‘Leave it to us, Mrs Harpur,’ Russell assured her while Jonathan stared at his mother, gobsmacked.
‘Go and find yourself someone like Russell or Kenny here, Jonathan. We all need love in our lives,’ his mother advised, leaning on the gate. ‘Safe journey now.’ Nancy waved at them as Kenny started the engine. She blew them a kiss and Jonathan rolled down the window and waved back at her until they turned left at the top of the road and she was out of sight.
‘And there was me afraid to let you introduce me as your partner, Kenny,’ Russell chuckled.
‘Pick your jaw off the ground, Jonathan. Mothers always know and always want you to know that they know! She wants you to be happy, so go on . . . be happy.’ Kenny laughed over his shoulder at Jonathan’s stunned expression.
Jonathan stared out at the tree-lined, winding country roads he had travelled as a child and knew that this chapter of his life was over. It was time to move on and let the past go. He had a lot to look forward to. And his mother would welcome his partner if he was ever lucky enough to find one. Where he had thought there might be hurdles, there were none, he thought ruefully when the car picked up speed, leaving Rosslara behind them.
He had to do it. Jonathan knew if he didn’t he’d feel he’d let himself down for the rest of his life. It was bad enough that he felt he’d wimped out with Gus Higgins; he couldn’t let the feeling of being a coward eat away at him a second time in his life.
‘If I faint drag me out,’ he murmured to his friend and colleague, Mary Helen.
‘Why, what are you going to do?’ she asked, perplexed, as he pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Watch!’ he grimaced. They were in the staff canteen and the sun, shining through the big old-fashioned sash windows, added to the buzz of chat and conviviality of the mid-morning tea break. Jonathan took a deep breath and walked over to the adjoining table where Gerard was holding forth. ‘Mr Hook, I’d like a word.’ His voice was admirably steady. He had thought he would be quaking but a strange calm seemed to have enveloped him.
‘I’m on my tea break. It can wait until we’re back at work,’ his boss said rudely, casting a wary glance at him.
‘Actually, Mr Hook, it won’t,’ Jonathan said firmly, raising his voice an octave as a hush descended on the people at the two tables. ‘Last Thursday when I was on my tea break you spoke to me in very derogatory terms. I told you that if it happened again I would report you to Personnel. Having given the matter, and your vile remarks, some consideration over the weekend, I would now like you to apologize to me here, in the canteen, where you originally made those remarks in the presence of my colleagues and others.’ He stared at the man in front of him, willing himself to remain composed.
‘Now, now, now, there’s no need for that kind of thing. If your feelings were hurt it wasn’t meant,’ bristled Gerard as an audible gasp came from Jonathan’s workmates.
‘I beg to differ. You did mean what you said and you did mean to belittle me. Your apology, please, or I will go to Personnel and the union!’ Jonathan said icily, enjoying the other man’s discomfort.
Gerard blanched. He wanted no truck with the union. ‘Very well then,’ he muttered, almost inaudible. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t think my colleagues heard that,’ Jonathan said coldly.
‘Sorry,’ Gerard barked angrily.
‘Apology accepted,’ Jonathan retorted and turned on his heel to walk back to his table. Mary Helen was grinning from ear to ear. Aidan Corrigan gave him the thumbs-up and began to clap. His other colleagues followed suit as, beet red, he sat back down beside them.
‘Well done. I’m proud of ya, Harps.’ Mary Helen patted him on the back.
‘Good on you, Jon,’ said Aidan.
‘Very well said,’ applauded Laura.
‘That will teach him.’ Maria held her mug up in toast.
‘He’s puce,’ giggled Rebecca.
‘Good enough for him,’ snapped Tara.
‘Way to go, mate.’ Matthew gave him a high-five.
Jonathan basked in the glow of their praise. He might not have settled his score with Gus Higgins mano a mano but he’d got a public apology from Gerard Hook. He’d faced down another bully. Whatever his boss might think, Jonathan was more of a man than he’d ever be.
Today was a good day. He’d ring Hilary and tell her what he’d done. She’d be pleased for him. And so would Orla. His next session with Hannah would be interesting too. His counsellor made him think outside the box, that was for sure, he thought ruefully, remembering how Hannah had responded when he’d said that he didn’t think much of a God who would allow such terrible things to happen to his so-called children.
