A Time for Friends (47 page)

‘I
want
to. Life’s too short to be killing myself trying to juggle all the balls in the air. I want to enjoy my life, my family . . . my marriage.’ She squeezed his
hand, so relieved that they were finally discussing their problems.

‘I love you,’ Niall said. ‘Very much,’ he added, entwining his fingers with hers.

‘I love you, too,’ she echoed.

At the kitchen table, in the soft opaque light of the setting sun, they smiled at each other over their mugs of tea, comforted by their rapprochement.

September 2008

He should have sold those bloody shares when the Koreans had shown interest in buying the bank. The shares went up 5 per cent. He would have taken a massive hit certainly, but
not the decimation he was facing now. Des felt himself break out in a cold sweat, as Colette lay asleep beside him blissfully unaware of what was coming down the tracks. The Dow nearly 300 down,
S&P down 500 – the figures rolled around in his head, his thoughts like a washing machine on spin. Geithner and Bush were letting Lehman Brothers slide down the tubes. Clinton’s
massive surplus was only a memory. The current deficit – in the trillions – meant the good times were well and truly over and all that he had worked so hard for was turning to dust.

He should have known it was time to get out when Lehman Brothers closed its sub-prime lender the previous year. Should have known it, he silently upbraided himself. But still, it seemed
unthinkable that a bank that size would be allowed to fail. Commentators were talking about the Great Depression. Joe Kennedy had quit the stock market and kept his wealth when a shoeshine boy had
given him stock tips. Des should have known the jig was up when their own housekeeper talked about her Fidelity blue-chip fund, and her Citicorp, IBM and US Steel portfolio. Only the ones who had
learned the lessons from history would make it, not nouveau riche players like him.

He should have flogged the Florida properties, and his stock, instead of waiting for a last rally. For all his financial knowledge he was no better than a race punter, he thought, disgusted with
himself. And wouldn’t old man O’Mahony crow when he found out. Frank would rub his nose in it. Time had not endeared his father-in-law to him, and vice versa, and now he’d have to
listen to his bullshit about ‘wise investment’.

Des twisted and turned in the bed, desperate for sleep. He needed his wits about him more now than ever. Decisions had to be made that would salvage something and keep the show on the road.

‘Turn off that Joe Duffy fella – he’s going to cause a panic about the banks. There’ll be a run on them the way he’s going on,’ Hilary urged
Jonathan as they sped back to Dublin along the M1 after doing a final inspection on a hotel they had revamped in Newry.

‘I think we’re up shit creek,’ Jonathan said, switching the stations over to Lyric, filling the car with the soaring tones of Cecilia Bartoli.

‘But the regulator has said the banks are fine. The rating agencies gave Anglo Irish A ratings, so what’s going on?’ Hilary proffered a Murray Mint.

‘That regulator guy wouldn’t inspire me with confidence. I don’t think he’s able for the job at all, and Moody’s and S&P and the rest of them are only a shower
of chancers,’ Jonathan scoffed. ‘Thank God I sold the apartment last year! They’re talking about soft landings for the economy and the property market. Ha! We’re for it,
there’s not going to be anything soft about it, and you just watch out, all the rats are going to desert the sinking ship. And we won’t be doing too many spa hotels any more,
either,’ he added glumly. ‘There are too many new hotels out there as it is for an economy that’s on the slide.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right. Business had certainly tailed off in the last year,’ sighed Hilary. ‘You did well to sell up when you did. We’re going to take a hit on
the apartment we bought on the seafront in Clontarf. We just wanted to make sure to have somewhere for the girls in years to come. I don’t think they’re ever going to be able to afford
to get on the property ladder.’

‘At least we own our own homes,’ Jonathan comforted her. ‘We can chop firewood and huddle around our log-burning stoves if we can’t afford to pay the heating
bills.’ He grinned at her. ‘I’ve got a hotplate on mine too. I can cook a stew on it if needs must, so we won’t starve!’

‘It’s not funny, Jonathan! We’ve a hell of a lot of money in bank shares, especially in Anglo. They were our pensions. We put them in what we thought was the safest possible
place. We didn’t friggin’ gamble on high-risk stuff. Do you think we should stop at a bank link and withdraw some cash in case there
is
a run on the banks? Remember that bank
in England that went belly-up a while back?’

