. Craig didn’t. Neither of them noticed that Lou was drinking a beer. Lou didn’t drink. But he did, and they were each about a quarter way into their pint when Lou sat back, smiled, looked at Harry and said: ”So, you gonna be so fucking distracted that we might as well take a teddy bear in your place?”

“I’m sorry.” Harry knew what was up and it wasn’t good. Craig said nothing.

“Don’t want to sound like a cliché my friend, but ‘sorry’ is not good enough.” Lou’s voice, normally soft, smoky and flowing, was sharp and biting. He pushed what was left of his beer, most of it, away and continued. “Sorry is not going to get to whatever Adrian is or is not doing, Harry. You had no clue what was going on in there and it cost us. Big time. Now he’s got us in retreat and he knows it and if this is a good property or not, we don’t know. We’re way behind the eight ball in finding out.”

“You’re right.” ”Enough said.”

“So our buddy is in France which gives us some breathing room.” Craig said.

“Research room. It’s an opportunity and this time we’re not going to waste it. Harry, please, please re-read Craig’s analyses.” ”Yes.” Harry’s tail was tucked firmly between his legs. Lou sensed his shame.

“I said enough said and I mean it. Please Harry. You fucked up but that’s over. Now we need you.” ”I’m here.” Harry said. Craig smiled at him. Not showing teeth but the convinced smile that their partner was back on board.

“Good. Go over Craig’s numbers. Craig, give him copies of all of Adrian’s proposals to Owens Media. I want him versed. Harry, can you…” ”Competitive set? I’ve got some friends at DK I can call. They can intro me to some magazines. Quick and dirty but its intel.”

“Good. I’m doing the newsstand rounds. Talk to some folks. They can give me their distributor’s contacts and I’ll talk to them. Make sure the system works on the ground here the way it says it does on paper in the States.”

Craig pulled a copy of a magazine called Total Health out of his briefcase. ”Found this. Found the name of what passes for ABC over here, the British Audit Bureau of Circulation. It was on the indicia. Got an appointment tomorrow afternoon to dig through how they’re measuring copies sold.”

It was Lou’s turn to smile, teeth and all. “Don’t fucking pull one on Intaglio.”

Beers, except for Lou’s, were finished and papers put away. Harry paid and without saying did so out of his own pocket. They left for the hotel. It was four thirty and Harry hoped to grab an early, light dinner and then spend the rest of the night covering what he had failed to today.

“Harry?” Lou’s voice was back to soft and smoky. They were walking the last block, the quiet block of George street before they got to the hotel door.

“I know. Enough said Lou, but I’m still sorry. I let you guys down.” ”Harry, is she worth it?” ”I don’t know.”
“You’re going to find out though, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” ”Be careful.” ”Noted.”

They passed by the front reception window and went to their rooms. Harry dropped off his briefcase, went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He was still jet-lagged and he was tired. But he straightened his clothes and went back out, passing the reception window and the Italian attendant. He found a take away sandwich place on Baker street. Kosher, although Harry was not Jewish and didn’t care but he did find Kosher food to be an amusing anomaly in London. Maybe he just didn’t know better. The sign above the counter said “Best Chips In England” and Harry asked about them.

“Would I lie to you?” said the heavy woman behind the counter. She was large, with black curly hair and a face that had seen enough of life to be wrinkled but not enough to look discouraged. She smiled at Harry and he instantly liked her.

“Guess not. Let me have a large and a turkey on rye.” ”Here?” ”Take away.” ”Pity. We like to keep the good ones.” Harry liked her even more. He went back to the hotel and passed the reception window. In his room, he ate the sandwich and the chips and they were pretty good. He worked his way through all of Craig’s notes and took notes himself. He stopped to read some of Adrian’s proposals and started to cross-reference promised numbers to Craig’s actuals. They didn’t add up. That was no surprise.

When the sandwich was long forgotten and a greasy bag marked where the chips once were, Harry looked at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. Another half hour and he would turn in. But he needed to stretch. He got up and walked around his room. Such as he could. He got his key, walked into the hallway, then to the stairs. Then he walked down the stairs. Three flights into the lobby. He circled the small lobby twice. The front desk clerk, a short middle-eastern looking man looked up at him. Harry stopped at the reception window.

“Harrison Moss. Any messages for me?” The man looked at the cubby hole.

“No sir.” ”Room 307?” He looked again.

“No sir.”
“Thank you. Good night.”

Lipstick, Cigarettes and Wine

Harry had become uncomfortably familiar with the sluggishness of drinking. Senses generally dulled, sleepiness, the feeling of being apart from the world that had once hallmarked some Saturday nights now characterized most. Some weeknights too. They had had two bottles of wine between them tonight. He felt electric. Awake, alert, cold sober as he walked with Chris, holding her close.

He wanted to stop strangers on the street and introduce her to them. He wanted to get to a phone and call someone to tell them what was going on. He had friends near Brighton, in the south. He was in the same time zone, they had something like directory assistance here. Could he find Ian’s number? He smiled.

Then he didn’t.

Tell Ian what? I’ve been propositioned? I’m going to sleep with another woman tonight. Hey, that’s something a married man wants to broadcast.

Hi Ian, I’m gonna commit adultery in its purest sense?
Let’s tell someone shall we? Harry slid his arm back from Chris. She pulled away so he reached for her hand. No. Don’t go. This feels too good, but what is this feeling?