‘God, the Universe, Our Source, or whatever you choose to call the loving energy that created us, has given us the freedom of choice to make our own decisions about how we live our lives. We cannot blame “God” for man’s inhumanity to man. But the immutable laws of the Universe are very clear – and this has nothing to do with religion – every deed or thought we put out comes back to us. Good or bad. Everything is perfectly balanced. As Edwin Markham’s classic quote says, There is a destiny that makes us brothers; no one goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.’
‘Do unto others what you would have them do unto you,’ Jonathan said gloomily, remembering the biblical quote from his catechism.
‘That’s another way of putting it,’ Hannah said crisply.
‘Jonathan, did you ever ask yourself why you are here? What is your purpose? Did you ever think that you chose to incarnate with your parents and your family, for example? A specific soul group that you are part of since the beginning of time? Did you ever think that perhaps it’s not what happens to you that’s important, but the way you deal with it? This abuse has happened to you but you can choose how you let it affect your life. You can choose victimhood or victory. That choice is yours!’ she’d said in her gentle, matter-of-fact way.
Jonathan knew the choice he wanted to make. His life was changing for the better and so was he.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Des Williams punched the air exuberantly before replacing the phone on the cradle. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ he trumpeted, barging into the hotel bathroom where Colette languished in a bath of frothy soapsuds sipping a G&T and flicking through Vanity Fair.
‘What?’ She glanced at him irritably. She hated his habit of bursting into the bathroom without even knocking.
‘We’re married. So what?’ he’d retort when she would chastise him for his lack of finesse.
‘We’re going to New York, baby! I got the job! Graydon Taylor himself just phoned me. Jeez, he works 24/7, even on weekends! I’ve to fly over on Tuesday for a briefing – that’s why I got the call. Jerry Olsen, eat your heart out!’ Her husband was fizzing with excitement, striding up and down, eyes glittering in anticipation at what was to come. ‘This brings us way up! Way up! This is the big time! Mega bucks, baby, mega bucks! Let’s go celebrate.’ He leaned down and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Colette’s stomach gave a strange little lurch. When Des said this was big time stuff, she felt a flutter of apprehension. He would expect a lot of her. She would have to compete with all the other corporate wives in the multinational company that was now dictating where they lived. New York society was a whole new ball game. She’d be up against wives who knew each other. Women who had contacts and a whole social network behind them. She would be starting from scratch again as the outsider and it was daunting. Not that she’d ever let on to anyone that she was intimidated, Colette thought, returning her husband’s kiss.
‘Congratulations, darling, I knew you’d get it,’ she said loyally. ‘You’re head and shoulders above Jerry Olsen. You played a blinder.’
‘So did you, my sweet. They were mightily impressed at that dinner we gave. Ginny Olsen doesn’t have any of your sophistication or savoir-faire and they could see that. You could carry anything off. Image matters. Never forg
et that, baby. We’re a team, a great team. The Yanks won’t know what’s hit them,’ he grinned, taking a slug of her drink.
Colette was warmed by his praise. Des was right, they were a team, and a premier division one at that, and it was something he always acknowledged. ‘Come on, I’m taking my gal for a champagne dinner. We’ll be able to announce it to your folks tomorrow.’
‘I’ll enjoy that!’ Colette stretched languorously, the water rippling like warm silk over her smooth body.
‘Me too.’ Des grinned at her. ‘Papa will have to admit, his daughter married a go-getter of the highest order.’
‘He does think I married well.’ Colette soaped her limbs with Miss Dior bath lotion.
‘He looks down his aquiline legal-eagle nose at me, don’t kid yourself,’ Des scoffed. ‘When he’s visiting our pad on the Upper East Side and our summer rental in the Hamptons he’ll change his tune!’
‘Imagine what the Palmer-Hicksons will say! They’ll be sick as parrots.’ Colette perked up, thinking of how a couple they socialized with but didn’t particularly like would react to the news of Des’s promotion.
‘We’ll invite them to New York for our house warming! And Barty and Cecily Herne, and the Goffs!’ Des sat on the side of the bath and flicked suds at his wife.
