A Time for Friends (58 page)

She went down to the master bedroom and burst into fresh tears realizing that Des would never sleep on his side of the outsize bed again, and that she was now a woman alone. She switched on the
electric blanket, got undressed, and wrapped a robe around her while she cleansed, toned and moisturized. Not even the greatest crisis of her life would disrupt her bedtime beauty routine.

It was raining outside, drumming against the window, and the skies were dreary with ominous clouds. It was a relief to slip into the warmth of her luxurious soft sheets, and to pull the duvet up
to her chin, knowing that she had a day and a night to recover before she had to face the realities of her situation and set about arranging meetings with lawyers and her bosses in Dickon and
Austen’s.

Colette had thought that she would toss and turn but she fell asleep almost instantly and slept through the day, not waking until 4.30 that afternoon. Hunger gnawed at her and she pulled on a
robe and padded out to the kitchen. It was dark already, and the view was so different from the one from her apartment in New York. It would take time to adjust to this life-changing move. Had she
been too hasty? she wondered apprehensively, staring at the changed skyline. It was still raining and she closed the blinds to shut out the wintry night.

She had emailed a list of groceries and requirements to her maintenance firm, and the fridge was well stocked. She heated some soup, and ate it with granary bread and Cheddar. A rare treat for
someone who stayed away from carbs and dairy. She left the dishes in the sink and went back to bed and flicked on Sky News. A reporter was commenting on plans for Obama’s forthcoming
inauguration, flashing up images of Washington and Capitol Hill and for a surreal moment Colette felt she was back in the States. She switched the TV off and burst into tears.

She and Des had been invited to celebrate and view the historic occasion at a soirée to be thrown by the McLean-Butlers, at their Park Ave residence. They had got to know the affluent
power couple in Nantucket over the years and had become friendly. Michelle McLean-Butler had bought several pieces from the gallery and Colette had made sure to give her a discount each time,
knowing that she would bring other clients through word of mouth. Colette liked Michelle, who didn’t give a hoot about what people thought, which was quite refreshing in the society circles
they moved in. Michelle was one of the few she would miss.

Now that she was truly on her own, she felt unnerved, apprehensive even. Had she done the right thing, leaving New York? Leaving Jazzy? She was right to leave Des, of that she had no doubts. It
was so long since she’d lived in London – everyone she’d known would have moved on, forgotten her even. It was daunting to think that she’d practically have to start all
over again. Did she have the energy for it? The nerve to do it solo? It was so much easier making changes when you were young and fearless . . . or even foolish, Colette thought with a brief spark
of black humour. She was middle-aged now, used to being part of a couple for so long, it was strange being alone. But here she was, by her own choice and decision; she would have to get on with
it.

Colette wiped her eyes and picked up the latest
Vanity Fair
she had flicked through on the plane. There was an article she wanted to read about Veronica de Gruyter Beracasa de Uribe,
who had swept publishing mogul Randolph Hearst off his feet – and to the top of New York and Palm Beach society, and how after his death she had ended up forty-five million dollars in the
red.

She and Des had never penetrated that rarefied strata of High Society, nor had she aspired to, but she had seen the Hearsts in the Met occasionally, and was aware that the hapless Veronica had
hosted an intimate lunch for the late Princess of Wales, in the mid-nineties, which had truly cemented her social standing. For all the good it had done her, Colette mused, studying the glossy
pictures intently. The high-flying Widow Hearst’s circumstances appeared far more dire than her own, which was a vague comfort. She read the gossipy article with interest and flipped over the
pages to read about Kate Winslet, before her eyelids began to droop and she fell into another jet-lagged sleep.

She was sipping Earl Grey and nibbling on a piece of toast around midnight when the landline rang. Her New York apartment number flashed up on the screen. She stared at it. It had to be Des.
Colette frowned. She could ignore it, or take the call. She was going to have to speak to her husband eventually; she might as well get it over with.

‘Hello,’ she said in a clipped, cool voice.

‘Nice one, Colette. I didn’t see that coming, for sure! Or you maxing out my Platinum card, or talking half of what was in our joint account, or selling the car. Or helping yourself
to the gold. How did you get it through Customs and Excise, just as a matter of interest?’ Des was admirably calm, she thought.

