Page 15 of Gifted & Talented

“What’s to talk about?” she replied in a clipped voice, resolving the expression that had previously been on her face—she wasn’t entirely sure what it was, only that it would not be effective in remedying the situation—and proceeding to withdraw from her wardrobe of identities one that was slightly softer, or at very least more persuasive. “I assume you’re going to pull that article, Jamie, considering the news. It would be in extremely poor taste.”

Jamie blinked at her for a moment.

Then, very upsettingly, he laughed.

“Meredith,” he said with a roll of his eyes, “I’m not pulling the article.”

Instantly, she felt her more placating expression fall away. “What?”

“I’m sorry you lost your father,” Jamie said with a shrug, “but even I can see the gears turning in your head. You think this will buy you time, but it won’t. I told you, I’m going to press with the story, full stop. My telling you about it was only a matter of fair warning, as an ethical matter.”

“Ethical matter? I can’t decide if you’re aware how stupid you sound. What if I’d hired someone to get rid of you, Jamie, hm? What if I decided to blackmail your publisher? Which is something I could absolutely do,” Meredith realized abruptly. “I could hire someone right now,” she announced as her phone buzzed again in her hand, her watch screen now lighting up with the name of her sister-in-law, Arthur’s wife, Gillian. “You wouldn’t even make it outside the building if I decided that would be less of a mess. Hello?” she said into the phone.

“Are you threatening to put out a hit on me?” asked Jamie. “To my actual face?”

“Meredith, have you heard? I’m just checking that someone was able to reach you,” said Gillian.

“I’m not threatening you,” Meredith said to Jamie. “I just think you obviously wanted to tell me for some reason other than ‘fair warning,’ because Tyche has way too much money for you to believe I can’t physically stop you from going to print. And yes, Gill, I just heard, Cass told me.”

“Arthur’s on his way back now,” said Gillian.

“What else would I want from you, Meredith?” sighed Jamie.

“Where’s he coming back from?” Meredith asked Gillian before lookingplainly at Jamie and replying, “How should I know? Maybe you want me to stop you. Maybe you want me to forgive you. Maybe you want sex, I don’t know, how am I supposed to guess? It could be literally anything, Jamie, I just think nobility is too weak an excuse.”

“I believe Arthur was at a sex party in London,” said Gillian.

“Another one?” said Meredith.

“I’m not trying to havesex with you,Meredith,” scoffed Jamie, with an uncharitable note of repulsion. “I’ve been working on this story for six months. And even if this was some kind of diabolical seductory ploy, how would threatening your livelihood have worked?”

“It’s actually a lot more than my livelihood, and you know it,” snapped Meredith as Gillian explained that yes, it was Lady Philippa again, Arthur seemed very taken with her (Meredith, for her part, was largely unimpressed with aristocracy, as she had always lacked her father’s burning desire for knighthood or whatever Thayer had expected to receive from the hoity-toity set) and Yves Reza the racer as well, a combination that to Gillian seemed apt.

“I have frankly always had my suspicions that the best kind of lover for Arthur was multiple lovers,” explained Gillian. “His ideal form of intimacy is lots of it, simultaneously.”

“God, I’m going to have a panic attack just thinking about it,” said Meredith, shuddering.

“Look, at least this way you’ll get the chance to put your affairs in order,” said Jamie. “You won’t be caught by surprise. You can engage a lawyer and prepare a public statement. You can do what you can to soften the blow.”

“How do you even know I’m guilty?” demanded Meredith.

“Aside from the fact that you just threatened to have me assassinated?” countered Jamie.

“Oh please, this hardly rises to the level of assassination,” said Meredith.

“I think it was just a stroke,” commented Gillian, then added tangentially, “I don’t suppose you have a theory about who gets Wrenfare, do you?”

“Yes, but I’m trying not to think about it,” muttered Meredith, by then exceedingly capable of envisioning Eilidh’s inevitable facade of virtuous shock at discovering, as if for the first time, that she had always been their father’s first choice. Almost without noticing, Meredith had curled a fist. “Hard to tell where favoritism ends and narcissism begins, though. Arthur looks the most like him physically. And contingency plans for a ceramic bust will almost certainly be involved.”

“In any case—” Gillian diplomatically sidestepped Meredith’s sardonicism, as she often did, with, “You’ll need to be here soon. Be careful—everything you do over the next few hours is going to be scrutinized by the press,” she pointed out, and sighed, half to herself. “I wish Art didn’t have such catastrophic timing. He’ll be papped for sure, if not at Heathrow then definitely at SFO. Though maybe it’s not such a bad thing? Grief and hangover might look similar on Art.”

“You’re right,” said Meredith, realizing belatedly that optics were becoming more critical with each moment that passed. Gillian was much better about this sort of thing, but of course Meredith would be watched from the moment she left this conference room. People still lingered in the building from her talk, which meant a high probability she could be photographed. Had the news already gone to the press? Probably, since the first call she’d ignored from Dzhuliya (was that really her name?) had been hours ago now. “I’m going to have to get a car—fuck, I should have asked Cass for his.” Tyche’s campus was in the heart of Silicon Beach, lushly centered in Playa Vista, and Cass’s commute from the Marina was minimal—he could have easily taken one of Tyche’s employee shuttles. “Can I have one delivered?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gillian, “we really try to avoid cars. The environment, you know.”

Meredith rolled her eyes. “Arthur’s on a plane, Gill, he’s already a climate criminal—”

“Meredith,” said Jamie with an expression of exasperation on his face. “You live in LA and you don’t have a car?”

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