She wasn’t faking it—the thermometer said she had a fever. She didn’t go into work on Tuesday or Wednesday and missed Zora’s final pickup from school. When Zora crashed into the house and rushed up the stairs, she felt each stomp like a punch. “Zora,” she called from her dark bedroom. “Please!”
“Pleasewhat?” Zora stood in the doorway, a frown on her beautiful face.
“Please don’t storm around, I have a headache.”
“Fine!” Then she did something Coralie would never have expected in a million years. She slammed the door behind her.
I’ve asked Marina, Adam WhatsApped from downstairs.She doesn’t know what’s wrong.
One of their strategies for not buying Zora a phone was letting her text on her iPad. She could use it to message Adam from Marina’s, and Marina from Adam’s, but if she wanted to be in touch with her friends, she had to ask an adult to text her friend’s adults. This would all change when she went to secondary.Everyonewas getting a phone. But now she composed a text to Zora’s iPad, relieved not to brave the dragon in its den.Raspberry sorbet in the freezer, she wrote.What do you have planned for tomorrow? Do you want me to ask if you can visit Daniel and Madonna?
(Daniel had hosted Adam’s birthday at Barbie’s last Christmas Eve and let Zora flame the pudding with his lighter. She loved watching movies far too old for her on the big screen in their red sitting room:Mean Girls,Titanic, andClueless.)
The gray dots showed up, bounced, and disappeared. Left on read by an eleven-year-old?
Then a one-word reply appeared:Yes.
•••
The next day,Daniel appeared after breakfast with the poodle tucked under his arm. Coralie looked at him meaningfully as he escorted Zora out the door. He shrugged, and she wasn’t sure if he was sayingI’ll see what I can doorI refuse your mission to find out what’s wrong.
Coralie was going into work for the first time since Richard Pickard had spoken to her on the landline at work.
At the office, she leaned round Stefan’s door. “Bánh mì today?”
He gestured regretfully to the little fridge under his desk. “I’m on a juice cleanse.”
“Okay.”
“Coralie!”
She turned back.
“Maybe just half,” he said. “Tofu.”
Later, they took their lunch to the lavender-scented green space of Spa Fields.
She stumbled through the story about Richard.
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Stefan said formally.
Maybe she hadn’t told it well enough. “It’s confusing,” she empathized with Stefan. “The not-actually-having-sex part. But I think that’s what we’re all working out now, or I am. It’s not about sex, but power.”
“He’s a very powerful man. Hey, listen. Coralie. Richard got excited about the idea—about Feel Tank. He’s coming for the press day.”
“But it’s my thing.”
“Our thing.”
“But can’t you stop him?”
Stefan pressed the side of his phone to make it light up. “He landed seven hours ago. He’s napping at Dean Street Townhouse. He’s coming to the office at three. He wants to go over the materials.”
“My materials,” Coralie said.
“The agency’s materials.”
She looked down at the bench between them, where Stefan’s bánhmì lay still in its wrapper. “I don’t think my cold is better,” she said. “I came back from sick leave too early.”