‘OK, we can go to one when we hit Dundalk. You can only withdraw six hundred euros in a day though,’ he pointed out.

‘I think I’ll transfer a couple of thousand to the girls’ Post Office or Credit Union accounts when I get home. Just to be sure they have money, in case the banks fail,’
Hilary fretted. The
Liveline
programme about an imminent banking crisis was scaring her. Millie was working as a chartered accountant in Manchester and Sophie was teaching French and
English at the DIT school of languages in Kevin Street, and sharing a house in Portobello. They were happy and independent and she couldn’t wish for more for her daughters. Nevertheless if
things were getting rough she wanted to make sure they had money at their back.

‘Imagine, you have a twenty-six-year-old and a twenty-three-year-old,’ Jonathan remarked, switching to cruise control as they drove south across the border, and the standard of the
road improved considerably.

‘No need to remind me.’ Hilary threw her eyes up to heaven. ‘Imagine, I’m over fifty! I’m well and truly middle-aged and I have the grey hairs to prove it, and so
have you!’

‘Well you disguise them pretty well. You look good for an ould wan, deah!’ Jonathan grinned over at her. ‘That ash-blonde colour suits you.’

‘I had to do something, deah! I was only getting six weeks out of a colour, and my roots were as grey as a badger,’ she moaned.

‘I know, I’ve more grey than blond. I’ll have to start using Grecian 2000.’ Jonathan made a face.

‘You don’t look bad for an ould fella! Even if you have a touch of a jowl.’

‘I know, it’s horrific. My chiselled good looks are gone! I may have to go under the knife!’ Jonathan grimaced, patting the loose flesh under his jawline. ‘Where did
those years go?’

‘It’s a blur! One minute I had teenagers, then I had college students, and now I have grown-up daughters. I’m so glad I took time out after Margaret passed away. I was able to
spend time and do things with the girls and with my parents, before Dad died.’

‘Yeah, that was a good call. You were much happier, much more relaxed. You did the right thing.’

‘And what was all that hard work for anyway? So Bertie, McCreevy and that shower in Fianna Fáil could bankrupt us,’ Hilary said bitterly. ‘I could have spent my time at
home with my kids when they were in primary school and still be as well off. And what sort of a future are they going to have, Jonathan? I remember the recession in the eighties; I think
what’s ahead of us is going to be far tougher.’

‘If I promise to stop and treat you to a cream cake and coffee in Dundalk will you stop talking like that? You’re depressing me,’ Jonathan groaned.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Hilary apologized. ‘Cream cake might just do the job.’

The tinny sounds of ‘Goldfinger’ cut off Cecilia’s aria and Jonathan saw Nancy’s name flash up on his Bluetooth. ‘Hello, Mam,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Jonathan, I’m listening to Joe Duffy and I think you should take your money out of the bank. I’m getting Rachel to bring me to withdraw my money this very minute. I’m
going to put it in the Post Office and if I were you I’d buy some gold – it always increases in value when times are bad.’

‘That’s good thinking, Mam. Hilary and I are here in the car heading for Dundalk, so we’re going to withdraw some cash ourselves.’

‘Honest to God, when you think of that other clown up in the Dáil before he was given the heave-ho, spending a fortune of
our
money on his make-up, preening and
pontificating and telling us there was nothing to worry about in the economy, when the dogs in the street knew that the property boom wasn’t sustainable. I
never
voted for that
crowd, and the people who did only have themselves to blame for getting us into this mess. And as for that Cork fella on the
Late Late
, with his brownnosing and lick-arsing. I’m
telling you, he swung that election, Jonathan, and he got his payback for it with a cushy job in the Senate and his fine fat salary and pension. So it’s as much his fault as anyone’s
but no one has anything to say about
that!
’ Nancy vented her spleen against the individuals who had steered the country so disastrously down the tubes. Jonathan glanced over at
Hilary and shook his head. When Nancy got going there was no stopping her. She was still as sharp as a tack, still living an independent life, and had plenty to say about everything.

‘Hello, Hilary, how are you?’ Nancy enquired, having got her displeasure off her chest.

‘I’m well thanks, Mrs Harpur. Good to hear you in fine fettle.’

‘Well wouldn’t that lot of goms drive you to drink, if you were so inclined,’ Nancy retorted. ‘How is your mother keeping? It’s hard on her, I’m sure, since
your daddy passed away. It takes a long time to get over it.’

