All We Have Lost (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Friday evening, we arrive at Guilbaud’s. The maître d’ welcomes us with a smile reserved for regulars and shows us to our table. En route, I take in the impressive, and no-doubt heavily insured, art collection. Passing a painting the size of a picnic-rug, my heart swells. It’s like eating in an art gallery.

Seated now, I glance around at the other diners and see a few familiar faces – a leading businessman entertaining his large family, a celebrity dancer gazing into the eyes of her husband, and a (married) magazine editor with a handsome and much younger man who is not her husband. She acknowledges me with a smile and a ‘let’s keep this hush hush’ look. She could keep it a bit more hush herself.

The sommelier fills our glasses.

I raise mine. ‘To Mr Corporate Finance.’

Ian clinks his glass to mine. ‘To Mr Corporate Finance; let’s hope he can wing it.’

‘Are you kidding? You’ll be great.’

We sip champagne in happy silence.

‘I was thinking,’ Ian says after a while. ‘Why don’t we go away for a few days before I start? Sally could mind the kids.’

I’ve already thought of that. ‘I have that bloody exhibition coming up again. I’m so tired of it, year after year.’

‘Not to worry.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘Maybe I’ll take a few days myself.’

‘Do. Definitely.’

‘Or maybe I should do some work around the house.’

I laugh. ‘Hey,
w
hat do you call a group of bankers at the bottom of the sea?’

‘I don’t know. What
do
you call a group of bankers at the bottom of the sea?’

‘A start.’

He smiles but weakly. ‘Yeah, maybe less of the banker jokes.’

‘
Why?
If you can’t laugh…’ 

‘Yeah OK but if we’re out with work colleagues or something and you start having a go at bankers…’

‘I
think
I'd know not to do that.’

‘This is just a big deal for me. OK?’

‘OK. Sorry. I just don’t want you to turn into a banker. I don’t want you to lose your sense of humour.’

‘You see that happening?’

I smile. ‘Actually, no.’

‘Well, then.’

‘I don’t know why we’re even talking about work. We never talk about work.’

‘True.’

Our starters arrive. They, too, are art. Almost a shame to eat them. Almost. 

‘Who would you like to be if you could be anyone else?’ Ian asks.

I think for a moment. ‘Me?’

He smiles. ‘Good choice.’

‘What about you?’ I ask.

‘Bill Clinton.’

‘Bill
Clinton
!’

‘He has a great personality, is really intelligent
and
he gets laid a lot.’

I laugh. ‘You get laid a lot.’

‘This is true.’

‘OK, I’d like to stay me but maybe do something mad.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Pack it all in.’ I have
no idea
where that came from.

‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Right.’ I think.

‘Phew.’

‘Why phew?’

‘Because you’d hate being at home all day.’

‘Would I?’

‘You’ve always said so.’

‘This is true.’

‘Anyway, you’re great at what you do.’

‘It’s not exactly rocket science, Ian.’ In fact, I could do it in my sleep. Which is half the problem. The challenge has gone. And there’s that novel I fantasize about writing...

‘Anyway, I’m not permanent yet,’ he reminds me.

‘I know.’ It would make no sense.

The weekend is a typical one, the claw-back-family-time agenda organised with military precision:

06.30 hours: rise and shine, dress children, breakfast together

09.00 hours: trainspotting

09.20 ride on commuter train

10.05 battle to get son to leave train

10.10 calm restored with treats – all round

10.11 realise bribery is probably a mistake

10.15 return to base-camp. Fight temptation to put on
Thomas The Tank Engine
and return to bed

10.20 tooth-friendly refreshments and play on garden swings

11.00 emergency first-aid

11.02 Thomas video

12.30 healthy, nutritious lunch

13.45 lunch ongoing

14.30 Dublin Zoo

17.45 Dad makes dinner while Mum bathes children

19.00 estimated time of sleep

19.45 actual time of sleep

20.00 arrival of babysitter and exit of parents from family home for essential recovery

Sunday morning’s agenda is interrupted by urgent replacement of the bathroom window.

I stand in the bathroom and look out at the very hot workman.

‘Hel-
lo
. Ian, isn’t it?’

‘Mm hmm,’ he replies, balancing on the ladder, a nail in his mouth.

‘I
love
having workmen around the house.’

He takes the nail slowly from his mouth and smiles like a man in a Diet Coke advert.

‘Makes me feel safe,’ I add.

He starts to pull his T-shirt over his head and I worry he might fall.

‘I should go mind my children.’

‘Yes. Why don’t you do that, you dirty slut, before your husband finds you flirting with an innocent window-fixer.’

A throat clears.

Ian looks down into the next garden, smiles and gives an awkward wave. ‘Hey, Tom.’ He turns back to me and grimaces.

‘I love you,’ I whisper.

Monday, my friend, Sarah, wants to meet for lunch. Says she has news. Sarah usually does.

‘So, I’m leaving
Girlfriend
,’ she announces.
Girlfriend
is Ireland’s best-selling women’s magazine.

‘But it’s one of the best publishing jobs in the country. And you’re such a good editor.’

‘I want to write.’ She pulls on her e-cigarette like it’s oxygen.

‘You already do.’

‘Novels.’

I told her it was my dream. She said nothing at the time.