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Des,’ she retorted. If her husband knew that it was sitting in a container being shipped across the Atlantic he’d freak. She
was trying not to freak about it herself.

‘Well I guess I can’t do anything about what you’ve done, but just to let you know that when I liquidate the rest of our assets I’ll be deducting what you’ve taken
from your share,’ he said grimly.

‘I did what I had to do, Des. You would have mortgaged my apartment—’

‘I was going to borrow that money to buy gold and flip it. Gold will go sky high – look how high it’s gone since we bought in the spring. I’d have made a profit that
would have negated much of our losses,’ he said furiously. ‘You overreacted!’

‘You’d have gambled my apartment, like you gambled our money with Madoff, you mean,’ Colette snapped. ‘You treated me appallingly, Des. You should have had the decency to
at least ask me to
consider
the loan option, instead of trying to sneak it through behind my back. I only took what I was entitled to, and I’m entitled to a lot more, so don’t
think this is the end of it. And guess what? That woman, whoever she is, is welcome to you because I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again.’ She slammed down the phone,
incandescent. How
dare
he claim she had overreacted? Had he no conception of how badly
he
had behaved?

By the time she was finished with him, he’d understand . . . and more. You did not mess with Colette O’Mahony and get away with it, as Des would eventually find, to his cost.

The Bon Secours was an attractive hospital, Jonathan thought, admiring the red-brick façade and long sash windows of the three-storey building atop Washerwoman’s
Hill in Glasnevin. He drove past the long, sweeping, verdant lawn edged with conifers, and swung into the car park. He rooted in his coin tray for two euros. Jonathan resented paying parking fees
in hospital car parks, on principle, feeling that life was hard enough for people who had sick relatives in hospital. He’d been caught for fifteen euros in Beaumont the previous week,
visiting his old friend and ex-flatmate Orla who was having her gall bladder removed. An elderly woman he’d shared a lift with had told him she was spending more than fifty euros a week in
parking fees, visiting a seriously ill relative who had been in hospital for many months. She’d even had to pay on Christmas Day, she’d said, disgusted. It was scandalous: greed, pure
greed, and bad scran to Euro Car Parks, she’d declared crossly and Jonathan had laughed, remembering how his mother would say
bad scran
about someone when she was annoyed with them.
It was a real country saying.

Night was drawing in already, he noticed, crossing the car park and seeing the fading smudges of pink-gold sky behind the serrated rims of the trees in the Botanic Gardens. The Christmas tree
lights in the houses on Griffith Avenue had twinkled brighter in the gloaming and he’d felt a fierce swell of loneliness to think that another year was almost over and he was
still
alone. He had given up on his hopes of ever finding a partner. The hurt he’d experienced at Leon’s callous rejection of him, even though it was eight years ago, had brought his barriers
up and he had never let himself get close to anyone since. Mostly he lived a reasonably happy life, but Christmas and New Year always accentuated his loneliness, bringing him to a dark place he
would struggle not to linger in. Although he was surrounded by family and dear friends he still felt lonely at Christmas, especially when he would come home to his cottage and open the door and
walk in to silence.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re very lucky to have what you have
, he chastised himself irritably, hurrying up the steps to the entrance to the hospital. A large,
illuminated crib graced the foyer and he stood for a moment admiring it with his decorator’s eye. So simple yet evocative. The scene stirred up long dormant childhood memories. Jonathan
grinned, remembering a school Nativity play he’d had a starring role in: King Herod. The play had taken place in the school hall and when he had looked down from the stage and seen the
audience looking at him as he waved his whip – made out of a tin-foil roll and strips of coloured paper – he had burst into tears and howled, ‘I’m only
pretending
to be bad, I really
do
love Baby Jesus,’ much to the consternation of his mother and teacher, but to the delight of the audience who had collectively gone, ‘Awwww!’ That
seemed like a lifetime ago, he thought ruefully, sprinting two floors up the wide staircase to St Mary’s.

He knocked on room 222 and heard an invite to come in. ‘Ah Jonathan!’ exclaimed Father McDaid, who was resting against the pristine white pillows, chatting to another man who was
sitting in the armchair beside the bed. ‘How very kind of you to visit.’

‘How are you feeling?’ Jonathan asked kindly, handing the elderly man a carrier bag containing After Eight Mints and an anthology of Irish poetry.

