Margo emerged from the private elevator and stepped into Billy’s office on the parlour floor of an old Chicago mansion. To call it an office was to greatly understate the grandeur of the space. It might have been a salon in the winter palace of a czar.
It had been two weeks since Jack had disappeared. Two weeks of questions, heartbreak, frustration and rage. Two weeks of lying in bed alone at night going over every action, every casual remark, every story Jack had told her during their year together. Two weeks of longing for his kiss, his touch, his love.
There had also been two weeks of relentlessly cheerful Christmas carols being played everywhere she went, in stores, in office buildings, in passing cars. Even the lampposts on Michigan Avenue had been turned into melody-spewing monstrosities.
‘If I hear another version of “Silver Bells” I simply cannot be responsible for my actions,’ she snapped at Billy, hurling herself into a chair next to his enormous desk.
‘And good morning to you too,’ Billy said, barely glancing up from the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘I see the power suit is back.’
Margo wore a trim navy suit with a three-quarter-length jacket and a matching skirt.
‘I have a meeting in DC after this,’ she replied curtly. ‘If you want something from someone in Washington, this is how you dress.’
‘Note to self,’ Billy said pleasantly, inclining his head respectfully.
Margo stared at him, waiting for him to retort in kind, but he just smiled sweetly, robbing the situation of additional tension.
Margo breathed. Finally. ‘I’m being a bitch, aren’t I?’
‘You get to be any way you want after what’s happened to you, my love. As far as I know you have little or no experience being a bitch, so it just might be a nice change for you. Have at it.’
Margo smiled in spite of herself. She reached over and touched his hand lightly. ‘Where have you been all my life?’
‘Mostly locked in cupboards in your father’s library,’ he said, squeezing her hand. He studied her carefully. ‘You sure you’re up for this? I had a preliminary conversation on the phone with the private detective. The news is not good.’
‘Whatever it is, I’ll be fine.’ She touched his hand again, appreciating his concern for her. ‘I’m wearing a power suit, remember?
One of Billy’s myriad assistants stepped in. ‘Charles Kent is here,’ he said.
Margo crossed to the window and looked out on Michigan Avenue with its resolute seasonal cheer.
‘You need to know this guy has turned up a lot of stuff about Jack, none of which you are going to like.’
‘It can’t be any worse than what I’ve been imagining,’ she said. ‘As long as he doesn’t start singing “Silver Bells”, I can take it.’
‘Don’t be too sure about that,’ Billy said.
‘What do you mean?’ Margo said.
‘Lying for personal gain pretty much sums it up,’ he said, and hit the intercom button on the desk.
‘Peter, send in Mr Kent.’