She dug the pointed heel of her shoe onto the man’s toe and ground it as hard as she could. The man’s eyes watered. His cheeks flushed. “Please. I’m sorry. I thought…”
“Va t’en foutre, con.” No translation necessary.
She lifted her foot and the man limped away.
London checked her attire. Cream-colored blouse, black slacks, low heels. She wore no makeup except for eyeliner. Her hair hung to her shoulders, parted on the right and combed to one side. She was wearing her horn-rimmed glasses. How dare he think she was a hooker!
The fact was, her looks had always been a problem. Born in London (of course) to a Swedish mother and a Chinese father, she was the perfect mix of both. Hair the color of teak streaked with caramel. Eyes more Western than Asian, green in one light, hazel in the other. Sharp cheekbones and lips that were a little too suggestive. God had made a mistake. She was a serious person stuck with a seductive face.
The pianist arrived and started with Debussy. “Clair de lune.” He wasn’t bad. A little forced. Too much pedal.
There but for the grace of God go I, she thought, looking at the young Asian man at the piano. For the first sixteen years of her life, London’s only goal had been to be a classical pianist. The next Hélène Grimaud. Maybe even Martha Argerich. She was gifted. Very good. Almost something more. With work, maybe. Ten hours a day. Six days a week. Practice, practice, practice.
And then, life…
Leaving a recital, an accident. She had reached her hand into the car for a score as the valet slammed the door. Four fingers broken. Twelve pins. Multiple surgeries. Months in a cast. And after, the inevitable. Arthritis. Fifteen years later, she couldn’t entirely close her left hand. It was hard to pick up a plate; napkins were impossible.
She would never play the Salle Pleyel.
But a person like London required attention, and if not adulation, then at least appreciation. Recognition. She had always been a reader. A fan of nonfiction. True crime. She liked to write. She was driven, not especially friendly, congenitally cynical. Journalism was a perfect fit. Her professor had said she was a born muckraker. But where to look these days? The same place as always. Business. The bigger, the better. Behind every great fortune lies a great crime. It was true in Balzac’s time. It was true today.
By now the time had gotten to 7:30. The seat across from her remained empty. London was a realist. R was not coming. She ordered a cold sake and a plate of dim sum, then dug her laptop out of her shoulder bag and opened R’s email. She reread the letter and examined the attached spreadsheets. Was such a brazen act of larceny possible? Who would have the audacity to think of such a plan, let alone to execute it? And how had it gone unnoticed all this time?
She stared at the open seat, seized by a surge of rage at R, whoever he or she was. How dare he whet her appetite and not show up? If half the information he’d sent was true—and he would have to provide verification—he had an obligation to meet with her. Not to London, but to the wronged parties—in this case, millions of men and women. An entire country.
London took a sip of her drink.
Fence or ladder.
She smiled wistfully. One of daddy’s sayings. Daddy, who’d abandoned them for another woman when London was just ten. How terribly un-Chinese. And then, even worse, had the audacity to go and die at the age of forty, leaving them utterly broke.
Maybe she wasn’t congenitally cynical. Maybe life had made her that way. But really, what did it matter one way or the other?
Fence or ladder.
A problem, a disappointment, a failure, could be either a help or a hindrance. It could stop you cold or carry you over an insurmountable obstacle. Up to you to decide.
Without corroboration, the information R had sent her was worthless. No different than a note received from an anonymous party saying they’d seen who shot President Kennedy and it was Fidel Castro. The FT did not print innuendo. London needed hard proof to write an article. Without R’s help there was no point in going on.
Fence.
Or…
The material was true, all of it. It was a beacon pointing her in the direction of the biggest story she’d come across in her career. She didn’t need R