"Cardio barre?" Frank asks a few weeks later at the café by the gym.
She nods:
"Peloton?"
"Indeed. We must stop meeting like this, people will talk,"
She smiles and shakes his hand. Up close, his clean-shaven face still has a lovely post workout glow.
"Actually, this is great timing, Frank: I was going to call you this afternoon, have you got a moment?"
"I suppose we could actually… sit down for lunch?" Frank says, as if he were suggesting something outlandish. She stares at the empty table he's pointing at, and realises that it is, actually, quite outlandish:
"Oh but no, perhaps I should just call you this afternoon. I'm not sure we're allowed to have off-diary meetings with each other at this stage."
The letter of intent was received a week ago, accepted, and Queen Bees are currently undergoing what is known as "due diligence", a process whereby Montage scrutinises every aspect of their operations, and personal lives, before actually committing its capital.
"Hmm, no you're right, we probably shouldn't," Frank agrees.
"Sorry."
"I'd offer to have you on a date instead, but that won't work either. Last time I checked I'm not allowed to date you until I've handed you over to Vikas and the B team."
Gemma wonders fleetingly when Frank did check for the last time. The B team are the Montage employees who will be involved with Queen Bees in the long-term. Mostly, that's going to be Vikas. Frank's job, in the A team, is "only" to strike the deal.
"Well," Frank says, "it wouldn't be much of a date talking shop in here anyway, would it?"
They both laugh.
"See, Gemma, it does sound to me like we're having an off-diary meeting. I'm pretty sure standing up doesn't make it not a meeting, so what do you say we grab a table, and then diarise it when we get back to the office?"
"Oh that works, yes."
"Go sit down: now this is on-diary I can and will expense it. What are you having?"
"Is it manouri or halloumi today with the quinoa beetroot?"
"It says it's feta but I'm not sure it's not just some random goats cheese."
High fat options, both: Gemma asks for the broccoli salad instead, which has soft boiled eggs, but no quinoa. She briefly contemplates asking for a gluten-free roll for carbs, but since it does not come as a half-portion and Gemma can no more bear to waste food than to ingest redundant calories, she demurs and goes to sit down. Maybe she'll treat herself to a full-fat cappuccino on the way back to the office.
"Well, would you look at us having an on-diary business meeting?" Frank says when he arrives with their food.
Gemma smiles: they may, in the distant pre-deal-negociations, off-diary past, have poked fun at men in suits having business meetings in here. Not that there's anything wrong with this place, on the contrary. The food is that rare combination of tasty and healthy, and the ladies behind the counter seem very nice. But if anything this place is far too nice, too homely for a business meeting.
"I'm sorry I haven't got my iPad on me," Frank says, "we'll have to conduct important business vintage style, on paper napkins."
"Oh I don't think this requires note-taking. I just wanted to ask you some background on why I'm getting such pushback for 47%."
"Oh that? I'm so sorry Gemma. I didn't think Geoff was going to insist… is he insisting?"
"I'm afraid he is."
"Well, he is a founding partner. They have these rules, unfortunately, about minimum investment size, in dollar terms. I was hoping they'd wave them for you as we're not after a controlling stake anyway, but I guess he's not?"
Gemma shakes her head and slices a small piece of broccoli into two even smaller pieces.
"Well, take the extra money and run. There must be something you could do with it? I don't know, a new line? Or enter the DRC or something?"
"I don't think even Agnes is tough enough for the Democratic Republic of Congo, but..."
"Yes?"
"Oh no, don't worry, if that's all it is, then it'll be fine. You're right, I'm sure Agnes will find something to do with the money. She's very good at that."
"And yet of the two of you, I'd say you're the one who looks like she loves to shop."
"Oh no I don't, actually."
"Nor do I," Frank hastens to say.
"I always shop at the same three places."
"Same, really. But Mayfair does have such fabulous tailors, it's been hard to pick the top three."
"Says the man from Paris? I'm surprised you bother to shop here at all."