“You o.k.?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, fine, why?” ”Second thoughts?” ”Of what?” ”Going to bed with me. I don’t think Lou really let you get an answer out.” Harry feigned a chuckle. “Great timing. The man has great timing.” ”But I asked you.” ”What?” ”Are you having second thoughts? It’s all right. I was pretty straight forward with you.”

“Let’s walk a bit.” ”We just ate, huh?” ”Yeah.” Chris cocked her head at him, smiling. “If you’re tired or drunk, it might affect your performance, huh?” She squeezed his hand and her smile broadened.

“Well I wouldn’t say that but…” Harry caught himself before he launched into some chest-beating cliché of virility. Christ, do we all become eighteen when our performance is questioned? Fuck, what a regression! But after all that wine, maybe walking a little off wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Been awhile hasn’t it?” Chris asked.

“Yeah. You?” ”A long time.” ”Sorry.” ”We fuck all the time. At least, he does. He fucks me and gets off and gets his.” ”So what do you do?”

“I masturbate.”

“Alone? Sorry. That was a really stupid question. I didn’t say that.” Chris laughed. “We’re both on the road a lot. I’m out of town, he travels for his company. It used to be ok. We’d hook up on the weekends and catch up. Lately its just releasing pent up anger, Hatred we’ve stored up in hotels or bars or wherever the fuck he is or I am. He doesn’t trust me and I don’t blame him. Of course, not like he’s Mister Truthful but its different for him, isn’t it? So we circle each other like angry, tired boxers. We want to quit but he’s not ready and when we get close enough we start hitting each other. I drink and smoke and do shit he hates, he hits me when he gets pissed off enough and probably has something of his own going on the road.” ”He hits you?” ”Yeah and I know, I shouldn’t take it so don’t go there. I know what a restraining order is and I’ve called the cops once and I’ve spent a lot of nights in hotels. They suck. Don’t go there. Anyway, he hasn’t done anything in a long time. He’s down to slamming doors and kicking furniture and I can deal with that.” Harry said nothing. Twilight was gone. It was night and they walked from one pool of streetlight to another. They were heading back in the direction of the hotel, but like a drunk walking a straight line they were veering through side streets off of Thayer, slowing down from time to time to feign interest in a shop window.

“We don’t have to do this Harry. Not if you feel uncomfortable. We can go home and go to sleep and no hard feelings. You seem like a good guy and you seem lonely and you care. You almost sprinted through the museum to make sure I didn’t get bored. I like that and I wasn’t bored, but you cared. I like to be cared about. Just for a while. Its been a long time. But if you don’t want to, just say so.”

They had come to a small square; Manchester place. It was one small block with a little garden in the middle. Really just a large roundabout. There was a metal spike fence that surrounded the garden and a sidewalk outside the fence. The garden and sidewalk were dark, the were only streetlights being on the outside of the square, by the apartment fronts. The trees in the garden cast long, dark shadows. They paused in the shadows, still holding hands, Chris half turned to him,

“I just hope you don’t.” she said. ”Don’t?” ”Say no. Say you want to go to bed. Huh? Now? Huh?” Chris moved closer. Harry tilted his head but did not move it closer to Chris’s face. Something was bothering him. Something was racing through his mind. It got back to the feeling of elation when he first put his arm around Chris. The feeling of joy of the two of them walking up the street together. The feeling that he wanted to tell the world about her, that she was attracted to him, that she desired him that, she needed him, cared about him. He wanted to shout all these things to the world. Look what Harry can do, look at what you didn’t think was possible, where he couldn’t go. He wanted to call all his friends with the news. But not really his friends...

He wanted to call Josette.

He wanted to, really wanted to call her. Now. Get her on the phone at four in the morning. Wake her up and tell her all about Chris. Tell her that he found another woman who didn’t give him the bullshit she gave him. Who didn’t care if he had another glass of wine, who tried to show interest in his passion for history or at least politely try. Who put up with walking arm in arm and didn’t pull away because it was uncomfortable or awkward or there was another store to go into. He wanted to rub her nose in it and he wanted to tell her because he had just realized something:

His marriage was over.

“Huh?” Chris asked. She had her one hand resting on his shoulder and her other arm around his waist, her hand running over his ass. “You o.k?”

He put his arms around her waist. His hands rested on the small of her back. He began to move tentatively lower.

“We going back? Huh? We going to bed?” she asked in a whisper.

“We’re…” and he was looking for the perfect thing to say, just the right thing, the heroic moment but there wasn’t any reason to talk. He pressed his mouth against hers and wrapped his arms around her and began to pull her blouse up. She clutched his ass and pressed herself against him. He pushed her back gently against the metal fence in the shadows around Manchester Place. They kissed. Fiercely, running their lips over each other’s, pushing, biting, pressing. Chris pushed her tongue into Harry’s mouth and he tasted the sum total of her that night: her lips, her lipstick, cigarettes and wine and he kissed her harder and she him.

They stopped for a moment. Chris smiled and looked up at him. “Second thoughts?” she grinned.

“No.” ”So now…”

He straightened the bit of blouse he had been pulling at and stepped back as far as he would allow himself from her. She pulled him back close, put her arm around his waist and holding each other they walked a block called Spanish Place back to the hotel on George street.