Maeve Binchy

by The Quentins (Lit)

  Why had she said she would like him to come to Dublin? Now she had to look after him, make sure he liked the place. Confirm that he had done the right thing in lending the Foundation's name and support to this venture. She had to draw him into her life, introduce him to her friends and family. Yes, it would certainly take her mind off Dublin now being a city without Don, but she wanted some time on her own to think about that too. Time to mourn him, without having to plunge into all this. And to decide what to do.

  But to be fair, he hadn't asked her to make any arrangements for him. His office had booked his hotel, and a limousine would meet them at the airport. He said that he realised she would have to get back to work. He knew she would not be free to dine with him every night because she would possibly be working in the very restaurants where he might want to go and eat. In Quentins itself, and in Colm's restaurant up in Tara Road. It would be very different from the life of a lady that she had been leading in New York.

  She looked at him as he slept. This was a man who had worked all his life. He would understand she had a living to earn.

  She fell asleep herself. And dreamed a troubled dream, where Don Richardson was waiting for her at the airport, saying that he had come back from the next world for twenty-four hours to give her a message, but he had now forgotten what it was. In her dream, Ella had clutched the computer harder and harder.

  She woke just before they were making their approach to Dublin in the pink Irish dawn. She heard the stewardess asking Derry King to make sure his "wife's seatbelt was fastened, and he had not bothered to correct the relationship either.

  She realised that there would be no Don at the airport

  or

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  anywhere ever again. She bit her lip to hide what she feared might be a look of upset on her face. If he noticed, Derry said nothing. He just looked out of the window at all the green. It was hard to read his expression.

  Then the plane landed, and there was no time to discuss anything.

  She had never come into the city any way except the bus. It was curious to see the road from the back of a big black Mercedes. The chauffeur asked Derry which route he should take. Ella began to protest that she should be dropped at Derry's hotel in St Stephen's Green, and that then she would find her own way home from there.

  Derry took no notice. "Tara Road first, please," he said simply, and there had been no argument.

  Neither of them commented on the city that they were both looking at with new eyes. Ella was glad to see that the weather was good. It was a crisp, late-autumn day. The early-morning rush hour had not yet begun. The streets looked as if they had been cleaned by a recent shower of rain.

  He could not find this place repulsive at first glance. He had to see it as a gracious city.

  Derry was pleased to see some colour return to her face. She had looked very pale as they had landed. It was a series of hard things for a girl to have had to face over a period of four months. The loss of the man she considered her true love, the financial ruin of her family. And then the second loss of the suicide. Not easy for her to come back, but at least she had friends in this place. She would survive.

  i They made arrangements for her to pick him up at his hotel that night for an early dinner.

  "This is a beautiful street," he said when they came to Tara Road.

  "Yes, but I'm round at the tradesmen's entrance these days," she said with a bright little smile.

  "Not for ever, Ella," he consoled her.

  "Well," she shrugged.

  "Shall I take the car up the lane, Madam?" the chauffeur enquired.

  "No, it would get stuck, I'm afraid. Just leave me at the corner, if you don't mind."

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  The chauffeur was about to carry her case but she wouldn't hear of it.

  "See you tonight at six, Derry." She ran off before anyone could say more, down the narrow lane behind the big houses of Tara Road to where her parents would be waiting, up already for hours, and peering out the windows of what used to be the garden shed.

  Ella couldn't sleep. She tried, but it didn't work. Her mother had gone to work, her father sat at the kitchen table moving papers around him. The huge, paper sunflowers looked cheerful in the window as she had known they would. She looked across at the house where her parents had lived since their marriage until this summer. She remembered Derry King saying that this situation would not be for ever. Maybe a man thought differently, in that he would work and scheme and slave to get it all back. While Ella would lose it all and more on top of it if she only thought she could see Don just once more. She wished she could sleep because she felt a great weariness and sense that life was going to be so empty from now on, it didn't really matter what happened.