Pleasantly surprised, she might add. She could have sworn his suits came from France. But then look at Agnes. Plonk a French person anywhere in the world, they'll come up with a killer look.
"Sadly, I hail from the provinces," Frank says.
"How lovely!"
"I did not say what province."
"Aren't they all lovely?"
Frank smiles, but does not answer.
x
It's hard to tell how long they might have been smiling at each other for, when another person catches Gemma's eye. She could be a younger Nicky Lam, as effortlessly elegant and slim, with pale skin and the glossiest jet-black hair.
"Frank?"
"Yes?"
"There was actually something else I meant to ask you. Now: you don't have to answer if you're not meant to, but have you guys hired Private Investigators as part of your due diligence?"
"What?"
"I know it's standard practice. Plus our Queen of IT tells me there's been an unusual amount of web searches on Agnes and I. And now this woman keeps turning up everywhere."
"Which woman?"
"The Asian lady in the light grey coat, by the wraps section? No, Frank, don't stare!"
Frank turns back to her. For some reason they are both whispering, though the woman is out of earshot:
"You mean the very striking Asian lady in the green pumps?"
"Precisely. She completely rocks these green flats, don't get me wrong, but they're hardly inconspicuous. I've been bumping into them here three days in a row. And twice on my walk around Hampstead last weekend. That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"
"Well, if she is our Private Eye then she's hardly doing a great job keeping it discreet, is she?"
Gemma nods, and also tries to frown Frank out of staring at the woman with that smile on his face. She doesn't know Frank nearly well enough to judge, but on Dylan this would be a smile that spells trouble. It's almost as compelling as it would be on Dylan.
Almost.
"Are you saying that she is your PI, then? I would feel better knowing that was all it was. Frank, Frank please stop staring?"
He does stop staring, but not smiling:
"I have an idea. You see, I know we did hire a PI. You're right, we always do. But because the profile of your leadership team is so… unique, we're using this female investigator for the first time and I only know her name off the emails. Now suppose I called it out? Do you think she would turn around?"
"Frank, please don't, this is embarrassing."
"For whom? Surely this should only be embarrassing for her, right? If she's doing such a bad job that you've already blown her cover, she deserves to be embarrassed."
"No she does not, now stop..."
He clears his throat and waves at the wraps section, where the woman still hasn't made her selection.
"Miss Fairfax?" he calls.
The young lady's shoulders briefly jerk up and back down, but so do probably those of other people Gemma isn't watching.
"Frank, please, leave her alone. She's not going to answer to her own name while she's out on a job, is she?"
"Miss Fairfax!"
The woman turns around and, even from this distance, freezes visibly.
Frank waves at her:
"Miss Fairfax, please, do join us!"
The woman glances to her right and left, then starts walking towards their table. By the time she reaches it Frank has pulled an extra chair for her.
"Jane Fairfax, I'm Frank, Frank Lacolline-Deléglise, Deal Origination at Montage, so pleased to meet you in person at last. And this, as you already know, is Miss Gemma Woodhouse."
Poor Miss Jane Fairfax looks from Gemma to Frank and back with eyes wide but remarkably calm, considering.
"I'm so sorry, Jane," Gemma says, "we did not mean to startle you."
"You did not."
Jane has a deep voice, but soft with it and, like the rest of her, quirky but really quite beautiful.
"Your lovely shoes gave you away," Gemma explains.
"Do you always trail people in such remarkable footwear, Miss Fairfax, or is this in fact your first assignment?"
"Frank!"
"So tell me, what dark secrets has your investigation unearthed about Queen Bee's founders? Any drug habits? Gambling debts? Objectionable boyfriends?"
"You could have just asked us," Gemma says.
"That's not standard procedure," Frank replies, still looking at poor, pretty, mortified Miss Fairfax. She clears her throat, and with great dignity wipes any remaining panic off her face and says:
"Miss Leroy has been in a stable same-sex relationship for almost three years, no history of gambling but some past history of drug taking. Clean fifteen years. Diagnosed with ADHD, PTSD and Asperger's spectrum, and occasionally incapacitated by malaria flare ups. Miss Woodhouse is currently single, lives with her widowed father, no history of gambling, substance abuse, mental or physical health issues or long-term relationships."
