“I’m not talking about that.”
Nat made a sound of exasperation. “Jesus, he must’ve been good.”
Foley laughed. “Sod off. What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Busy playing hooky. Busy playing hooker.”
“Nat, you have outlived your usefulness. I’m pressing end.”
“Wait, wait, wait. He’s not who you think he is? Have you seen the paper? Toby’s story. He’s—”
“I know who he is.”
Nat whistled like she was calling a cab, or wanting her dog to heel. “It’s an unbelievable story. And I’m pissed off I missed it. Nathan is so pissy with me I might be wearing both earrings for the rest of my life. When did you know?”
“Keep your hair on. Only last night.”
“Lucky for you. I was planning on throttling you in your bed. Assuming you ever sleep in it again. What do you know?”
She hadn’t seen the story, but it was reasonable guess some digging would turn up Drum’s story like she had. “He’s Patrick Drummond, ex-CEO of NCR, who make Circa. He’s playboy rich and even smarter than I gave him credit for.”
“Hah. But mad as a hatter.”
“He’s not, he’s—”
“Off his rocker. I don’t know what he told you, but he imploded. Went from being the whiz kid darling of the pharma market to being forced out by his own board.”
“He got death threats.”
“It’s a wonder shareholders didn’t hire snipers to take him out. He was on his way to destroying a blue chip corporation. The stock price plummeted. His board had no choice but to sack him.”
The way Nat said it Foley could see all the reasons why Drum lived in a cave. “He didn’t want the damn drug to hurt people.” She could see why he took a world of guilt as his own.
“I get that it did, but statistically, even if you attribute all the reported deaths to Circa, it’s nothing, and no different to what happens with a lot of drugs.”
“He doesn’t agree those deaths are nothing.”
Foley closed her eyes, this was difficult. People weren’t statistics, but averages drove decisions, even in her own work. The most successful programs she ran still got complaints. It was impossible to please everyone, so you pleased the majority.
“Fole, I’m seriously worried about you.” Nat stopped being a journalist arguing her point and was a friend again. “Come home tonight, we need to talk.”
But it wasn’t enough of an incentive. “I’ll be home when I’m ready.”
Nat huffed and puffed. “I’m thinking of you, not a new headline.”
“I know. But—”
“But you suddenly became a qualified psychologist and you’re going to fix him.”
“Nat.”
“Tell me you’re not thinking you can fix him. Jesus, Foley, tell me you’re not thinking magical sex with you will make him abandon being a hermit squatter.”
Foley pulled the phone from her ear. Couldn’t Nat simply be happy for her? Did she have to be so aggressively judgemental? Did Foley think for just a second loving Drum would suddenly restore him to normal?
She was sitting on the stairs of his near empty mansion house, waiting for him to show up with home brand groceries he’d probably bartered labour for, when he could’ve bought the grocery store. She’d never skived off work before and she was perfectly happy with that. She was buzzing with the joy of knowing he’d come home, burn eggs and toast and they’d go back to bed and crawl inside each other again.
She put the phone back to her ear. “What’s normal anyway?” She’d looked into Drum’s eyes and seen intelligence and humour, respect and love and nothing of his detachment from reality, nothing of his appalling self-destruction.