Dominic's POV
Marcus calls at 8:09.
"Vance is on fifty-nine."
I'm in the penthouse kitchen with my first coffee, in a T-shirt, rehearsing a speech I'll never give. I put the cup down so hard that it cracks.
"Where?"
"Corridor. East end. He came up in the service elevator with a visitor's pass and a briefcase. He's standing outside the studio door."
"Is she in?"
"I watched Ms Quinn go in at eight. She hasn't come out."
"Tessa."
"Boss, I think she..."
I don't hear the end.
I'm already in the stairwell.
***
I take the stairs two at a time.
Two floors, thirty-six steps, a hundred and ninety heartbeats. I burst through the fire door onto fifty-nine and nearly hit the wall.
The corridor is long and bright.
At the far end, Edmund Vance stands with his back to me. He's in a dove-grey overcoat, with a leather case under one arm and the handle of the white door in his gloved hand.
He's turning it.
"Edmund."
My voice comes out like a bark.
He lets go.
He doesn't spring back. He doesn't jump. He lowers his hand, slowly, and turns, with one eyebrow lifted and a faint, pleasant smile, like a man caught reading a neighbour's postcard.
"Dominic. My dear fellow. What a surprise."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was looking for Tessa."
"In my chief of staff's apartment?"
"The Foundation said she'd gone to see Ms Lowell. About the gala." He gestures with the case. "I have some papers for her to sign. A very dull affair, a quarterly trustee return. I thought I'd save her a trip."
"It's eight in the morning."
"I'm an early riser."
"You came up in the service elevator."
"Did I? How quaint."
I walk down the corridor.
I stop beside him. We're the same height, and I'm broader across the shoulder, and he smells of lavender and old paper and some expensive soap. Up close, his eyes are the pale, clear grey of a winter pond.
"You're trespassing," I say.
"On company property?"
"On a private residence."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He smiles. "I thought it was the staff apartment. I understand Ms Lowell moved in three weeks ago, rather abruptly. After a burglary, I'm told."
"Edmund."
"I'm sorry. I'm sure it's an entirely proper arrangement." The mild eyes drift to the white door, then back to my face. "I was merely curious about the room."
"What about it?"
"It used to be your wife's studio, didn't it?"
My blood goes slowly cold.
"What of it?"
"I'm surprised you let anyone in."
"It was empty."
"Was it?" A tiny pause. "I'd have thought it was a shrine."
The door opens.
Not by much. An inch. A crack of morning light falls across the carpet, and a face looks out, small and white and swollen-eyed, with a smear of mascara under one eye and a spill of dark hair.
"Hello, Edmund," says Tessa.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Tessa, my dear." Vance's whole expression softens, like a mask being adjusted. "There you are. I was getting worried."
"Sorry. I'm here."
"You look dreadful."
"I've been crying. Vera and I were talking about the gala." She dabs her nose with a tissue. Her voice is wobbly but quite steady. "She's very kind. She's been so kind to me. I think I need to... I think I need a rest."
"I'd be happy to drive you home."
"Dom will drive me."
"Of course I will," I say.
Vance's eyes rest on her face for a long, bland, thorough moment.
Then he smiles, and nods, and holds out the leather case. "Your trustee return, then. At your leisure. No hurry."
"Thank you."
"And do give my regards to Ms Lowell."
"I will."
He inclines his head, gravely, to us both.
I watch him go.
He walks down the corridor with his case and his gloves and his straight, unhurried back, and the elevator doors open for him as if they'd been waiting.
Tessa slides down the doorframe and sits on the carpet.
"Oh, God."
"Tess."
"He knows."
"What does he know?"
"I don't know, Dom. I think he knows something. I think he followed me from the Foundation. I think he's been..." She presses the tissue to her mouth. "He's been calling me every day. Since the memorial. He asks me where I've been, and who I've spoken to."
"Did you tell him?"
"No."
"Tessa."
"I swear."
I crouch beside her.
I take her shoulders. Her whole body is trembling. And through the narrow gap in the door, over her head, I see a figure standing in the golden light of the studio, with her red hair loose about her shoulders and her silk scarf slipped half off, and a face like a woman who's seen the sea come over the wall.
Our eyes meet.
She puts her hand on the frame of the door.
She told her.
She told Tessa.
I don't know how I know. It's a great, quiet, unshakeable certainty, like finding a stair in the dark.
I think: And she hasn't told me.
I think: Not yet.
I close my eyes for a moment, and open them, and look back at the woman I love, who is standing in my wife's studio in my wife's body, and I give her the smallest nod I can.
It's all right.
It's all right.
Whatever you've decided, it's all right.
Her lips part.
"Dom," says Tessa, thickly. "Can you take me home?"
"Of course."
I help her up.
I put an arm around her, and she leans on me like a drunk, and as I steer her toward the elevator I hear, behind me, a very small sound: a door closing, softly, with a click.
***
Vance comes to my office at noon.
I knew he would.
He sits in the visitor's chair with his case on his lap and his legs crossed, and he lays out, in a series of polite and reasonable sentences, the terms on which I might sell him my voting shares in the Hale Family Trust.
"It's entirely in your interest," he says. "The company is under pressure. The press are circling. A temporary move to a non-executive role would reassure the market."
"A temporary move."
"Say, eighteen months."
"And the trust?"
"I'd act as your proxy."
"I'm sure you would."
"My dear Dominic. I've looked after your family for thirty years."
"Yes," I say. "I know."
I let it hang in the air.
He doesn't blink.
"You're tired," he says, and his voice is almost tender. "You've been under a tremendous strain. Your brother's problems. The Lisbon loan. The anniversary. And now this young woman, whom you've known less than a month, and who has, if you'll forgive me, rather a remarkable effect on you."
"Ms Lowell is my chief of staff."
"Of course."
"She's very good."
"I'm sure." He smooths his lapel. "It's only that I find myself in the oddest state of mind whenever I'm in the same room. The curve of her face. The way she turns her head. The voice."
"It's a rough voice."
"It's a rough voice over a very familiar one." His eyes rest on me, mild and bright. "She reminds me, you see, of a portrait."
My heartbeat slows.
Becomes very large, and very quiet, and very far away.
"What portrait?"
"There's one in the study at Windward. Over the fireplace. A charming oil. A young woman at an easel, in a green apron, laughing over her shoulder."
"Yes."
"Your wife painted it, I understand. A self-portrait. Rather a good one."
"Yes."
"The eyes," says Edmund Vance, "are exactly the same."