"Well that is music to my ears, thank you," says Frank, turning back to Gemma with a beaming smile.
"I do wonder what would have been worse: a history of health problems or one of long-term relationships?" she asks.
"We do not want you distracted," Frank says, with precisely the kind of look a man would give, to a woman he was trying to drive to distraction.
"Oh I'm not," Gemma replies, with the smile of a woman who means business. In truth she is a tiny bit distracted right now, but nothing she can't handle.
"Good," Frank says.
This is becoming… well, very much off-book. Non-diarisable, certainly. If Hari and Agnes could see Frank right now there would be screams of excitement, and probably some swearing too. Thankfully, they are not, but then again… oh now wait, what a brilliant plan!
"Frank," she says, "if we are going to go ahead with this deal I feel you should trust us, and in order to trust us you need to know us. So what do you say to you and Vikas joining our next social this Saturday?"
Franks briefly stops smiling, only to start again, harder.
"Vikas and I?"
"Well yes, if this is to carry any weight with Geoff and your investment committee it can't come just from you – with all due respect. I do think that nothing would set your mind at rest like seeing us, well, at rest. Agnes and I, her girlfriend and a few old friends, we play foosball down a pub once a month, I'll send you the details – oh, and you too, Miss Fairfax, of course, if you would care to?"
Miss Fairfax stares at her, then at Frank:
"Thank you, Miss Woodhouse, but I hardly think Mr Lacolline-Deléglise will want me to bill him to go and play foosball with you when he can be doing that himself."
Miss Fairfax, damn her, does not even begin to stumble on Frank's family name. Her French accent, like the rest of her person, is unique but flawless.
"I'm very sorry for interrupting your meeting, have a good day," she says, rising to go.
"Not at all," Gemma lies.
"Well isn't she quite the ice-queen?" Frank says as soon as she is out of earshot.
"Quite," Gemma nods. She is torn between admiration and resentment of the woman's composure. Frank is right, she should have been mortified. After blowing her cover in such spectacular style? But no, she just made her report and bade her goodbye and swished her way out with her green pumps and black hair and... "She really is quite striking, is she not?"
"Striking, yes, that is probably the word, but certainly not beautiful."
"Really?"
"Oh no, she's far too pale and too thin for that."
"I was not aware it was possible to be too thin - or too rich."
"It is quite easy to be too thin, but you're quite right about too rich. Now tell me, Gemma, were you serious about Saturday?"
"Of course, why?"
"I thought perhaps you were just trying to get rid of the striking Miss Fairfax. I was about to congratulate you on a job well done."
"Oh, you're welcome but no, I was perfectly serious. How about some good, clean, on-diary foosball? Do you think Vikas will be up for it?"
"He'll have to if it's on diary, won't he?"
"That's great, I'll go and tell the ladies at the office then."
"Already?"
To stay and banter with him would be very tempting, but it could hardly be justified, or diarised, or in any way passed off as professional.
"No rest for the wicked: I suppose I'd better go and diarise this, but thank you very much for lunch."
"You're very welcome," Franks says, with his charming French r's and his lingering, non-diarisable smile. He smiles on at Gemma as she stands up, puts her coat on and picks up her handbag, then shakes hands with him.
"Well, I'm sure we'll be talking again before Saturday but in case we don't, have a good rest of the week."
"Same. Oh, and Gemma?"
"Yes?"
"So you know: that day I visited your office? We were about two beetroot salads away from me asking you out," he says, drops her hand, and adds, for the avoidance of doubt: "Asking you out properly."
She takes a moment, but only a short one:
"Well, I guess let's not diarise that either," she smiles, "I'll see you on Saturday?"
"See you Saturday."
"For foosball."
"I look forward to it."
xxx
Sometimes it's only after something has turned out fine that you can admit to yourself you were actually a bit nervous about it.