‘You
know
what age I am,’ she adds.

I’m one of the few that does and have been sworn to secrecy. Heading for forty, she looks ten years younger, dressing with confidence and always provocatively. It’s all done with careful deliberation. Nothing about Sarah is an accident. Even her hair matches her personality. She wants to be a redhead, so she is. If she were an animal, she would be a lion.

‘Isn’t it impossible to get published, though?’ I ask. It’s why I haven’t tried. ‘Shouldn’t you try it in your spare time first, in case it doesn’t work out?’ At least she
has
spare time.

‘Actually. I
have
been.’

‘You kept
that
quiet.’

She waves her hand. ‘I was just faffing about. But now I’ve lined up a publisher.’

‘
How
?’

‘Met an editor at a party.’

She’s unbelievable. Succeeds at everything she does. Everything.

It hits me, suddenly – if you want something to happen, you have to make it happen. You have to believe in yourself and take the leap. Yes, she’s chasing my dream. But at least, she’s doing it. And she’s making me see that it will never happen for me unless I do the same.

‘You know who you remind me of?’ I ask.

‘Who? I think!’

‘Jackie Brown, you know, from that Quentin Tarantino movie?’

She frowns. ‘Jackie Brown is black.’

‘Yeah but you have her sassiness, her sex appeal….’

‘Sex appeal, you say?’

‘I do.’

‘Must watch it again. Pick up a few tips.’

‘You don’t need tips.’

She leans in close. ‘OK, so, this is top secre
t
but I’ve pitched another idea to my editor – and he likes it.’

‘What idea?’

‘I’m going to travel the world in search of The Perfect Man and record my exploits for a non-fiction work, while finishing the novel. What do you think?’

‘Wow.’

‘I
know
!’

‘When are you going?’

‘I leave next week.’

‘For how long?’ I ask, incredulously.

She shrugs. ‘As long it takes.’

‘I can’t believe you’re only telling me now.’

‘Only decided this weekend. Booked the tickets this morning.’

‘And you’ll never go back to
Girlfriend
?’ It was great having her in there in terms of placing articles.

‘Hope not. They’ve given me a year’s leave of absence – so that safety net is there if I want it. They know they can’t do without me.’

‘What will
I
do without you?’

‘Miss me?’

I think of her travelling the world alone. ‘Be careful, though, yeah? Don’t go anywhere dodgy.’

‘Where would the fun be in that? The book has to be entertaining, Kim.’

‘The book won’t exist if you’re dead.’

She smiles. ‘I’ll be fine; I’ll have you worrying for me.’

‘Yeah, that’ll really protect you.’

‘I’ll keep you posted on all my exploits. You’ll know where I am at all times.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

She laughs deep and throaty like Jackie Brown.

After lunch, Maeve, arguably my most career-minded client, greets me with her traditional hug and air-kiss routine in the lobby of the multinational she works for. Cleopatra without the asp, Maeve sports a severe black bob, Roman features, perfect posture and zero expression – she doesn’t like to give anything away, not even her state of mind. She could be beautiful – if only she’d smile. Immaculately groomed as ever, and ten minutes late, also as ever, she walks me to her office. Marketing accolades fight for space. Nowhere is there a potted plant, photo of a loved one, postcard, funny pen…. A private eye’s worst nightmare – no hint of a life outside the office.

‘So,’ she says, once we’re seated. ‘We seem to have achieved reasonable coverage.’

She’s referring to the press conference. And she’s wrong. We got tremendous coverage. But this is Maeve Boland whose chosen method of motivation is the withdrawal of praise. The technique is this: make everyone work harder in case, one day, she might actually bestow a ‘well done’ upon them.

‘I was pleased with it, especially considering the murder,’ I say.

‘Hmm. We didn’t get on the Morning Show, like last year.’

‘That’s the point; we got on it last year so they didn’t want to go again so soon.’

‘Hmm. Anything we could have done better?’

I remind myself that I don’t need this business. I can walk away at any time. ‘Don’t think so, no.’

‘No room for improvement at all?’

She could improve her attitude. But I don’t point that out.

‘Right. Well.’ She passes me an agenda, then looks down at her own copy. Opposite the heading, ‘Press Conference’, she places a neat tick. She lands the tip of her Mont Blanc on the second bullet point and looks up. ‘Let’s talk about a PR strategy for the rest of the year.’

Let’s not, I think. ‘Do you have a written brief?’

‘Well, I thought we could discuss it now.’

That would be right – on my time.

I force a smile. ‘So. Are we targeting the same audience as usual?’

‘Latest research suggests we’re on target. No reason to change.’

I nod. ‘Could I have a copy of that research? It would help in developing a strategy. How about the product messages? Any reason to change those?’

‘Again, they seem to be impacting the target market. Brand awareness is ninety-five per cent. Of course, advertising is responsible for most of that.’

No doubt she’s saying the reverse to the ad guys. I control an urge to sigh, yawn, stretch, walk around her office, jump up on her desk and dance. I am heroic.

‘So,’ I say. ‘The only reason to change anything, then, would be competitor activity. Anything I should know?’

‘Nothing significant. I’ll e-mail you what I have.’

‘Great. Budget the same? Or are you increasing it?’ My own private joke, just to cheer myself up. I know the answer.

‘No. No increase.’