‘Oh yeess! Tamara Goff is such a snooty cow sometimes, showing off with that place in the South of France. The Hamptons will trump that any time. She’ll be pea green! Oh bliss, I can’t wait to tell her. This is going to be fun.’ Her exhilaration and the thought of outdoing the more competitive members of their social set ignited and she felt a burst of adrenalin. ‘I might take a trip to Paris and buy a few pieces. We’ll probably have to do a lot of entertaining.’
‘Good thinking. Those American wives will recognize class when they see it. I’m going to order us up a bottle of bubbly! To get us in the mood! Back in a sec.’
I’m going to live in New York! Colette thought dreamily, her earlier misgivings evaporating as she finished her G&T and waited for Des to come back with the champers. There was no stopping her now. The notion of her friends’ envy made the G&T taste even better.
‘So Des got the promotion, that’s great news, Colette. What an adventure. Jazzy will find New York a big change,’ Hilary commented when Colette revealed her momentous news the next morning. Colette was all ready for a long chat despite the fact that her friend was in the midst of preparing Sunday lunch for her in-laws.
‘She’s very adaptable,’ Colette said touchily. Trust Hilary to be negative.
‘I know she is, I was just saying,’ Hilary said mildly. ‘It’s different when you have children. I could have gone to Moscow for a while when they opened the duty free and Niall was there for weeks. Bahrain is next on the list so I might get over for a week.’
‘Well we’ll be going to live!’ Colette said edgily. Hilary’s jet-setting opportunities were only minor compared to hers, and Niall Hammond was a minnow in comparison to Des.
‘It’s a big step. How do you feel about it?’
‘Thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. What an opportunity. Des is going to make pots of money. And the investment opportunities . . . the sky’s the limit. You can really climb the ladder there. What’s not to love going to live in New York?’
‘Well good for you, Colette. You know I wish you all the best,’ Hilary said warmly.
‘Thanks, Hil.’ Colette softened a little. Her friend had such a good nature that Colette knew that Hilary truly meant her good wishes, unlike some of her two-faced friends. ‘Actually I’m a bit apprehensive as well, to be honest,’ she confessed now that the initial buzz of breaking the news had worn off.
‘I can understand that. It’s a huge, life-changing event,’ Hilary empathized.
‘I know. And Des expects so much of me. All that entertaining and networking. That can be hard-going. He’s even making plans for our house warming and we haven’t even moved! And if it’s tough-going keeping up with the Joneses here and in London, it’s a thousand times worse over there. I’ve seen some of them in action. I swear to God, Hilary, it’s not for the faint-hearted. He wants me to get onto charity boards and committees. You know they’re such a big deal over there. I’ll have to work my ass off. I’ll have no time for myself!’ Only to Hilary would Colette confide her trepidations.
‘Oohh wouldn’t be too into that now, myself. Just having to buy clothes for all those events would be my worst nightmare. But you’re used to that kind of lifestyle, it will be no bother to you,’ Hilary said bracingly.
‘Umm,’ Colette sighed. ‘I wish we could have had time for a real chat – why didn’t you get rid of that Jonathan yoke on Friday night? He was very insensitive. He should have known we would have liked a private conversation,’ she rebuked petulantly.
‘Don’t be like that, Colette. I didn’t know you were coming and I couldn’t do the hot potato act to Jonathan. He’s a very nice guy,’ Hilary reproved.
‘He doesn’t know his place! I could hardly get a word in edgeways – he had an opinion on everything and he took charge of your kitchen as if he owned it, and you hardly know him,’ she retorted huffily, not used to being demoted to second place by Hilary.
‘Sometimes you just know who’s going to be a good friend and he’s going to be a good friend of mine,’ Hilary said firmly. And you were the one who took over the conversation, she thought crossly but kept it to herself.
‘Well I am your oldest friend! And we don’t get to see each other that often any more. You never come to London now.’
‘We’ll see each other at Rowena’s wedding next month!’ Hilary pointed out.
‘Aw hell! I forgot about that. I hope Des will be around for it. I’ll check it out. Anyway I’d better go. We’re calling in to Mum and Dad’s for brunch before going to the airport, and I’m not finished packing yet. I’ll ring you before the wedding,’ Colette said hastily, glancing at her watch. ‘Just wanted to tell you my news, byeee.’