This evening could have been a bit of a minefield, given it was the first time Gemma had physically seen Dylan, since he'd seen her with no clothes on. Given their recent conversations she was rather expecting him to be prickly towards Frank and Vikas, but Gemma used her favourite trick and got Frank and Dylan to play on the same foosball team and Dylan's been fine. It probably helped that Frank is in fact pretty good at foosball, and she may or may not have gone easy on them so they would feel good about beating her and Agnes.
She's also had to perform a bit of a feat of social engineering to separate Martin from poor Hari and give her a chance to get to know Vikas better, and vice versa. Adrienne and Agnes have been drafted to engage with Jane Fairfax, whom Frank and Vikas saw fit to take along after all. This is of course a reassuring sign that they are taking this evening, and hence the deal, seriously.
Scott and Kirsty deserve much credit for sticking with Martin on their rare night out. Gemma will definitely have to make it up to them. Unfortunately their currency of choice at the moment is evening babysitting for their very colicky new daughter, Florence. Well, they are earning every minute of it tonight, while Martin is dressed like a Victorian gentleman, or perhaps a New Romantic, it's not clear. His trousers are black and tight, the latter not very difficult given poor Martin's figure. There is a black ruffled shirt with a very large black cravatte which, on a nice-looking man, would look nice as well. There is a black pinstripe waistcoat with a watch chain and a tight black over coat straight out of a Charles Dickens adaptation. It looks dreadfully uncomfortable and makes Martin look simultaneously overweight and consumptive, but Hari praised it and called it some nonsense Gemma didn't understand. Martin is still wearing his top-hat indoors, except it's more like the mad hatter's hat, it widens at the top – where does one shop for such hats? When does one find the time?
"Well played, Gemma," Dylan says as Frank departs for the bar, "if your margins haven't put pretty Montage guy off investing, then surely seeing Hari dolled up on her night off will."
Hari is wearing a black version of the outfit she wore at Adrienne's birthday, with a white collar that reaches most of the way across her delicate shoulders.
"That's a lot of lace and ribbon per inch of skirt, I will give you that," Gemma concedes, "but at least I've got Martin off her."
"And for that I suppose I should thank you. Not that I don't believe your vicarious designs on Vikas are doomed to failure but…"
"Do you think they coordinated their outfits, she and Martin?"
"Oh I know they did. They've been emailing about it all week."
"What? And you let him?"
Dylan shrugs:
"Apparently this is called ouji. I thought it was orgy at first but he explained it means prince."
They both giggle.
"Anyway, I'm glad you liked Frank in the end," Gemma says.
"He's a wanker, I'm being polite."
"Oh…"
"And next time don't throw the foosball game, Gem, that only made it worse. Oh fuck me, he's back, smile."
x
"Hey there, team-mate!" Frank says brightly, "Dylan, here's your beer and, Gemma, I got us the most perfect little Gevrey Chambertin."
"Oooh, bad move, mate," says Dylan, "Didn't she ask you for a soda water?"
"But a 2007 Gevrey…"
"… is not soda water, so Gemma's not going to drink it."
"Gemma?"
"I'm afraid he's right, Frank. I'm so sorry, I'm really not much of a drinker. I think I've had enough for one night."
"Already? It's OK, Gemma, I swear I won't tell Miss Fairfax or the investment committee that you had two glasses of wine tonight."
"Indeed I won't, sorry. It was very kind of you but..."
"But what?"
"Oooh, bad move again, mate, you don't want to ask."
"Dylan, it's fine, really."
"Famous last words."
"I'm sorry, Gemma, don't you like Burgundy?"
"No of course I do, I just never drink more than a glass, and as you already bought me that lovely Cotes de Brouilly…"
"But if I'd known you'd only have a glass I would have got you the Gevrey Chambertin first, never the Cotes de Brouilly!"
"Of course you would!" Dylan cries, and now she knows what he's up to Gemma finds watching his act unbearable.
