A Time for Friends (49 page)

‘I’m not promising anything now,’ the old man said crabbily.

‘That’s all right. If you are meant to go you will go,’ Jonathan assured him. ‘And do it for yourself, not for anyone else.’

What a weird day, Jonathan thought, somewhat shaken, rooting in his dashboard for a pen and paper to write down his counsellor’s contact details. Hannah would surely say something like
‘When the pupil is ready the teacher will come’ about his encounter with the tormented priest. ‘I’ve put my phone number on this page as well in case you’d ever like
to get in contact or talk about what happened to you,’ Jonathan said helpfully, handing him the page.

‘Very kind of you,’ Father McDaid said gruffly, and Jonathan could see that he was now highly embarrassed. He picked up his bucket of water.

‘I’ll leave you in peace to say your Office,’ he said matter-of-factly.

‘Oh! You know about the Office. Not many do now.’ Father McDaid looked surprised.

‘I was an altar boy once. Take care of yourself, Father.’

‘Thank you . . . and eh . . . again my apologies for upsetting you.’

‘And if I upset you, I too apologize,’ Jonathan said gravely.

‘Good afternoon, my son.’ The priest gave a slight bow and resumed his walk along the pathway, shoulders bowed. Jonathan watched as he walked out of the iron gates and down the
narrow country road. A life ruined by abuse and religion, and a mother whose cruelty was as abusive in the damage it caused as was his uncle’s, Jonathan reflected, walking back to water the
flowerpots on his father’s grave.

‘Jonathan,’ he heard Nancy call him as she made her way through the swing gate. His heart lifted at the sight of her tip-tapping her way along the stone-edged path with her elegant
silver-topped walking stick.

‘Did I tell you today that you are the best mother in the whole wide world?’ He hugged her.

‘You didn’t,’ said Nancy spiritedly. ‘You’d better tell me.’

‘Well you are,’ he said. ‘Not only in the world, but in the entire universe.’

‘That’s more like it,’ Nancy said smugly, patting her husband’s headstone.

‘Yes, Mother!’ Jonathan grinned.

‘And of course you know you’re the best son.’

‘I know that but you can tell me again,’ Jonathan teased. And their laughter was an added blessing as the sun shone on Rosslara’s tranquil graveyard.

‘I wonder will he come to you, Hannah? Was that the reason I met him in the graveyard at Gus Higgins’s grave?’ Jonathan remarked to his counsellor the next
time he had an appointment with her.

‘He hasn’t made contact yet. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s all about Divine Timing, isn’t it?’ Hannah lit a candle before they began their
session.

‘It was the weirdest thing, though. Right at that grave, of all the graves in the graveyard. It still gives me the shivers thinking about it.’ Jonathan shook his head.

‘Perhaps Gus was trying to make amends from beyond the vale of forgetting,’ Hannah suggested with a smile.

‘Hannah, once I would have argued with you,’ Jonathan said sombrely, ‘but the longer I live, and the more I see the synchronicities you talk about, the more I believe there is
a much bigger picture to our lives that we just cannot see or fathom. But the next time I come back,
if
I come back, I’m taking a much easier path, I can tell you.’

‘And I’m coming back as Hugh Jackman’s wife,’ Hannah said with a wicked glint in her vivid blue eyes, chuckling at Jonathan’s hearty guffaws.

December 2008

‘It has been alleged that Madoff was operating a giant Ponzi scheme, which may prove to be one of the largest financial frauds in US history.’ Des listened in
dismay to the reporter who was covering the shocking arrest of the prominent financier he had been in awe off. He switched off the TV and put his head in his hands. He had initially invested two
hundred grand with Madoff, two years previously, and the returns had been so good he’d invested half the money made from the sale of the Florida properties. Colette thought he’d
invested it all in commodities. She would go freaking bananas if she knew what he’d done. And so would his bank manager.

He rubbed his hand over his jaw. He needed to take drastic measures to cover his losses. If he could pull it off they’d ride out the storm. Des picked up the phone on his desk. ‘Get
me Ivan Baransky in Chase, in the Plaza,’ he instructed his secretary, taken aback that his palms were actually damp with perspiration and his heart was hammering in his chest.

Two hours later, his secretary glided into his office with a sealed white padded envelope. ‘Mr Baransky had this couriered over for you,’ she said, laying it on the desk.

