‘I suppose you want to know why I didn’t tell you about the Mode job,’ she said, glancing towards David. He shrugged non-committally, but she knew him well enough. ‘I didn’t say anything because it’s only just been announced.’
‘Juliet said it was last week.’
‘We’ve been so busy in the run-up to the holidays, and with Josie around, there’s not been much opportunity to talk.’
David nodded, but he
didn’t look convinced. ‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And are you going to go for it?’
She took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to like it. ‘I think I have to, really,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to show ambition or give up. I’ll need to submit a presentation before the end of the month.’
‘This month?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll have to write it while we’re away.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No, it can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t choose the timetable, David. If Ros bloody Kimber decides to jump ship, I can’t exactly ask her to wait six months while I have a holiday.’
He was quiet for a moment, and Amy knew he was trying to control his temper.
‘Listen, I understand that jobs like this only rarely come up, but this is the first day of a break that’s supposed to be total relaxation.’
‘I know, David, but—’
‘Aren’t you sick of it?’ he said, turning to face her. ‘Don’t you look around at all this . . .’ he gestured towards the dark countryside, so still and quiet around them, ‘and want more of it? Juliet’s an editor, Peter’s in the City; I don’t notice them working as hard as we do. They’re always at their cottage in the country or in Paris or Rome – and not on business.’
‘Juliet’s editor of Living Style,’ said Amy defensively. ‘It’s a small job. I’ve never worked out what Peter does, but from what I can gather, it’s a lot of long lunches in Coq d’Argent.’
‘So what? Don’t you think we have enough? Enough money, enough work to do, enough everything? Where does it stop? When do we stop and draw a line and say we’re content?’
Amy’s instinct was to push back, tell him how important it was to her, ask him to support her just one last time, but she knew what this was about. George Moore, one of David’s best friends, had died of a heart attack six months earlier. He had started at the bank in the same band of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed graduate recruits as David, and they’d risen through the ranks together, hopping between the big financial giants, earning money, fat bonuses and industry praise. They’d played squash once a week, and gone on a boys’ shooting trip to Scotland every autumn, until George dropped dead during a triathlon, leaving three kids under ten and a grieving wife.
‘I know you want to slow down,’ said Amy. ‘But what about seizing the day? What about taking an opportunity when it presents itself? David, this chance won’t come again.’
‘And is that so terrible?’
‘So now you’re saying I should give up my career?’ said Amy, annoyed that he seemed to be pouring cold water on her ambitions.
‘No, I’m saying you don’t have to go for this particular job.’
‘And then what? Verve isn’t going to last for ever, you know, and I don’t want to end up as an ex-editor, freelancing for day rates that haven’t gone up in fifteen years. And yes, I know you make a great living. But I need something for me. I couldn’t sit at home like Claire ironing socks.’
To her surprise, David laughed. He stopped and turned, looking into her eyes.
‘Okay, okay, I hear you,’ he said. ‘But just get the application done as quickly as you can. The pact remains. A couple of days on this, then relax: is that a deal?’
‘It’s a deal,’ she smiled, leaning in to kiss him. But behind his back, out in the dark, Amy was crossing her fingers.
Chapter 11