Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

Ava walked into her apartment feeling both welcomed and relieved by the familiar surroundings. She realized that with the cruise factored in, it had been more than two weeks since she’d been home. She unpacked her bags and sniffed at her running shoes. The smell wasn’t noticeable but she would still soak them. She laid the Steinum sweaters on her bed and stood back to look at them. It was her experience that some clothes didn’t travel well. Something that looked absolutely fabulous in a bar on a Thai beach could seem absurd in Toronto. A barong looked great in Manila, not so hot in New York. To her delight, the Steinums, if anything, seemed even more beautiful than when she had bought them. Mimi would look wonderful in hers. So would Maria: her light copper skin and wild mop of curly black hair went well with bright colours.

She packed a fresh set of clothes: a midnight-blue shirt with an Italian collar she had bought during her previous trip to London, a white Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, a clean pair of black Brooks Brothers slacks, and a light tan pencil skirt that came just above the knee. She threw in a pair of brown stilettos. She debated whether she needed to bring the files with her, and decided against it. They would just be dead weight.

After a quick shower she put on a T-shirt and a clean tracksuit consisting of dark blue Adidas pants and jacket. It was five o’clock and she realized she was going to run into rush hour. Dinner would have to wait until she got to the airport.

“Don Valley Parkway or Gardiner Expressway?” the cab driver asked.

“Your call. They’re both going to be slow,” she said.

They were crawling along the Gardiner when Maria called her back. “I’m so mad. I had a meeting I couldn’t get out of,” she said.

“That’s okay; this should be a quick trip. I may even get home tomorrow night.”

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too.”

Their conversation stalled. Neither of them was entirely comfortable with sharing endearments over the phone. “Look, I’ll email as soon as I figure out my schedule.” Ava said.

“I’ve already told the office I’m taking a few days off. When you get back, I’m going to stick by you till you can’t stand it anymore.”

“Do you still have a key to my place?” Ava asked, knowing she did, and also knowing that Maria would never think of using it without Ava’s express permission.

“Yes.”

“After work, go over there. I bought two sweaters. They’re on the bed. One is for Mimi, the other is for you. You have first pick.”

“I’m leaving in five minutes.”

Pearson Airport was jammed but most of the crowds were for U.S. departures. The international departures area was a peaceful island by comparison. She checked in and then hit the lounge for a couple of glasses of white wine. She figured if she had two more on the flight, she’d sleep most of the way to London.

They boarded and took off exactly on schedule. Within fifteen minutes of liftoff Ava had a glass of wine and was nestled in her seat watching Extras. Her intention was to watch one episode while she sipped her wine and relaxed enough to sleep, but Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant were so funny, and the series premise so clever, that she had to force herself to turn off the entertainment system after three episodes. She dozed off, and woke only when the flight attendant told passengers to prepare for landing.

They disembarked at Heathrow at nine a.m. Ava hustled through Immigration and went to the ladies’ loo. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and fixed her hair with the ivory chignon pin. Then she went into a cubicle to change into her midnight-blue shirt, tan skirt, and brown stilettos. Then she stood at the mirror to apply a light touch of red lipstick and black mascara. By nine thirty she was in a taxi line and by nine forty-five was inching her way into London.

Sam Rice had impressed her the day before. He saw no reason to discuss their involvement, no reason to make excuses for his actions. He knew they had a problem and he was eager to address it and put it behind him. She liked a no-nonsense approach, and she was sure that when she got to Harrington’s, Rice would be well organized.

She reached New Bond Street at ten past eleven. The last time she had been to Harrington’s it was after office hours, and she had been greeted by a security guard. This time she found herself talking to a beautiful young black woman with short, stylish hair. Ava signed in, was given a visitor’s badge, and was told that Mr. Rice was waiting for her in the boardroom on the third floor.

When the elevator doors opened, Frederick Locke was waiting for her. He looked sheepish, and Ava saw no reason to let him off the hook. “I hope you’re here to apologize. Do you even understand what it is to make a promise?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“You have no idea how tortured I was feeling. I mean, I was having nightmares, Ava, about how this would affect the firm. I had to tell Sam. And he’s been great, really great.”

“I talked to him yesterday.”

“I know, and I couldn’t have been more pleased.”

“Frederick, we all want the same thing here, but we’re not going to get it if we can’t trust each other.”

“Ava, I’m so sorry. This will never happen again.”

“Where is Mr. Rice?”

“In the boardroom.”

“Let’s go see him.”

Ava was guided through the high-rent district of Harrington’s: big offices filled with antique furnishings and collectible paintings on the walls. The boardroom was large; in the centre was a massive oak table surrounded by matching chairs. The only modern piece in the room was a credenza pushed against the wall. On it was a tray with a coffee urn, cups, saucers, and bottles of water.

Sam Rice stood to meet her. He was extraordinarily pale, his skin almost translucent, which made his full red lips and ice-blue eyes stand out. He was large and soft, about six foot two and close to three hundred pounds.

“Ms. Lee.”

“Mr. Rice.”

“Sam.”

“Ava.”

“Thanks so much for coming at such short notice.”

“This is important,” Ava said.

“For all of us.”

“Are you Scottish, Sam?” she asked.

“Welsh.”

“Ah. I love your accent.”

“There was a time when it was a handicap. The auction, the art business in the U.K. was run by an old boys’ club who all went to the same public schools and the same university and spoke with one accent. It’s only in recent times that they’ve made room for us provincials.”

Ava sat down in a chair directly across from Rice. Locke looped around the table and sat next to his boss. “Coffee, tea, water?” Rice asked.

“I’m fine.”

He saw her looking at the table. “It was Oliver Cromwell’s. It was the family dining table, and some of the chairs were his as well. The table has been in our firm for more than a hundred years.”

“And how many times over those hundred years has the company dealt with an issue like this?”

Frederick Locke glanced at his boss, and Ava saw that he was as curious as she was to know the answer. “More often than I care to recount,” Rice said. “This isn’t an exact science, you know, and sadly, things do slip through the cracks. We like to keep our secrets well buried. My predecessors always believed that sustaining the credibility of the firm was our primary goal. Without trust, we have nothing. So if from time to time they needed to shade the truth for the sake of the greater good, they were prepared to do that.”

“And you learned your lessons from them?”

Rice smiled. “I guess that’s as good a lead-in to the subject at hand as we can expect. Ava, would you like to start?”