Read Online The Thief of Time by John Boyne - Free Book Online Page B

out of them. I know the owner and she always takes time to come out and talk to me when I dine there.
    â€˜How are you and yours?’ she asked, true to form as we were seated in a quiet booth away from the door. ‘Keeping well, are they?’
    â€˜We’re all perfectly well, thank you, Gloria,’ I said, despite the fact that me and mine consists solely of Tommy and I. ‘And you?’ The pleasantries continued for a few minutes. Tara took the opportunity to visit the ladies’ room and came back looking refreshed, lipstick subtly applied, a scent of perfume mingling with the crostini. She walked between the tables as if the centre aisle was a catwalk in Milan, the waiting staff store buyers, our fellow diners photographers. Her hair, a professional blonde bob, simple and easy to control, is one of her most recognisable features, and her beauty stems much from the fact that her face is perfectly symmetrical, each feature reproduced perfectly through recognition of a central line. One can only stare at her and marvel. She’d be perfect if one could only find a flaw.
    â€˜So, Matthieu,’ she said, taking a sip of wine gingerly, careful not to leave a lipstick trace along the rim of her glass, ‘are we going to make small talk for a while or get straight down to business?’
    I laughed. ‘I simply wanted to enjoy a pleasant lunch with you, Tara,’ I said, feigning offence. ‘I gather we may not be seeing you around the office quite so much in the future and I want to enjoy your company in the daytime while I still can. You might have told me you were fielding offers, you know,’ I added, a hurt tone – entirely natural – creeping into my voice.
    â€˜I had to keep it quiet,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. Anyway, it’s not as if I went out there
looking
for work. The Beeb came to me, I swear it. They’ve made me a very generous offer and I do have my future to consider.’
    â€˜I know exactly the size of the offer they’ve made you and, in all fairness, it’s not that much more generous than what you have already. You really should hold out for more from them. They will pay it, you know.’
    â€˜Do you think so?’
    â€˜Oh, I know so, believe me. They could up their offer by a good ... ten per cent, I imagine, without so much as breaking a sweat. Maybe more. You’re a valuable commodity. I hear you could be offered
Live & Kicking.’
    â€˜But you won’t be able to go that far,’ she said, ignoring the dig. T know what the budgets are like, remember.’
    â€˜I have no intentions of even attempting to go that high,’ I said, twirling a little pasta around on my fork. ‘I don’t intend getting into an auction for you, my dear. You’re not cattle. Anyway, you’re under contract to me as it is. And there’s not an awful lot you can do about that, is there?’
    â€˜For another eight weeks, Matthieu, that’s all. You know that and so do they.’
    â€˜So in eight weeks’ time, we’ll negotiate. Until then, let’s not talk of dismissals or resignations or reassignments or anything so distasteful. And, for heaven’s sake, let’s keep the press out of it this time, can we?’
    Tara looked at me and put her cutlery down. ‘You’re just going to let me go’, she stated matter-of-factly, ‘after all we’ve been through together.’
    â€˜I’m not
letting
you do anything, Ms Morrison,’ I protested. ‘I’m inviting you to see your contract through and at the end of that time, if you wish to leave us for a better offer, then you must follow what you believe to be the correct course of action for you and your career. Some would call me a generous employer, you know.’
    â€˜Must you talk like that all the time,’ she muttered, staring at the