‘Thank you, Lauren. Just give me fifteen with no calls please,’ he said crisply, opening the envelope.

‘Sure.’ She flashed a gleaming smile and left him to his document.

Twenty minutes later he dialled Colette’s cell phone. ‘Babes, any chance you could drop by? I need your signature on a document to transfer some shares to another
portfolio.’

‘Aww, Des, I’m going Upstate to view Clara Alton Graham’s art collection. She’s having to sell. You know her husband committed suicide after Lehman Brothers?’
Colette protested.

‘It won’t take five minutes, a quick detour, and then you can take the George Washington at Exit 14. I’ll send a car for you so you won’t have to drive if you
like,’ he wheedled.

‘Tsk! OK then. That sounds good, and if we get the collection I’ll bring you to dinner in Boulud’s. I hear that new executive chef Kaysen is pretty hot,’ Colette
promised, thrilled that she didn’t have to drive the six-hour round trip to Saratoga Springs. Before the downturn she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a Town Car and put it on expenses,
but times had changed and the budget for running the New York office was a lot tighter. The financial director in Dickon and Austen’s went through her expense sheet with a fine toothcomb
these days.

‘Deal,’ Des agreed, and she knew he was smiling.

Colette dressed discreetly for her meeting with Clara. A Chanel suit, a single strand of pearls and low-heeled pumps. Clara was a small, birdlike woman; she didn’t want to tower over her.
The Alton Grahams were old school and old money. Highly placed on the social register. But like many of their kind, they had fallen on hard times. Dickon and Austen’s would be the perfect
home for Clara’s very valuable collection and Colette would get an excellent commission if she secured it for the gallery.

Three quarters of an hour later she strolled into Des’s twenty-eighth-floor corner office. He was on the phone and waved at her as she sank onto the soft cream Argentinian-leather sofa by
the window. He cut short his call and picked a document from his desk.

‘Hi, sweetie, you’re a doll for coming down.’ He kissed her and sat down beside her and flipped the pages over until he came to the signature page. ‘There you go.
I’ve signed already,’ he said, uncapping his pen and handing it to her.

‘Des, I don’t have time to go through this now,’ she said in dismay, glancing at her watch. ‘I thought it was just a single sheet. I’ll be late if I stay to go
through it. I’ll take it with me and give it to you tonight.’ She stood up.

‘There’s nothing in it except legalese,’ he said exasperatedly.

‘Des, you know I read things before I sign them. If my name is going on a document I want to know what it is I’m signing,’ Colette said firmly.

‘I’m telling you, there’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve been through it already,’ he assured her.

‘I’ll read it in the car. Now I have to go – the traffic is dreadful,’ she said, handing his pen back.

‘Ah leave it there. I’ll bring it home with me,’ he scowled.

‘OK, wish me luck,’ Colette picked up her Vuitton clutch and blew him a kiss, trying to hide her annoyance that she had wasted time when her schedule was so tight. Still, she’d
got a Town Car because of her detour.

‘Good luck,’ Des muttered and she knew he was annoyed but Colette ignored his displeasure. She was damned if she was going to sign papers without reading them. He was too careless
and impulsive sometimes. He’d sign anything their broker put in front of them. She stepped into the elevator, anxious to be on her way. It would never do to be late for her appointment. That
would not reflect well on the company she represented, or on herself. She shivered on the sidewalk as she waited for her driver to pick her up. It had turned bitterly cold and she tucked her
cashmere wrap tighter around her throat, hoping that it wouldn’t snow.

The black sedan purred to a halt and the driver got out and opened the car door for her. Colette sat in the back seat and stretched her legs. There was a selection of magazines in the pocket and
she chose
Vogue
and began to flick through the pages, extremely thankful that she didn’t have to drive. It began to sleet, and she watched people on the sidewalks unfurl their
brollies. Colette settled back for her journey, glad she was in a snug cocoon as her driver headed northwest on Pine Street towards Broadway and Exit 14.

‘Damn, damn, damn,’ muttered Des, jaw clenched as he shoved the unsigned document back into the envelope and shoved it into his briefcase. Today was turning out to
be a real bummer. He’d hoped against hope that Colette would just sign on the dotted line. He should have known better. He hadn’t pushed the issue. He didn’t want her to think it
was anything other than a run-of-the-mill transaction. If she asked him about it later he’d just tell her that the time limit had expired for the share offer and a good opportunity had been
missed.

