Last of the Great Romantics (37 page)

'She's gonna have a field day with you, honey. All I'm saying is, you're newly pregnant, do you really need this in your life right now? You should be taking care of yourself, resting up and relaxing for the next while, till you're at twelve weeks and can start talking about it. I know that crone of old; she'll stress you out and wear you down and all for what? At the end of the day, Andrew's still gonna be putting in one-hundred-hour weeks, same as he always does. You're going right back into the frying pan at the one time in your life when your body doesn't need to.'

'Jennifer, I know what you're saying and I really appreciate your advice, but . . .'

'I knew there'd be a but.'

Portia looked her in the eye. Of course Jennifer only had her best interests at heart, she knew that and loved her all the more for it. But this news was just so overwhelming, so unbelievably amazing that the thought of telling Andrew over the phone, the very idea of not being with him when he heard . . . no, she couldn't contemplate it. She was going back to the city, and that was all there was to it. For better or for worse.

Jennifer was still prattling on, undeterred. 'Sure, go tell Andrew your news but then get straight on the first train back here. I know I'm being selfish, cos I so love having you here, and the girls do too, but I really feel that it's much better for you and the baby to stay here, where it's so peaceful and relaxing. I've got a great doctor in the town, Dr York, she took good care of me during my pregnancies and I'm sure she'd be happy to see you—' Jennifer was nothing if not sensitive and broke off as soon as she clocked the look of steely determination on her friend's face. She sighed. 'OK, OK. Gimme five minutes to find my keys and I'll drive you to the station.'

Portia was in luck. There was a midday train which would get her back to town by two, in perfect time, she hoped, for her to catch Andrew at lunchtime. Jennifer, an angel to the last, had let her go with just an overnight bag.

'My insurance policy,' she explained, pulling the car into the drop-off area. 'Means I get to see you when you come back for all your stuff. Sooner rather than later, I hope.'

Both women hopped out of the car and hugged, with Portia's five-foot-ten-inch frame towering over her pint-sized pal. 'You've been such a friend. I really don't know how even to start thanking you,' she said, sincerely meaning it. 'What would I have done without you?'

Jennifer batted it off, but kept on hugging her. She was teeny weeny but freakishly strong too; eventually she released Portia from her iron-clad grip. 'Can I just give you one parting piece of advice, honey?' she said. 'As one Macmillan Burke widow to another?'

'Of course, fire away.'

'No one is happier for you than I am, you know that. And I'm sure Andrew will be thrilled too. Just don't fall into the same trap that I did, that's all I'm saying to you.'

'How do you mean?'

'Oh, phrases about leopards and spots spring to mind. Don't think that starting a family will magically transform Andrew into husband of the year, because it's not going to. A baby is the best, most wonderful news in the world for
you.
Just don't think this will change him into a doting, attentive guy who wants to be with his wife twenty-four-seven. Because it just won't.'

A full hour later, just as the train was arriving into Manhattan, Portia was still mulling over what she'd said, raging that she hadn't had time to debate with her any further. Of course, she could fully understand where Jennifer was coming from. She was married to the greatest philanderer in the Northern Hemisphere, who thought turning up at the Hamptons every other weekend made him both husband and father of the year.

Andrew was different. Right to her bone marrow, Portia knew how over the moon he'd be at impending parenthood, that he'd want to put her best interests first, that he'd cut down on his work hours, finish this case, get back to Davenport Hall, anything just to be with her and, in time, the baby . . .

Oh God, that felt weird, she thought. Somehow actually saying 'the baby' didn't make her feel in the remotest way like a mum-to-be. She was thrilled, shocked, ecstatic . . . and nauseous again.

She only barely made it to the toilet on the train and had to elbow an old lady out of the way before throwing up all over again.

In spite of Portia's impelling the train to go faster by sheer force of will, surprise, surprise, it didn't. It glided into Grand Central Station bang on the dot of two p.m. Needless to say, Andrew's phone remained switched off. The outbox on Portia's cell phone was crammed with the text messages she'd been bombarding him with the entire journey, each one more urgent and hysterical than the last, till the final one read:
'DON'T EVEN READ THE END OF THIS MSGE! JUST CALL THE SECOND, THE VERY SECOND U GET THIS!!'

No joy. As she fought her way through the throng in the central concourse, she dialled his direct line at the office.

'Macmillan Burke, Andrew de Courcey's phone. How may I help you?'

'Glenda?' Portia had left so many messages with her over the past few weeks, she could recognize the voice instantly.

'Hey, Portia honey! I just love that lilt so much! How are you? Enjoying the life of leisure in the Hamptons?'

'Well, as a matter of fact—'

'Gee, I sure envy you and Jennifer Courtney. Why can't I have married a rich husband too?'

'Speaking of my husband, I was just wondering—'

'Instead of that lousy, no-good guy I ended up with. The closest he ever took me to a beach house in the Hamptons was a wind-blown shack in South Carolina. Which cost him like twelve dollars a night. No kidding, honey, it was just like Dorothy's house in
The Wizard of Oz.
Right after the twister.'

A burly black guy roughly knocked into Portia just as she was going through the ticket turnstile, making her feel ratty and impatient and fed up with being polite to this woman she'd never even met.

'Glenda, I hate to interrupt, but I have to know where Andrew is. I've been trying to call his cell phone for the last few hours, but it's switched off.'

'Well, mystery solved. His cell is right here beside me, honey. Guess he must have forgotten it.'

'OK. This is a grade A emergency. I need to know where Andrew is. Now. And I'm not getting off this phone until you tell me.'

There was a pause. Glenda wasn't used to Portia putting her foot down quite this firmly. 'Well, he's in a meeting, sweetie, said he wasn't to be disturbed under any circumstances. Like that's gonna surprise you.'

