A Time for Friends (52 page)

He’d actually thought he was croaking it, Des remembered, shivering at the memory. Perhaps he’d have been better off if he
had
kicked the bucket. He was gutted that Kaylee
had phoned Colette. She could have let the hospital phone his wife instead of doing it herself and dropping him in it. That was very low. He’d been ultra careful never to give Colette any
inkling that he was seeing someone. He never socialized with Kaylee above Canal Street, never invited her to anything at work, and she’d accepted this. And because she had, Des had thought
she was OK with it.
Big
mistake. Her clock was ticking and she wanted to be married, she’d shrieked at him last night. He’d never seen her so crazy and irrational. But if his
mistress had flipped big time it was nothing to how Colette would react when she found out that he’d lost a mint with Madoff, as well as been having an affair. There was going to be hell to
pay and more! He closed his eyes, and opened them again. What would Colette tell Jazzy? He’d have to face his daughter’s wrath too.

A technician in a white coat knocked and came into the room. ‘I need to take some blood, Mr Williams,’ she said chirpily. She tightened the tourniquet around his arm and placed a
pillow under it. ‘Don’t bend it, keep it straight, please, and make a fist for me,’ she instructed, tapping his vein and swabbing it with disinfectant. Des broke out in a sweat
when he saw the long thin needle heading in his direction. Colette, Jazzy and Kaylee faded into oblivion as he took a few shallow breaths and struggled not to faint.

Should she ring the hospital and see how Des was? Did she care how he was? ‘Dumbass bastard!’ Kaylee swore, jogging along the Esplanade as daylight began to streak
the eastern sky with multicoloured hues. He could die for all she cared.

It was cold but she was too angry with herself to notice anything that was going on around her as she relived, yet again, the events of the night before. The worst thing of all, apart from Des
being carted off in an ambulance, sirens blaring, was the way she had dropped her guard and freaked out and shown herself to be needy and desperate. She had reminded herself of Charlotte in
Sex
and the City
when she shrieked at her boyfriend Harry, ‘Set the date! Set the date!’

Kaylee was beyond mortified, and beyond devastated. She had given Des Williams so much more that that Barbie Doll Uptown wife. He’d more or less told her that. Des had been such a charming
and cultivated man. And so much more interesting than most of the men she worked with. She liked Europeans. They had a different outlook on life that she found refreshing. She and Des had clicked,
better than she’d ever clicked with any other man.

And Kaylee knew their relationship was far different from the ones he shared with his hyper wife and spoilt daughter. From what she’d heard about Jazzy, she seemed to be a rather demanding
young woman who had a huge sense of entitlement. Kaylee didn’t make demands on Des. That was one way of scaring off a man. She wasn’t the granddaughter of a Southern Belle for nothing,
she thought wryly. She had been ultra laid-back and Des had loved that about her. He’d
relaxed
with her,
and
she understood his work and the pressures he was under.
He’d told her she was
wild
in bed. For all the good it had done her.

Kaylee slowed to a walk. She was thirty-five, single and childless, despite her successful career. Her high-school friends back home in Charlotte would look on her as a failure, despite all she
had achieved. Her mother certainly did. ‘When are you going to give your pop and me a grandchild, sugar?’ Mary Beth would ask her every birthday.

Do you think I don’t want to?
she’d want to yell, but she’d shrug and say she hadn’t met the right man yet. ‘And all those millions of men in New York
City!’ Mary Beth would scoff. ‘You need to come back home and meet your own kind.’

The lump in her throat nearly strangled Kaylee and a harsh, rasping sob escaped her. She had thought the tall, handsome Englishman with the sexy accent and the attractive blue eyes
had
been her kind.

Colette had slept a deep and dreamless sleep, thanks to the brandy and Xanax, but she felt exhausted when she awoke to find daylight seeping into her bedroom. Lying in bed
remembering the events of the night before, she felt a nervous fluttering in her stomach. Life had changed. The rug had been pulled from under her and she needed to focus. She lay immobile, arms
rigid by her side. She was on her own. She needed to shore up the ditches and she needed to break the news to Jazzy that her father had had a heart attack in the arms of his mistress and that
Colette was going to divorce him. That was going to be one of the hardest things she had ever, or would ever, have to do. Her daughter would be
devastated
. She would not reveal the other
great treachery Des had planned. Jazzy would not learn from her what a complete and utter heel her father was.