‘Not too bad, not too bad at all. Well . . . well this is
most
kind,’ Father McDaid said in flustered pleasure at the gifts. ‘Er, Jonathan, I’d like you to meet
Murray Corry, a friend of mine.’ He introduced the tall, lean, fair-haired man at the other side of his bed. ‘Murray, this is Jonathan Harpur. I spoke to you about him. He very kindly
gave me Mrs Harrison’s number. You remember, the counsellor I spoke to you about?’ He glanced at his friend.

‘Indeed I do, Father D. Nice to meet you, Jonathan.’ Murray stood up and gave Jonathan a firm handshake across the bed.

‘I won’t impose, I just wanted to drop in and see how you were doing,’ Jonathan said.

‘Arrah you’re not imposing at all. T’was very kind of you to bother coming in to see me. And it’s been very kind of you to even be in touch with me, considering that I
upset you so terribly,’ he added remorsefully. ‘I told Murray about our encounter, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Er . . . no . . .’ said Jonathan, taken aback.

‘I was Father Derek’s curate for about five years before I was laicized,’ the other man explained, seeing Jonathan’s surprise.

‘And a very good curate he was,’ the priest smiled. ‘Everyone loved him in St John’s. I was sorry when he left the parish and sorrier still when he told me he was leaving
the priesthood. We lost a good one.’

‘Oh, did you leave to get married?’ Jonathan asked politely.

‘No, that wasn’t my reason for leaving, and, even if I did want to get married, our church and our state don’t allow gay marriage, unfortunately,’ the other man said
humorously.

‘Oh . . . right!’ Jonathan, whose gay radar was usually pretty spot on, hadn’t picked up on that.

‘Your Hannah is some woman to argue the toss with,’ Father McDaid said mischievously. ‘Now she has me thinking: What’s all the fuss about? Love is love and that’s
all that matters.’

Jonathan laughed, delighted. ‘She certainly makes you look at things differently, I’ll grant you that.’

‘You can say that again. I’m reading all sorts of books I would never have picked up if it hadn’t been for her.’ He pointed to a book on his locker. ‘
The Nine
Faces of Christ
is a fascinating book about the Essenes and their initiations. And, having read it, I’m beginning to think that it’s very feasible
indeed
that Jesus and
Mary Magdalene
could
have been married. Very thought-provoking reading. There’s so much out there that has been kept hidden and now it’s all being revealed. It’s actually
quite invigorating,’ Father McDaid enthused.

‘I must read that one,’ Jonathan said.

‘So must I,’ Murray smiled.

‘And of course Hannah would say that I had my fall and landed up here getting a new hip for a reason. I’m sure she says things like that to you,’ Father McDaid twinkled.

‘Indeed she does,’ Jonathan grimaced.

‘Yes, well, I’m being given time to “rest, think, read and be minded, as well as be renewed in body”, she told me. She rings me every few days to see how I’m
getting on. Could you credit that?’

‘I could,’ said Jonathan. ‘Hannah is a very special person.’

‘And if I hadn’t met you in the graveyard in Rosslara, I’d never have known about her, or never have come to have peace of mind. Thank you, Jonathan.’ The old man held
out his hand and Jonathan grasped it and was surprised to feel a lump in his throat.

‘I’m glad we met. It was meant to be,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you took that huge step of going to see Hannah. As she would say, it’s all about moving on, and I
can see it in you that you’ve changed and are more at peace than the man I met a few months ago.’

‘Indeed I am, my son, indeed I am. I feel I’ve been given a new lease of life. And when I get out of here on Christmas Eve, I’m going to enjoy what’s left of my life now
that my burdens have been lifted from me, all thanks to you.’

‘That’s wonderful news, Father McDaid. I couldn’t be happier for you,’ Jonathan said warmly. It was true that the priest was in a far different space from the one the
tormented person had been in at their first encounter. Jonathan could see for himself how the elderly man’s eyes were bright, his energy was invigorated and he was rested and at peace. Hannah
had worked her magic for sure. Sometimes it only needed someone to point out a very obvious truth, which you’d been blind to, to set you free from a mindset that had imprisoned you, Jonathan
reflected, very glad indeed that he hadn’t had to wait until he was an elderly man like Father McDaid to be gifted with someone of Hannah’s calibre and wisdom.