‘I know. Hard to believe it’s five years now. But she’s not too bad. Like yourself, she keeps herself busy,’ Hilary said. ‘Dad’s passing was a blessing
really. She wasn’t able to look after him, even with our help, and he would have ended up in a nursing home and he would have hated that.’

‘Yes, God can be merciful sometimes and death can be a happy release. Well give her my best wishes, pet, and, Jonathan, drive carefully. No speeding now and invest in some gold,’
Nancy cautioned.

‘Yes, Mammy,’ Jonathan said meekly, and Nancy laughed.

‘God bless, son, take care of yourself. Here’s Rachel so I must be off. I’ll see you on Saturday. I’ll make a biscuit cake for you.’

‘Can’t wait. Love you, Mam.’

‘And I love you too, son. Bye, Hilary.’

‘Bye, Mrs H.’

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ Hilary said when the phone went dead and Cecilia’s golden tones rang out again. ‘So vibrant still, despite her age. And so on the
ball! She’s right about buying gold. That generation is a hardy lot. We’ll be lucky to do as well as them when we get to their age.’

‘I know. I
feel
their feckin’ age,’ Jonathan retorted, indicating to take the slip road off the motorway to get to the nearest bank and then to bring Hilary for the
cream cake and coffee he’d promised her as soon as they reached Dundalk.

Shaun Grant shook hands with his solicitor. ‘Thank you, Edward. Glad we’ve got everything sorted. Best for everyone all round.’

‘Indeed,’ Edward Delahunty said suavely. ‘Good luck, Shaun, Gina, safe journey.’

‘Thank you, Edward, for all your help and advice,’ Gina said graciously. She looked tired and strained, but as elegant as ever in a beautifully cut raspberry-pink designer suit and
high-heeled Louboutins.

He walked his high-profile clients to the door of his Morehampton Road mansion. He had chosen to see them at home, discreetly, rather than at his Merrion Square office. The papers were doing all
kinds of articles on property developers and high-profile businessmen. The Grants were on their hit list. But now they’d have to follow them to the States. The Grants had a private jet
waiting for them at Dublin Airport and they were leaving the country. Their mansion with its designer spa, heli pad and cinema was up for sale. Edward gave a polite wave as he watched them walk
down the marble steps to their navy Merc. Shaun Grant to all intents and purposes would soon be a bankrupt, golf-playing OAP, with a very rich wife and a family of sons and daughters who were
nicely provided for with a substantial trust fund. All eventually paid for by the ordinary folk who had done nothing wrong but who would be ground down with even more taxes to pay for the reckless,
immoral gambles the Grants and their ilk had ruined the country with. It fascinated him how so many of them felt that a ‘personal guarantee’ didn’t apply to them the way it did to
the hoi polloi who defaulted on their bank loans and mortgages. It truly was one law for the rich and another for the poor.

And he, Edward Delahunty, had enabled many of his clients – for a very fat paycheque, it had to be said – to get away with it. He was as culpable as they were, at one level, he
reflected, going back into his impressive book-lined library and pouring himself a double measure of whisky.

‘Sell everything except the commodities. We can buy again when they’re on the floor. Buy gold and water and keep me updated,’ Des ordered his stockbroker,
marching up and down the kitchen.

Colette felt tentacles of fear coil themselves around her gut. She had never seen her husband so agitated. She poured herself a cup of coffee waiting for him to hang up. ‘How bad is
it?’ she asked as he flipped his cell closed.

‘Let’s say we won’t be hosting our Christmas bash in Aspen this year,’ he said grimly. ‘Get a rental agency on the phone and rent it out. It’s going to have
to pay its way. We’re going to London for Christmas. That will get us out of entertaining or being entertained. We’ll have to offload the Florida properties. We’ll sell them
through London. We shouldn’t take too much of a hit on them.’

‘How has it come to this?’ Colette was aghast.

‘Scrapping the net capital rule, George W and his crony Henry Paulson, deregulation, capitalism, greed. Take your pick.’ Des gulped his coffee, and gave her a peck on the cheek.
‘It’s gonna be a late one. I’ll see ya.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting Jazzy for lunch at the Met and then I’ve a meeting with the directors of Dickon and Austen’s UK, and dinner later with them
tonight.’