A gentle knock on the door elicited a weary, ‘Come in.’

‘Would you care for breakfast in bed or in the breakfast room, ma’am?’ Encarna asked.

‘Here, please, just juice, coffee and a fruit cup and yogurt.’ Colette hauled herself up into a sitting position. ‘Encarna, Mr Williams has had a heart attack. He’s in
Lennox Hill.’

‘Oh no! Ma’am!’ the middle-aged woman exclaimed as her hand flew up to her mouth, her face falling in dismay. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Will he be all
right?’

‘I hope so. I’ll know more today. Will you freshen up the guest room, please. My friend Hilary is coming over from Ireland. And would you pack a case for my husband? I’ll take
it in to the hospital later.’

‘Of course. I’ll just get your breakfast first, ma’am. Why don’t you lie down and have a little rest until it’s ready. You look tired,’ Encarna urged kindly.
‘Shall I open the drapes?’

‘I think I will rest here, Encarna, and no, leave them as they are, please.’ Colette slid back down under the duvet and pulled it up to her ears. She should ring the hospital and
find out how Des was, and she should call his secretary, and she really had to ring Jazzy. She would make the calls after her breakfast, she decided, putting off the unpleasant tasks for just
another little while. She lay motionless in the peace of her womb-like room. If only she could stay snug and warm and protected in this little cocoon forever, Colette thought sorrowfully, dreading
all that lay ahead of her.

‘Thank you, Lauren. I’ll be bringing Des in his phone shortly. I’m sure he’ll be in touch himself as soon as his doctors allow it.’ Colette closed
the conversation, hugely irritated at having to pretend to her husband’s PA that she was the devoted and concerned wife. She sat at the desk in the den and Googled Lennox Hill, dialled the
number and asked to be put through to the nurses’ station on Des’s floor. ‘I’m Mrs Williams, I’m enquiring about my husband’s condition,’ she said
politely, studying her manicure. Her nails needed attention, she thought distractedly while she waited to speak to Des’s nurse.

‘Hello, Mrs Williams. Your husband had a comfortable night. Unfortunately he has developed a fever and may have a respiratory infection. We’re running tests to confirm, and then we
will treat him with antibiotics. That will delay any procedures that may have to be done,’ the nurse informed her.

‘Oh! OK! Please tell him I will be in with his pyjamas and things shortly.’

‘I can put you through to him if you wish,’ the nurse said helpfully.

‘Thanks very much.’ She tried to inject a modicum of enthusiasm into her tone. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to her dickhead husband.

‘Hello?’ Des said groggily.

‘Hello,’ she said curtly.

‘Oh! Hi, Colette.’ He sounded wary.

‘I’ve phoned Lauren and told her where you are,’ she said coldly.

‘Thanks . . . Can you bring my cell in?’

‘I have your phone packed.’

‘Umm . . . right. Eh . . . have you told Jazzy I’m in hospital?’

‘I’m going to call her now.’

‘And eh . . . are you going to say anything about . . . er . . . last night?’

‘I will be telling her at some stage over the next few days that we will be divorcing,’ Colette said grimly.

‘Aw, Colette, can we not talk about it?’ Des urged. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘Really sorry you got caught, you mean. How much of our money did you lose with Madoff?’ She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of referring to his bit on the side. Let him
wait for that. And she wasn’t going to bring up the subject of his loan application either. She wanted to see if he would bring up that matter himself and how he would weasel out of it. If he
didn’t refer to it, she would lull her husband into a false sense of security and wait for him in the long grass. Plans were already forming in her head for her response to
that
treachery.

Des sneezed. ‘Colette, I’m not well enough to talk about that now,’ he whined. ‘I feel absolutely beat.’

‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve to meet Helena Dupree for lunch in the Morgan and then I’ll be in. Bye.’ She hung up without giving him the chance to answer. Had
things been different she would have cancelled the lunch meeting in her favourite museum, and been at Des’s side first thing, but she was in no rush now to go to his bedside. He was the last
person she wanted to see, she thought bitterly.

