Disclosure_ A Novel - Michael Crichton [36]
“So do I.”
“Good. I’m glad we agree on that.” Quickly, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “There. Was that so terrible?”
“It wasn’t terrible at all.”
“Who knows? Maybe we’ll have to go to Malaysia together, to check on the assembly lines. They have very nice beaches in Malaysia. You ever been to Kuantan?”
“No.”
“You’d love it.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll show it to you. We could take an extra day or two. Stop over. Get some sun.”
“Meredith—”
“Nobody needs to know, Tom.”
“I’m married.”
“You’re also a man.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh Tom,” she said, with mock severity, “don’t ask me to believe you never have a little adventure on the side. I know you, remember?”
“You knew me a long time ago, Meredith.”
“People don’t change. Not that way.”
“Well, I think they do.”
“Oh, come on. We’re going to be working together, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
He didn’t like the way any of this was going. He felt pushed into an awkward position. He felt stuffy and puritanical when he said: “I’m married now.”
“Oh, I don’t care about your personal life,” she said lightly. “I’m only responsible for your on-the-job performance. All work and no play, Tom. It can be bad for you. Got to stay playful.” She leaned forward. “Come on. Just one little kiss . . .”
The intercom buzzed. “Meredith,” the assistant’s voice said.
She looked up in annoyance. “I told you, no calls.”
“I’m sorry. It’s Mr. Garvin, Meredith.”
“All right.” She got off the couch and walked across the room to her desk, saying loudly, “But after this, Betsy, no more calls.”
“All right, Meredith. I wanted to ask you, is it okay if I leave in about ten minutes? I have to see the landlord about my new apartment.”
“Yes. Did you get me that package?”
“I have it right here.”
“Bring it in, and then you can leave.”
“Thank you, Meredith. Mr. Garvin is on two.”
Meredith picked up the phone and poured more wine. “Bob,” she said. “Hi. What’s up?” It was impossible to miss the easy familiarity in her voice.
She spoke to Garvin, her back turned to Sanders. He sat on the couch, feeling stranded, foolishly passive and idle. The assistant entered the room carrying a small package in a brown paper bag. She gave the package to Meredith.
“Of course, Bob,” Meredith was saying. “I couldn’t agree more. We’ll certainly deal with that.”
The assistant, waiting for Meredith to dismiss her, smiled at Sanders. He felt uncomfortable just sitting there on the couch, so he got up, walked to the window, pulled his cellular phone out of his pocket, and dialed Mark Lewyn’s number. He had promised to call Lewyn anyway.
Meredith was saying, “That’s a very good thought, Bob. I think we should act on it.”
Sanders heard his call dial, and then an answering machine picked up. A male voice said, “Leave your message at the beep.” Then an electronic tone.
“Mark,” he said, “it’s Tom Sanders. I’ve talked about Twinkle with Meredith. Her view is that we’re in early production and we are shaking out the lines. She takes the position that we can’t say for sure that there are any significant problems to be flagged, and that we should treat the situation as standard procedure for the bankers and C-W people tomorrow . . .”
The assistant walked out of the room, smiling at Sanders as she passed him.
“. . . and that if we have problems with the drive later on that we have to get management involved with, we’ll face that later. I’ve given her your thoughts, and she’s talking to Bob now, so presumably we’ll go into the meeting tomorrow taking that position . . .”
The assistant came to the door to the office. She paused briefly to twist the lock in the doorknob, then left, closing the door behind her.
Sanders frowned. She had locked the door on her way out. It wasn’t so much the fact that she had done it, but the fact that he seemed to be in the middle of an arrangement, a planned event in which everyone else understood what was going on and he did not.
“. . . Well, anyway, Mark, if there is a significant change in all this, I’ll contact