Carter and Carter: The American's Are Coming

Michael Carter sat with his back to the wall of the glass-fronted office he shared with his sister, a habit he had never quite been able to shake since the events in Italy some months back and those from Vienna. It gave him a clear line of sight across the whole of the Carter Global floor, though today there was little enough to watch. Most of the desks below sat empty at this hour, the workforce still filtering in from the tube.

In front of him lay a stack of reports, printed and stapled, each one rejected somewhere along the chain before they ever reached a boardroom. He preferred them this way, on paper, where he could scrawl a note in the margin or turn back three pages without losing his place on some infernal scroll bar. Nicky always teased him for it, said he was the only man under forty she knew who still trusted ink over pixels, but there was something in the weight of a report in his hands that a screen could never give him. Which was peculiar as normally he never worked in paper, preferring the digital to the physical. These particular files had been triple-checked and found wanting, discarded before they were ever offered for sale, and Michael found a peculiar comfort in reading through other people's failures. It reminded him that not every idea Carter Global touched turned to gold, and that was, in its own way, useful to know.

He was midway through a proposal concerning a chain of failed car washes in the Midlands when Julie Pendleton appeared in the doorway, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild alarm.

"We have a Mr Dickinson outside," she said. "Says he knows you. Wants to see you."

Michael frowned, the name taking a moment to surface from somewhere far back. Then it clicked and he was on his feet before Julie had finished the sentence, the report sliding unheeded to the desk.

"Gavin Dickinson?" he said. "Tall, cheeky, used to think he was better looking than everyone else in the year?"

"He didn't give a first name," Julie said, "but he did seem fairly pleased with himself, so I'd say that's your man."

She stood aside and there he was, filling the doorway with the same easy grin Michael remembered from school corridors a lifetime ago, though the boy had filled out into a broad-shouldered man with a tan that no English winter could account for. Michael crossed the office in three strides and the two men embraced properly, the kind of hug that men only allow themselves after years apart, thumping each other on the back before pulling away to look at one another properly.

"Dicko," Michael said. "I don't believe it."

"Believe it," Dickinson said, dropping onto the leather sofa by the window as though he owned the place. "Nice office. Didn't have you down as the type to sit with your back to a wall like some sort of gangster."

"Old habits," Michael said, waving Julie off with a nod that told her all was well. She hesitated a second longer, glanced between the two men, then left them to it, pulling the glass door shut behind her.

Michael sat opposite his old friend and studied him properly for the first time. "Look at you," he said. "You've got a tan that'd put a Bondi lifeguard to shame. I remember when you were the palest kid in the whole of Year Nine."

Dickinson laughed, the sound loud enough to turn a head or two on the floor below. "Yeah, well, some of us didn't spend our winters cooped up in some private school library, did we."

"You know why I went local," Michael said. "Father offered me Harrow, offered me the lot, and I turned it down flat. Wanted to meet real people, not just another version of myself in a blazer."

"And you got me instead," Dickinson said. "First brown face you'd properly known, and look how that turned out."

"Turned out fine," Michael said. "You still owe me for that geography coursework."

"I copied it beautifully," Dickinson said, grinning. "Got a B. You only got a B plus. I call that a result."

They laughed together, and as they did, Dickinson reached over and flicked the collar of Michael's shirt, an old school habit that Michael instantly countered by slapping his hand away. Michael leaned back and studied him a moment longer, the tan, the good watch, the easy confidence that had always been there even as a boy, but something in the set of his shoulders looked tired underneath it all.

"So," Michael said. "What brings you all the way from the States? You didn't fly six hours just to remind me about that coursework."

"Just passing through, you know," Dickinson said, though his eyes slid away for half a second as he said it. "Thought I'd look you up."

"Dicko."

"Alright, alright." Dickinson held his hands up. "I might have been hoping your old man could point me at a few contacts. I've got a presentation coming up, big one, and I thought with all his connections in the sports world he might be able to open a door or two."

"He's retired," Michael said. "Sold Carter Enterprises a while back, took the money and ran off to a ranch in Canada. Rides horses now. Sends the occasional postcard."

Dickinson's face fell for just a moment before he recovered it with a shrug. "Well, if I thought you would miss me this much I'd have called ahead."

"You still haven't told me what the presentation's about."

"Later," Dickinson said. "Long flight. My brain's still somewhere over the Atlantic."

