The Expats by Chris Pavone Read Free Book Online Page B

experiences—those things didn’t matter here. Everyone started from the same scratch, and this was it. Sitting with a stranger, making small talk.
    “Actually, I’m not from D.C.,” Kate said. “I lived there for fifteen years. Where I’m from is Bridgeport, Connecticut. And you? Where are you from?”
    The waiter delivered their first-course salads.
    “Chicago. Have you ever been?”
    “No,” Kate admitted, mildly ashamed. This was something that Dexter had teased her about, and she’d played along, and it had become one of their inside-marriage jokes: that Kate hated Chicago so much she wouldn’t step foot there. She even refused to be friends with anyone from Chicago.
    “Pity,” Julia said, glancing up from the task of dividing her goat-cheese toast in half—in fact, portioning her whole salade composée in half. “It’s a nice city.”
    The truth was that Kate didn’t hate Chicago, not at all. She’d simply never had an opportunity to go there.
    “Maybe you’ll visit when you move back,” Julia said. “When are you planning to go home? ”
    “We’re here open-ended.”
    “Us too.”
    “What does your husband do?” Kate asked.
    “Something in finance I don’t understand.” Julia was staring at Kate. “And yours?”
    “Ditto.”
    “They all do something in finance we don’t understand, don’t they?”
    “It certainly seems that way.”
    This was what Luxembourg was for: making money, avoiding taxes.
    “I sort of vaguely know what mine does,” Julia admitted. “He trades currencies. But what the hell that actually means, I couldn’t tell you. What about yours?”
    “He’s a systems security expert, specializing in transactional software for financial institutions.” This is the line she’d internalized.
    “Wow! That’s very, um, specific. What does that mean he actually does ?”
    Kate shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t have much of an idea.”
    What she knew was the single broad stroke that Dexter’s job was to make it impossible—or as impossible as possible—for hackers to steal money during electronic transfers. This is what had somehow become Dexter’s specialty, over the past decade, moving from Internet service provider to a bank to another bank, until about a year ago he’d struck out on his own as an independent consultant. Then Luxembourg.
    “Where does he work?” Julia asked.
    “He has office space on the boulevard Royal, but he’s freelance.”
    “Who are his clients?”
    Kate blushed. “I have no clue.”
    Julia giggled. Then Kate returned the laugh, which became hilarious to both of them, until Julia suddenly grimaced. “Oh my God,” Julia said, flapping her hands as if attempting flight. “I just laughed wine through my nose. Ahhhhh! ”
    When their laughter subsided, Julia picked up, “And you? Are you working here?”
    “Not in a paying job, no. I’m taking care of the kids, and the house.” This was another sentence that Kate had uttered dozens of times. It still wasn’t sitting well; she averted her eyes as she said it. “What about you?”
    “I’m an interior designer. I was an interior designer. I don’t think I’ll be doing much of that here. Any of it.”
    Kate had never imagined she’d be going on blind lunch dates with women with ex-careers like decorators. “Why not?”
    “You need to know lots of society people—those are your clients. Plus you need to know all the tradespeople—everyone who would do the work you need done—and all the shops, all the resources. I don’t know anyone here, or anything. I can’t be an interior designer in Luxembourg.”
    Kate closely examined this new American. Shoulder-length blondhair—almost certainly dyed, but a high-quality job—curled and feathered, conditioned and blown-out; this woman made a big effort. Blue eyes, a touch of mascara and shadow, but subtle, not too much of it. Pretty but not beautiful; attractive in a non-intimidating way. A shade taller than Kate, maybe