Colette had completely forgotten about Rowena Ryan’s wedding, she tutted, neatly folding her clothes into the Louis Vuitton case that was open on the bed. Rowena, an old school chum, was the last of their set to get married. She was having a glitzy late-June wedding and her father, a well-known developer, had hired out the new Mont Clare Hotel in Merrion Square for a two-day bash.
Colette was looking forward to showing off in the wildly expensive black off-the-shoulder Christina Stambolian gown that Des had bought her for her last birthday. It was one of her ‘investment pieces’ as he liked to call them and he had been as proud as Punch when she had worn it to a gala night where he had been hosting a table for charity. ‘Princess Di has nothing on you,’ he’d enthused when she’d modelled it for him. Des was a generous husband. He never begrudged the money she spent on style. He actively encouraged her and she knew it was because it reflected well on him and the lifestyle he was able to afford. No way would Niall Hammond ever be able to afford Christina Stambolian and Catherine Walker gowns, and trips to Paris, for Hilary to buy a designer wardrobe, even though he had a very good job, Colette thought smugly, packing away her toiletries. Hilary was too chunky for couture fashion anyway. It would be wasted on her. She was at least a size 14 compared to Colette’s petite size 10.
If Des couldn’t go to Rowena’s wedding she’d go on her own, but she hoped her husband would be able to accompany her. It would be the ideal opportunity to let all their Irish friends and acquaintances know they were moving Stateside and impress them.
‘Get a move on, sweetie, I’ve paid the bill!’ Des strode into the room looking extremely debonair and sporty in his pale blue Lacoste shirt and tailored cream trousers. Preppy, very American, she thought happily, observing his tanned good looks with pleasure. He reminded her of a young Robert Redford with his tawny blond hair, blue eyes and square jaw. She had married well, Colette comforted herself, remembering the brown-eyed, black-haired, well-built medical student who had broken her heart. He could never carry off a preppy
look – he was far too untidy with his curly hair tumbling into his eyes, and his odd socks because he’d dressed in a hurry. But she felt a pang of longing remembering their lusty love-making, knowing that her husband had never brought her to the heights of happiness that Rod Killeen had . . . or the depths of despair, she thought crossly, wondering why he had come into her head after all these years.
Des shrugged into his navy blazer, slotted some floppy disks into his portable-computer bag, zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I want to send a fax to London and NY. I’ll send a porter up for the luggage and I’ll meet you in the lobby. Don’t be long,’ he instructed briskly. He was anxious to get back home to London to make a start on his preparations for the big move. Colette felt herself begin to tense up as he hurried out the door. He’d be like a coiled spring, edgy and restless for the foreseeable future, and that she was not looking forward to.
She glanced out of the window across to St Stephen’s Green. A myriad of pink, blues, greens and yellows daubed against an azure sky. A Monet painting framed by green railings. The Victorian park looked spectacular in the morning sun, the early summer bedding splashes of riotous colour against the green hues. It was a timeless, picturesque sight that brought back happy memories. She had strolled around that park often with Rod, walking through the impressive Fusiliers’ Arch, and diagonally across to her favourite sculptures, the Three Fates, when they were heading to O’Briens on Leeson Street for a teatime drink on Fridays to celebrate the start of the weekend. What a relatively simple and unsophisticated life she’d led then, Colette mused, thinking how much her life had changed and how much it was going to change with the move to New York.
Who knew, in a few months’ time she might be looking out onto Central Park, the most famous park in the world. She might even see Jackie jogging around the reservoir, as was the ex-First Lady’s wont, Colette thought with a thrill of anticipation at seeing the most stylish woman in the world and one that she greatly admired. Jackie Kennedy Onassis too, was a connoisseur of fine art. She had made a superb job of renovating the White House when she was First Lady. New York was a treasure trove of antique stores. Perhaps, in the future, Colette might even open a gallery and have a fine art business herself. She was certainly well qualified to do so. She had a lot to offer. She should stop feeling anxious about her place in New York society.
A Time for Friends Page 12