Майкл Ридпат: The Partnership Track

‘You certainly did that,’ I said.

Manuela smiled quickly. ‘Maybe you were the brave one. You refused to tell him. He knows something, doesn’t he?’

‘He does,’ I said. ‘And it really isn’t any of his business.’

‘Or mine,’ said Manuela.

I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

We all got up from the table and, while the others were milling about, I went to the front desk to see about my room. They gave me my key and a little map showing where my cabin was — at the far end of a cluster. My luggage was already there.

It was still snowing outside; after the warmth of the main building, the cold air had an invigorating bite to it. The log cabins that acted as bedrooms were fuzzy dark blurs illuminated by lamps spaced at regular intervals above the path. I sensed, but I could not see in the blurred darkness, the mountains, the lake and the miles and miles of dense pine trees. We were alone, a tiny spark of human light and warmth glimmering beneath the vast soft cloak of a New Hampshire snowfall.

Three figures moved through the gloom a few yards ahead of me: the easily recognizable shapes of Trent, Harald and Manuela — two tall men and one tiny woman. They were discussing Bill and the stunt he had pulled; everyone always talked about Bill. As they passed the first cabin, Trent peeled off.

‘Good night, Manuela,’ he said. ‘Good night, Harald. Sleep well, both of you.’ His words were laced with innuendo.

Manuela stopped in her tracks. ‘Fuck off, Trent,’ she snapped, anger igniting in her voice. ‘If you can’t accept reality, that’s your problem, not ours.’

None of the three of them had realized I was so close behind them. I hesitated in order to let the other two go on ahead. Trent laughed as he entered his cabin and shut the door.

‘Does he know?’ hissed Harald in a too-loud whisper.

‘Shh, Harald,’ said Manuela.

She turned and saw me. As did Harald. They moved apart to place six inches between them. A moment later they were at Harald’s cabin and Harald bid Manuela a cursory good night, ignoring me.

Manuela and I shared a small log building, divided into two semi-detached cabins. She went into her room, and I went into mine.

My bags were on the floor, and a thick envelope lay in the centre of the desk. The case for tomorrow. I decided to get up early and tackle it with a fresher mind and a firm deadline, rather than working on it uselessly into the night.

I undressed, flopped on the bed, and thought about the evening and how everyone had fared. Charlie, Harald and Cynthia had not impressed anyone. Charlie, in particular, had blown it, possibly terminally. Trent had done pretty well, but there was no doubt that Manuela had performed the best by far.

I thought I had done OK. Perhaps I should have talked about Henrietta. Bill had been genuinely sympathetic about Mum; there was no reason to think he wouldn’t be sympathetic about Henrietta. He had been divorced three times himself, after all. It was none of Bill’s business, nor anyone else’s at Labouchere; but if I wanted to make partner, the right to privacy was one of those niceties I would have to sacrifice. And now with Henrietta gone, I had to make partner. Otherwise losing her would have been worth nothing, just a big, giant mistake.

The dark wave with which I had become so familiar over the last couple of months threatened to engulf me again. Mum. Henrietta. Usually I fought it off by working. Well, that’s what I would do this time, when I woke up in a very few hours.

But before I could wake up, I had to go to sleep.

I grabbed my phone but there was no signal, so I used the room telephone instead and called Henrietta’s mobile number. It was five o’clock in the morning in London and her phone was switched off. I called the landline in our flat. She didn’t answer it. Why would she? She wasn’t there.

Ten days before, I had arrived home at eleven after a couple of days in Edinburgh seeing a client. The lights were out in the flat, so I had assumed Henrietta hadn’t stayed up for me. I had a taxi booked for five forty-five the next morning to take me back to Heathrow for my flight to Delhi, so I needed to turn on the light in our bedroom to get access to the wardrobe to unpack and repack. I apologized as I reached for the switch.

Our bed was empty. On Henrietta’s side was an envelope on which was scrawled my name. I ripped it open.

She had gone. She wouldn’t say where. She would talk to me, but only on her terms: a three-hour lunch in a quiet restaurant we used to visit when we first met, with no interruptions. If I gave her the day, she would be there. But she wouldn’t speak to me on the phone and she wouldn’t answer texts or emails.

I was screwed. I tried her mobile, and she didn’t answer. I couldn’t cancel Rajasthan, or we would lose the deal. I couldn’t cancel Lake Lenatonka, because I would lose the chance to be partner. I did send her emails from Rajasthan and I tried to call her at her office; she was a human-rights solicitor with a firm in Ealing. She never answered anything.

She didn’t understand! How could I possibly have lunch with her when I was in India? Or New Hampshire?

But of course she did understand. She understood very well.

My alarm went off at four, and I got stuck into the case. Two oil companies, one French and one American, were competing to buy drilling rights in the Peruvian rainforest. Harald and I were to play the role of the French company. It was fiendishly complicated. To the usual problems of reliability of reserves, valuation and negotiation strategy were added an ethical minefield of officials to bribe, public-relations pitfalls and environmental risks.

I was exhausted. My head throbbed and my eyes hurt, but at least I had the five-hour time difference on my side. At six-fifteen I noticed a tinge of grey around the edges of my curtains and decided to go for a half-hour run. I always travel with exercise clothing; I am a big believer in running to clear my head, especially when I’m on the road.

I pulled on my kit and opened the door of the cabin to be greeted by the White Mountains in all their glory rearing up behind the lodge. Despite the snow, this early in the morning they were not yet white, but shades and shadows of grey and blue, with a narrow pink streak of dawn crowning the highest summit. While trees closed in around the lodge; higher up muscles of ancient grey rock flexed and rippled beneath the bare shoulders of the range. Two birds chirped loudly at each other, laying claim to the day.

It was bitterly cold. I jogged to the back entrance of the lodge and stopped at the front desk, which was already manned by a blond kid whose name badge said he was Jason. I interrupted him staring hard at the computer terminal — keeping on top of his social-media presence, no doubt.

‘Is there a running route around here?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ said the kid. ‘Just right around the lake. About a mile. But it might be tough going after the snow.’ He stared out of the window at the lake covered in ice and snow. ‘If you can wait till nine you can rent some skis? We have snow shoes too, if you want to try those.’

Later was no good to me. If I was going to clear my head, I needed to do it right away. ‘I’ll give it a go now,’ I said.

‘Make sure you stick to the trail,’ the kid said. ‘It’s marked with posts, so you should be OK. But let me know how it is when you get back.’

It was hard work running in the snow. I had intended to do two circuits, but I quickly realized that one would be enough. About five or six inches had fallen overnight, but the trail was sheltered by trees for much of the route, so progress was difficult but not impossible and, as the kid had said, thin black poles with white rings around them pushed out of the snow to mark the way.