Michael let it go, for now, though he filed the evasion away the same way he filed everything else, in a drawer marked for later inspection. "Well, whatever it is, I'll help if I can. You're staying with us. Nicky's away at the minute so there's a spare room going begging."

"I couldn't possibly impose," Dickinson said, already reaching for his jacket.

"You're imposing," Michael said. "Get up, we'll grab your cases from reception."

They collected two large suitcases from where the security desk had them stacked, Dickinson insisting on carrying both himself despite Michael's offer, and as they made their way out through the lobby Michael dropped his voice a fraction.

"One thing," he said. "Julie, the girl who showed you in, she's seeing a detective. Decent bloke. So keep the charm in its box."

"Wasn't planning on anything," Dickinson said, all innocence.

"And Nicky's off-limits too, whenever she gets back. I mean it. I know what you were like at seventeen."

"I was a gentleman at seventeen."

"You were a menace at seventeen," Michael said, and Dickinson laughed loud enough that a passing courier glanced over in alarm.

The house, when they reached it, drew the reaction Michael had expected. Mrs Benson appeared from the kitchen at the sound of the front door, wiping her hands on her apron, and the moment she caught sight of the tall figure behind Michael her whole face lit with delight.

"Well I never," she said. "Little Gavin Dickinson, all grown up. Look at the state of you."

"Mrs Benson," Dickinson said, dropping his cases to embrace her properly, "you haven't aged a day."

"Get away with you," she said, though she was clearly pleased. "You'll be wanting the spare room made up then, will you, Michael?"

"If you wouldn't mind," Michael said. "He's staying a few days."

Mrs Benson was already moving, calling back over her shoulder that she'd need to put something bigger in the oven now there were two of them to feed, and within the hour the house smelled of roasting meat and the spare room upstairs had fresh linen and a window cracked open to air it out. Dickinson ate well that evening, better than well, praising every dish Mrs Benson set in front of him until she was practically glowing, but by the time the plates were cleared his eyelids had begun to droop, the jet lag finally catching up with him mid-sentence. Michael watched his old friend's head nod forward over a half-finished glass of wine and laughed quietly to himself before steering him upstairs and leaving him to it.

Morning found Michael padding down to the kitchen in search of coffee, only to find Mrs Benson already at the stove with a pan of bacon spitting and crackling under her careful attention. The smell alone would have been enough to draw anyone from their bed.

"He's up already," she said, without turning round. "In the study, on the phone. Sounds important."

Michael paused at the study door, coffee forgotten for a moment. Dickinson's voice carried through the wood, low and tight in a way that hadn't been there the night before.

"No," he was saying, "no, listen to me, it can't get to the press, not now, not before the launch. If this leaks we lose everything we've put into it. I don't care what it costs, keep it quiet."

Michael knocked before he could hear any more and pushed the door open. Dickinson turned, phone still pressed to his ear, and the tension in his face smoothed itself away so quickly that Michael almost doubted he'd seen it at all.

"Got to go," Dickinson said into the phone, "call you later," and ended it with a jab of his thumb before turning his easy grin back on. "Morning. Something smells good."

"Bacon," Michael said. "Mrs Benson's orders, not mine. Everything alright?"

"Business," Dickinson said, waving a hand. "Nothing that won't sort itself out."

They ate together at the kitchen table, Dickinson working his way through three rounds of bacon with the enthusiasm of a man who hadn't seen a proper rasher in years.

"You people don't know how lucky you are," he said, mouth still half full. "This isn't bacon back home, this is proper bacon. Actual meat, not some sad strip of pink cardboard."

"You can thank Mrs Benson," Michael said. "She'll be unbearable about it for a week now."

"I mean it though," Dickinson said, sitting back. "Listen, I need to get around a bit today, sort a few things out. Any chance of borrowing a car?"

Michael considered it a moment. "Nicky's got an MG sitting in the garage doing nothing, though God help you if you scratch it, she'll have your hide. Or we could put a hire on the company card, something with a bit more presence if you're meeting people."

"Company card," Dickinson said instantly. "I like the sound of presence."

"Thought you might."

They drove into the office together that morning, and it was Julie who took charge of the matter within minutes of Michael explaining what was needed, working the phones with the brisk efficiency Michael had come to rely on so completely he barely noticed it any more.

"There's an Aston Martin available through the usual firm," she said, cradling the receiver against her shoulder while she typed. "I can have it delivered within the hour. And if you need somewhere to work while you're setting up, there's a spare office on the fourth floor going unused."