He picked up his cell and scrolled down until he got the number he was looking for. He dialled it and groaned when it went straight to voicemail. ‘I have a window between five and seven,
let me know ASAP if it suits,’ he said briskly and hung up. Sleeting rain battered the window, and he had a sudden memory of his boyhood bedroom and the cosy window seat overlooking a copse
of bare-branched trees, dark rolling clouds shrouding the countryside, and how warm and comfy he was as the rain pelted against the panes and he read his library book – a seafaring adventure
by Patrick O’Brien – and munched on a Trigger Bar and a packet of crisps. How he would love to be in that little nook right now and far, far away from the steel-and-glass building that
suddenly seemed like a prison.

Colette yawned as the elevator doors slid open into her foyer. The housekeeper had switched on some lamps, but Des wasn’t home yet. His keys weren’t in the Lalique
bowl on the fine Italian demilune console table that graced their foyer. Clara Alton Graham had some very impressive pieces too, Colette mused, dropping her keys into the bowl. That collection of
Meissen bird figures was worth at least two hundred K. When the Widow Alton Graham liquidated her assets she certainly wouldn’t be on the breadline or anything like it, although she might
think she was pretty close to it, having lost millions in the last year.

Colette kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. Encarna, their housekeeper, had left a smoked salmon mousse starter, and a casserole of Mexican chicken stew
and quinoa, and a side of creamy mash for Des, who hated health foods with a passion. A chilled Sancerre would be just what the doctor ordered, Colette decided, hurrying down to the bedroom to
change into a luxuriously soft, satin-trimmed towelling robe. She flicked on the TV while she took off her suit, pausing momentarily to watch the Madoff arrest, shocked at the extent of investor
losses, which commentators were putting in the billions. What could those people expect? If it sounded too good to be true then it WAS too good to be true. And Madoff’s returns were
uncommon.

Everyone in their circle was on edge with all the financial upheaval that was going on and no wonder, Colette mused, placing her pearls in their satin-lined box. She wondered had the time come
for her and Des to move back to London. Life here was becoming a grind. Des was working harder than ever but for less return. She was working two days a week in the gallery. Dickon and
Austen’s was, after a slow year, starting to pick up the pace again because people like Clara Alton Graham were selling off family heirlooms and investment pieces to cover debts. And
investors and speculators were hovering like vultures. But the New York pace of life was wearing her down. London and its grace and elegance and more temperate climate seemed very appealing lately.
It would actually be a pleasure to spend Christmas there and not have the exhaustion of the social networking she had to do here. Jazzy would probably want to stay in New York and that was fine.
She was leading her own life now, caught up in her own social whirl, and there were times Colette and Des didn’t see her for a couple of weeks, and that was as it should be for a young woman
of her age.

She had just finished her meal and was lounging in front of the log fire in the den when her cell rang. Des’s number flashed up. ‘Hi,’ she said cheerily, managing to suppress a
yawn. ‘What time will you be home? Encarna has one of your favourites for dinner. Don’t leave it too late or it will lie heavy on your stomach.’

‘I’m sorry!’ said a female voice with a faint Southern twang. ‘I’m er . . . a friend of your husband’s. He’s been taken to Lennox Hill with a suspected
heart attack—’

‘
What
? When? Was he at work? Is he OK?’ Colette shot up off the sofa, relieved that she’d only had a glass and a half of wine and still had her wits about her.

‘Look, it’s like this, Des was with me. He was under a lot of stress about losing a packet with Madoff. We were in bed. He told me he was going to stop paying the rent on the
apartment I live in. We had words and then he got red in the face and started sweating and gasping. He said he had a pain in his arm and chest, so I called an ambulance. I’ll drop his
briefcase, phone, overcoat and clothes off at your building. Cheers.’ The phone went dead.

Colette stared at it, dazed. Who was that woman? And what was she saying about Des losing money with Madoff, and being in bed with Des? She sat down heavily, trying to process what had just
happened. Des was having an affair! That woman had just said that she’d been in bed with him! And that he was paying rent on an apartment. She was obviously his mistress.