"Won't you at least try it?"
"Not tonight, thank you, maybe another time."
"But why?"
"Seriously, has your lady detective not filled you in?" Dylan asks, clapping him on the shoulder. Gemma has never seen him do that to anyone. It's simply obscene.
"It's OK, Dylan. Frank's here to find out about us, aren't you, Frank? All on-diary."
Frank nods, not as comfortably as Gemma would have liked him to. For his sake and hers it's time to get it out and over with:
"My mother drowned in our pool, late at night after they had my second birthday party. She knew how to swim and everything, obviously, but she was drunk. She was so drunk, she passed out and drowned."
"I'm so sorry."
"Told you not to ask," Dylan says. She ignores him:
"It's fine, Frank, it's… well, this is why I don't like to tell the story. Rather a conversation killer, isn't it? I don't mean to spoil anyone's fun, really. Ask Dylan, I've never kept him from drinking what he likes,"
Dylan nods.
"I just don't like to go there myself," Gemma concludes.
"Of course, I'm sorry I asked. And very sorry about your Mum, obviously. And I promise next time I buy you a drink I will get the Gevrey Chambertin first, and I'll find us a 2002."
"That's very kind of you."
"And now I suppose the investment committee won't have to worry about substance abuse where you're concerned."
"There you go."
"Yep, quite safe there, mate. Gem, let me go and get you that water."
"Thanks, Dylan."
x
"Why does your friend hate me?" Frank asks as soon as Dylan's back is out of sight.
"What?"
"Dylan, why does he hate me? What did I do, is it something I said?"
"Why on earth do you think he doesn't like you?"
"Blokes are never this matey on first acquaintance. Especially not British blokes."
"It's just his mannerism, he's Irish! He's a very warm-hearted guy, I suppose that's why we're friends."
"Just friends?"
"Why, yes, of course! You know me: no past history of ill health or long-term relationships."
"Well if you did change your mind about the relationships part, I'd say he'd definitely be up for it. Seems awfully protective to me."
"You think?"
Frank nods in a very French and indeed a very charming way.
"Well, I suppose Dylan's heard so much about Queen Bees over the years, he's practically a queen bee himself."
"Technically that would make him a drone, wouldn't it?"
"Now, Frank, that's unkind. Dylan does drone on a bit occasionally, but he means very well."
"Thanks, Dylan," she says, grabbing her water from him.
"No prob, what did I miss?" Dylan says with another big phoney smile at Frank.
"I was wondering about Gemma's singular lack of "long-term relationships", as Miss Fairfax called them. It's hard to believe that a woman of her quality should have failed to bag Mr Right all these years."
"Oh, it's more that she won't give Mr Right a chance."
"Really? Would she rather live with her father?"
"Hey, don't knock it til you've seen her Dad's house. And grounds, tennis courts, she already mentioned the pool, didn't she?"
"Guys, I am literally standing right here."
"Also commitment scares her shitless. So yes, Frank, you guys are quite safe. Where romantic attachments are concerned, she ain't going anywhere."
"Unless you were to fall in love?" Frank asks, kindly turning to Gemma and dropping the third person.
"Why would I do that?"
"Why does anyone? I thought the word falling in love implied that it was not a matter of personal choice."
"Of course it is! Certainly not falling in love is. It's alright for Agnes, she gets to date a woman, but I'm not that way inclined and it strikes me that men, even men in love, perhaps especially men in love, have a tendency to want to take over my life, and by extension that of Queen Bees," she says, making sure not to give Dylan the pointed look he fully deserves, "That's my experience anyway. Now surely you wouldn't wish for that, Frank, would you?"
"Nah, telling you how to run your business? That's the B Team's job," Frank says jokingly, and Gemma smiles.
"But seriously," he asks, "have you never fallen in love?"
"Once or twice," she says, keeping her eyes on Frank despite Dylan's resting uncomfortably on her, "I fancied myself in love for a bit, but that's all that it was. A fancy."
Copyright Mel Liffragh 2021, all rights reserved