"You're a lifesaver," Dickinson said, flashing her the same grin he'd given Mrs Benson, though this time it came with a wink that made Julie's eyebrows lift a fraction.

"I'm seeing someone," Julie said, without missing a beat, and went back to her phone call.

"Told you," Michael said under his breath, and Dickinson had the good grace to look mildly abashed.

With the car and the office sorted, Michael found his own workload mercifully light for once, a rare morning without fires to put out or reports to chase, and so when midday rolled round he suggested lunch, the two of them heading out together into streets that had begun to fill with the usual crush of London's working lunch crowd.

Lorenzo's sat tucked along a side street a short walk from the office, its Mediterranean blue awning a familiar sight to Michael after years of visits. Emmanuel Zeppi spotted them through the window before they'd even reached the door and was out from behind the counter to greet them both with the warmth of a man welcoming home lost relatives.

"Ah, Mr Michael, how nice to see you again," he said, taking Michael's hand in both of his before turning his attention to Dickinson. "And a friend, even better. Come, come, sit, sit, I have the perfect table."

He steered them to a booth near the back, already talking food before either of them had so much as glanced at a menu.

"For you, Mr Michael, the spinach risotto, yes? You always enjoy the spinach risotto."

"You know me too well, Manny," Michael said.

"And for your friend," Zeppi said, turning his bright eyes on Dickinson, sizing him up with the confidence of a man who had never once been wrong, "the chicken Parmesan, I think. With the special fries, the ones with the rosemary. You look like a man who appreciates good fries."

"I appreciate anything that isn't airline food," Dickinson said, and Zeppi laughed as though it were the funniest thing he'd heard all week, bustling off towards the kitchen with the order already half-shouted ahead of him.

They settled into easy conversation while they waited, Dickinson filling in gaps from the years apart, careful never to linger too long on any one subject, steering the talk away whenever Michael tried to circle back towards the presentation or the tense phone call from that morning. The food arrived exactly as promised, and Dickinson made appreciative noises over the chicken that had Zeppi beaming from the counter every time he glanced their way.

It was midway through the meal that Dickinson excused himself, dabbing his mouth with the napkin and heading off towards the gents at the rear of the restaurant. Michael carried on eating, only half aware of the two men rising from a table near the door, a heavy-set figure built like something out of a nature documentary, all shoulders and neck, accompanied by a slighter companion who moved with the quiet economy of someone used to not being noticed. As they passed, the larger man's eyes found Michael's and held them a beat too long, something unreadable passing behind them before he looked away and followed his companion out into the street.

Michael sat with his fork halfway to his mouth, a small cold thread working its way up the back of his neck. He told himself it was nothing, a stranger's glance, the kind of thing that happened a hundred times a day in a city this size, but the feeling refused to settle. He glanced towards the gents. Dickinson had been gone rather a long time.

He pushed back from the table and made his way across the restaurant, past Zeppi who was busy at the counter and didn't notice him go. The door to the gents swung open at his touch, and there was Dickinson leaning over the sink, one hand braced against the porcelain, a thin trickle of blood running from a cut above his eyebrow down the side of his face.

"What happened?" Michael said, already moving towards him.

"Slipped," Dickinson said, not quite meeting his eye in the mirror. "Floor's wet by the door, caught the corner of the sink on the way down. Clumsy, that's all."

Michael looked at the floor. It was dry.

"Dicko."

"I'm fine," Dickinson said, straightening up and reaching for a paper towel to press against the cut. "Really. Just need to clean up."

Michael said nothing more, though the unease from moments before had settled properly now, a weight sitting somewhere under his ribs that no amount of reasoning seemed able to shift. He walked back out with Dickinson beside him, one hand still pressed to his forehead, and settled the bill with Zeppi at the counter while his old friend stood by the door looking suddenly very much like a man trying very hard to appear untroubled.

"You're sure you're alright?" Michael asked as they stepped out into the street.

"Course," Dickinson said, the grin sliding back into place, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "I'll head back to yours, get cleaned up properly, maybe grab a shower before I head over to the office later."

Michael watched him go, the tall familiar figure moving off down the pavement towards where the hired Aston Martin sat gleaming at the kerb, and he stood a moment longer outside Lorenzo's, turning over the look on the gorilla-shaped man's face, the dry floor, the phone call about keeping something out of the press. None of it fit together yet, but something told him it would, sooner or later, and he had learned a long time ago to trust that particular feeling in his gut.