*

Eighteen months later and Jules and Paul were living together in London. It had been strange, actually, to leave him for the weekend, although now she was here, she was relishing the time with her oldest friends. She continued around the market, purchasing a sourdough loaf, some Mediterranean salted butter and a bottle of organic red wine.

She had a new job too: her boss, Ralph, had recently moved to a hedge fund, and Jules had moved with him. Her first bonus was double what she’d have earned at the bank but instead of treating herself to a new pair of shoes and putting the rest into savings, as she ordinarily would, she had been dreaming of a trip to California with Paul, wine-tasting in Napa Valley, driving along the coast with the wind in her hair.

She joined a long queue at the end of the market and smiled to herself: she didn’t even know what she was queuing for, but it smelt amazing. Ten minutes later she was eating a freshly made potato and onion galette, a warm pancake with Gruyère cheese oozing from its middle. She mm-ed with pleasure and licked her fingers as she strolled through the market. Strange it was a fellow investment banker who’d taught her to enjoy life, she thought, but Paul was very clear on his mandate: he did this job to enjoy nice things. ‘I had to work twice as hard to get here,’ he often said, and she didn’t doubt it; she could count on one hand the number of black investment bankers she’d met at his level. ‘I’m going to enjoy it twice as much.’

What’s the point in working these hours unless you’re going to do this? he’d said to her from a rooftop hot tub in Miami, an icy lime and soda in his hand, a month or two after they began dating and at the end of a particularly fraught transaction – her first in New York. For Jules, it had always been about the work. She hadn’t considered what happened after the work, or outside of the work. She just wanted to be the best at her job.

What drives you, Julia Frey? Paul had asked, and she found she couldn’t answer the question. To do my best, to be my best, which was true, but sounded too immature, too schoolgirl-like.

To make my father proud died on her lips, because although that was also true, her father wasn’t here any more and she was still too close to her grief to articulate the way his death had left her unmoored. She worked because there was safety in it. She knew if she stopped, if she took time out, allowed her mind to wander, the strong current of her loss could quickly pull her under, the waves closing over her head. Work kept her focused.

The next morning Paul was up early, towel slung over his shoulder, his perfectly neat six-pack gleaming. ‘Look at it out there!’ he’d said. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’