“It doesn’t matter,” I say, shrugging ruefully. “Really. I’ve got a pile of work to get through anyway.”
“Work?” Freya looks appalled. “Now? Are you serious? Doesn’t it ever stop?”
“We’re busy at the moment. It’s just a blip—”
“There’s always a blip! There’s always a crisis! Every year you put off doing anything fun—”
“That’s not true—”
“Every year you tell me work will get better soon. But it never does!” Her eyes are filled with concern. “Samantha … what happened to your life?”
I’m silent for a moment, cars roaring along behind me on the street. To be honest, I can’t remember what my life used to be like. As I cast my mind back over the years, I recall the holiday I had with Freya in Italy, the summer after A Levels, when we were both eighteen. My last window of real freedom. Since then work has gradually, almost imperceptibly, taken over.
“I want to be a partner of Carter Spink,” I say at last. “That’s what I want. You have to make … sacrifices.”
“And what happens when you make partner?” she persists. “Does it get easier?”
The truth is, I haven’t thought beyond making partner. It’s like a dream. Like a shiny ball in the sky.
“You’re twenty-nine years old, for Christ’s sake!” Freya gestures with a bony, silver-ringed hand. “You should be able to do something spontaneous once in a while. You should be seeing the world!” She grabs my arm. “Samantha, come to India. Now!”
“Do what?” I give a startled laugh. “I can’t come to India!”
“Take a month off. Why not? They’re not going to fire you. Come to the airport, we’ll get you a ticket.…”
“Freya, you’re crazy. Seriously.” I squeeze her arm. “I love you—but you’re crazy.”
Slowly, Freya’s grip on my arm loosens.
“Same,” she says. “You’re crazy, but I love you.”
Her mobile starts ringing, but she ignores it. Instead, she rummages in her embroidered bag. At last she produces a tiny, intricately worked silver perfume bottle haphazardly wrapped in a piece of purple shot silk, which is already falling off.
“Here.” She thrusts it at me.
“Freya.” I turn it over in my fingers. “It’s amazing.”
“I thought you’d like it.” She pulls her mobile out of her pocket. “Hi!” she says impatiently into it. “Look, Lord, I’ll be there, OK?”
Freya’s husband’s full name is Lord Andrew Edgerly. Freya’s nickname for him started as a joke and stuck. They met five years ago on a kibbutz and got married in Las Vegas. He’s tall and phlegmatic and keeps Freya on track during her wilder moments. He’s also amazingly witty once you get past the deadpan exterior. Technically, their marriage makes her Lady Edgerly—but her family can’t quite get their heads round this idea. Nor can the Edgerlys.
“Thanks for coming. Thanks for this.” I hug her. “Have a fabulous time in India.”
“We will.” Freya is climbing back into her taxi. “And if you want to come out, just let me know. Invent a family emergency … anything. Give them my number. I’ll cover for you. Whatever your story is.”
“Go,” I say, laughing, and give her a little push. “Go to India.”
The door slams, and she sticks her head out the window.
“Sam … good luck for tomorrow.” She seizes my hand, suddenly serious. “If it’s really what you want—then I hope you get it.”
“It’s what I want more than anything else.” As I look at my oldest friend, all my calculated nonchalance disappears. “Freya … I can’t tell you how much I want it.”
“You’ll get it. I know you will.” She kisses my hand, then waves good-bye. “And don’t go back to the office! Promise!” she shouts over the roar of her taxi.
“OK! I promise!” I yell back. I wait until her cab has disappeared, then stick my hand out for another.
“Carter Spink, please,” I say as it pulls up.
I was crossing my fingers. Of course I’m going back to the office.
I arrive home at eleven o’clock, exhausted and brain-dead, having got through only about half of Ketterman’s file. Bloody Ketterman, I’m thinking, as I push open the main front door of the 1930s-mansion block where I live. Bloody Ketterman. Bloody … bloody …
“Good evening, Samantha.”