Men, they were all the same. She should have known. Had it just been the other-woman stuff she would have got over it. Sex was sex. It didn’t mean a lot. Des worked on Wall Street, he was
a man of means. And attractive with it. She hardly knew of a marriage in their set where one half of the couple wasn’t playing away. It wouldn’t have been a divorcing issue for her, not
that Colette would admit that to anyone. Sexual fidelity was not what had held their marriage together all these years; it was the financial perfidy that gutted her. There was no going back from
that. She could never trust her husband again. She almost broke into a cold sweat thinking how close she’d come to losing their London home.
Her
London home. Des had wanted her to
rent it out all the years they lived in New York, but Colette hadn’t wanted strangers in it. She’d always enjoyed flying back a couple of times a year and staying for a week or two,
relaxing after the hectic pace of her life in Manhattan. Some things were worth more than money.

She would not, in the future, live a life of anxiety wondering what other kind of stunts Des would pull with whatever was left of their money. From now on she would be in control of her own
destiny. And she was lucky enough to have something at her back. The flat was a valuable piece of real estate. A thought struck her. Des’s wallet! He’d probably be looking for that. Was
it in his suit jacket? She got up and went to the carrier bag where Des’s belongings were neatly packed. His car keys and wallet were in his suit pocket. She went back over to the desk, put
them beside the charged BlackBerry and took a sheet of notepaper from the drawer and began to write. When she was finished, she picked up her cell and dialled Jazzy’s number. It went into
message minder. Colette threw her eyes up to heaven. It was impossible to get her daughter on her phone and she wasn’t the type to ring her parents every day.

‘Jazzy, please ring me as soon as you get this message,’ she said crisply before going to dress for her business meeting at the Morgan.

Helena Dupree, an editor-at-large for a glossy fine arts magazine, was surprised but not shocked when Colette told her about Des’s heart attack when they sat at one of the round tables in
the glitzy lobby café where they had arranged to meet.

‘Bankers and brokers and financial-industry workers are dropping like flies with all this economic uncertainty, I believe,’ she remarked, scanning the menu. ‘I mean can you
credit what’s going on with Madoff? Mamie Winston is supposed to have lost millions with him, and Lehman. She didn’t host a table for the Friends of Autism and Asperger’s, or the
Wilcox-Morgan Wing of St Mary Magdalene’s. Rumour has it she’s going to be asked to resign from the boards,’ Helena confided. ‘I’ll have the devilled eggs,
please.’

Colette’s blood ran cold at the news. Mamie Winston, an heiress from one of the city’s oldest families, had contributed a fortune to charities over the years, and was an
indefatigable fundraiser. And now, because she was financially embarrassed, she was going to be frozen out. Manhattan’s social register was no place for you if your star was on the wane. Old
money or no. And if there was no loyalty to the likes of Mamie – a snooty, stick-thin matron who loved to know everyone’s business, and who only entertained Colette because of her
reputation in the world of fine art – there would certainly be no loyalty to her and Des. The invitations would dwindle. They would be quietly dropped if they could no longer afford their
lifestyle, as though they had never been part of that privileged world. The humiliation would be excruciating. And
that
she would not endure, Colette decided there and then, as Helena
continued to gossip about the amount of family heirlooms that were discreetly coming on the market because of the downturn.

Colette had just said goodbye to her lunch companion and was about to walk with her through the glass-enclosed central court to the entrance when her phone vibrated and she saw Jazzy’s
name flash up. ‘Helena, it’s Jazzy. I have to tell her about her dad being in hospital. You go right ahead and I’ll be in touch,’ she said, giving the other woman an air
kiss and turning back to reclaim her seat.

‘Give him my best,’ Helena threw over her shoulder, her Manolos click-clacking across the floor of the court.

‘Sweetie, thanks for getting back to me. Where are you?’ Colette placed her bag on the table and sat down.

‘I’m on East 34th and Lex. I was setting up a Facebook and Twitter account for a client. Where are you?’

‘The Morgan.’

‘I could be with you in under ten,’ Jazzy said breezily.

‘Perfect. Would you like me to order you some lunch? I’ve already eaten but I’ll have another coffee.’