'In a meeting where?'

The central concourse was noisy and packed and Portia was practically shouting, which made Glenda sound even more intimidated. Andrew's wife was usually so chatty and gentle, you could almost hear her wondering what harridan from hell was this on the other end of the phone?

'A lunch. With Dick Feinberg from Globex. Honey, all you gotta do is relax. I got the message and the second your husband walks back into his office, I'll have him call you. Where's the fire?'

If only you knew, Portia thought.

'At lunch where?' she persisted, sounding a million miles away from her usual pleasant self.

'You really don't wanna interrupt them, sweetie. You have no idea how pressured those guys are, they're due in court Monday morning . . .'

'Please answer my question, you've no idea how important this is. They're at lunch where?'

There was a pause while poor Glenda weighed up her loyalty towards her boss against the steely determination in Portia's voice. What the hell, you could almost hear her thinking. I don't get paid enough to deal with hysterical corporate wives. 'Balthazar, in the Village. It's on West Fourteenth and Eighth.'

'Thanks.' Portia curtly ended the call, ran outside the building and immediately jumped into a cab.

'That was mine!' screeched a guy in a pinstripe suit who had been about to grab the taxi at the same time.

'Emergency!' Portia called back at him, slamming the door firmly shut and barking the address at the bewildered Puerto Rican driver. It was so completely out of character for her to be this rude that she did flush a bit, but quickly put it out of her mind. This was such life-altering, overwhelmingly BIG news that nothing else seemed to matter. Absolutely nothing else . . .

'Anything else, sir? Madam?'

Dick Feinberg had just said his goodbyes, leaving Andrew and Lynn to pay the bill.

'Oh Christ, did he have to order that second bottle of fizz? My head is throbbing,' Andrew was groaning as he fished his credit card out of his wallet. 'And I have an afternoon of it ahead of me. I'm going to have to burn the midnight oil to get that deposition ready for the court hearing on Monday.'

'Listen to you. So grouchy,' Lynn purred. 'Safe to assume you're still missing wifey?'

Andrew smiled. 'Yeah. I'm going to have to prise her out of the Hamptons at this stage. God, my head hurts . . . What were we drinking? Methylated spirits? Nail varnish?'

'Someone could use a coffee,' she replied, smiling suggestively. She'd waited a long time for this and knew she'd have to pick her moment carefully.

'Great, let's pick one up on the way back to the office.'

'Or you could take a couple of hours off. There's no point in trying to work now, you'll crash out. Look, your place is only a few blocks away, whaddya say we go back there, I'll fix you a strong coffee and you can sleep it off a little.'

'Lynn, I really should get back.'

'What, are you afraid I'm gonna jump your bones? Relax. Let me take care of you.' If she'd added, 'And I won't go running off to the Hamptons once the going gets tough,' her intention couldn't have been any more marked.

The traffic was bumper-to-bumper all along Park, so, unable to contain herself, Portia paid the driver, left him an embarrassingly huge tip, hopped out and walked the rest of the way. Eventually she spotted Balthazar, across the street, neatly tucked in between two high-rise apartment blocks. She was too impatient to walk the twenty or so metres to the traffic lights, so she just ran out in front of the traffic, ignoring the cacophony of car horns and shouts of 'Get off the road, crazy lady!'

She burst through the door, panting and out of breath, flustered, agitated and anxiously looking around for Andrew's familiar, tall, fair-haired silhouette. But it was well after three o'clock by now and, apart from a few stragglers lingering over dessert wines, the restaurant was empty. In a flash, the maître d', a small, round, Italian man, had oiled his way over to her.

'May I help you?'

Portia ignored him and moved inside to the dining area proper. No. Definitely no Andrew.

'Ma'am? How may I help you?' The maître d' sounded a little more insistent, having followed this slightly panicked-looking woman into the restaurant proper, probably wondering if she was about to set fire to the place.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Portia, flustered and suddenly aware of the picture she cut. 'I was looking for Andrew de Courcey, actually. He would have been with a table from Macmillan Burke?'

'Excuse me?'

'A tall fair-haired man, Irish accent?'

'Oh, sure, now I got you. Yeah, he was here for lunch all right. Table sixteen.'

'Oh, how long since he left?' Doing a quick mental calculation, Portia figured that he and this Dick Feinberg, or whatever his name was, would be on their way back to the office and that she could nab him there.

'They left like an hour ago. He asked me to call a taxi for him and his date, cos they had both had a little too much of the sauce over lunch, you know what I mean?'

'I'm sorry, did you say his date?'

'Sure. He left with a lady friend.'

'I really miss her, you know. Place seems empty without her. Hate coming home here now. Hate it.'

Ordinarily, Andrew was a man who could hold his drink, but not today. Exhaustion and loneliness were proving to be a lethal combination, or at least, so Lynn calculated. They stood side by side in the tiny galley kitchen as he drunkenly attempted to pour some coffee for them both.

'Black for me, I don't do dairy,' she purred, moving in on him and sounding surprisingly sober.

'Jesus, sorry, I didn't . . . know you were behind me.' He had turned around to find her almost pressing herself up to him and spilt the freshly brewed coffee all over her white linen trouser suit. 'Sorry, sorry . . . oh God, I'm such a dork.'

'Hey, relax, Andrew. I think someone has had enough to drink. Why don't you have a little lie-down and I'll go soak this suit out in your bathroom. Don't want my underwear to get ruined.'

He was in no fit state to argue. Ten seconds later he was crashed on the bed, out for the count.

It's funny how the memory works, Portia thought. How something as simple and inconsequential as a song played on the radio has the power to pull you back to a specific date, time and place in your life. And with the subconscious mind being what it is, all the emotions you experienced, no matter how long ago, come flooding back as fresh as if you had experienced them only yesterday.