  In his hotel room, Derry King paced up and down. He had a stiff neck from the plane journey. His eyes felt heavy. In theory, he should be able to sleep. In the past, when he had criss-crossed the United States to go to conventions, meetings, sales conferences, his ability to snatch sleep had been legendary. He would wake refreshed and ready for everything.

  But it was different here. These were the streets that Jim Kennedy had walked when he was young. This was the land that had not given him a living or an understanding, the city he had fled to find a better and brighter life. Jim Kennedy would not have been welcome in a hotel of this calibre. He would not have been allowed past the door. But those small bars they had passed on the journey from the airport, places with family names over the door, that would have been his territory. And in the telephone directory there were people who could tell Derry about it all.

  But he didn't want to ask and learn. He didn't know what he wanted to do. For years he had steeled himself against useless regrets and time wasting, wishing himself elsewhere. There had been too much maudlin "if only" in his father's conversations. Derry King would be no part of it. He would spend no time wondering why he had decided to come to this place. Nor wishing

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  that he had stayed where he was and taken Fennel for a three-hour walk every day in Central Park. He was here now and he would make the best of it. And if sleep would not come, then he must go out and walk in that park across from his hotel.

  Brenda Brennan's friend Nora was working in the kitchen. She knew that the American was in town. The one who would provide the money to make the film about Quentins.

  "Will he sneak in to have a look at the place, do you think?" Signora asked as she expertly cleaned and diced vegetables that Blouse Brennan produced triumphantly in ever-more earth covered trays.

  "No, I think he's too smart for that," Brenda said thoughtfully. "He'll have to meet us sooner or later, so he doesn't want to be unmasked as someone having a private peek."

  "That's true, but I bet he has a private peek through the window sometime today, don't you?" Signora said.

  "Oh, definitely," Brenda laughed.

  Patrick Brennan looked at them. Women's friendships were amazing. Brenda and Nora O"Donoghue had been so close since they had all met at catering college. Even the years Nora had spent in Sicily didn't seem to have broken it, they wrote each other long letters all that time. It didn't matter that one of them ran the restaurant and the other was scraping vegetables in it. They were still equals. Still like girls, giggling over whether a rich American would come and peek in the window. Patrick wished that men had friendships like that, where there were no secrets, where nothing was hidden.

  "Would he be the kind of fellow that would fall for me, do you think?" Deirdre asked in the cafe at lunchtime.

  Ella had begged her to have a quick lunch and they were having a sandwich near Deirdre's work.

  "No, I don't think he would. He's too interested in work, more work and art and brooding and more work and homeless dogs to have any time for you," Ella said.

  "Hey, I could be interested in all those things too if I wanted to," Deirdre protested.

  "Well, your powers are extraordinary, Dee. We all know that... and what do I know? When y
ou meet him, you might start to sing arias at each other."

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  r

  "And will I meet him?"

  "Of course you will. I'm just trying to work out where. It can't be Quentins. That has to be formal and work and everything ... we haven't room to swing a cat at our home these days, otherwise I'd have a Sunday lunch for him to meet my friends ..."

  "I could have a Sunday lunch in my place if you like," Deirdre offered.

  "Would you, Dee? And we could ask Nick and Sandy." Ella was pleased.

  "Your parents could come, and Tom and Cathy," Deirdre said.

  "Oh, Dee, what would I do without you?"

  "Nuala is back in town, but I think not, don't you?" Deirdre said.

  "I think very much not." Ella was reflective.

  "Sorry for bringing her up," Deirdre said. "But you might just run into her or Frank of the one-track mind."

  "Now that Don's dead, do you think he'll shut up about it all, and let him rest in peace?"

  "Are you asking me for an honest answer?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Then I don't think that people like Frank and his brothers would let anyone rest in peace while they think that someone owes them a sum of money."

  "Oh well, welcome back to the real world, Ella," she told herself ruefully.

  "You never left the real world, Ella! You're terrific to cope with all that's being fired at you. Truly you are."

  "No, you're right, I'll survive."

  I'm only babbling on because I honestly don't have the words to tell you face to face how sorry I am about what Don did. It's a nightmare for you, and I just want you to understand that I know this." Deirdre's eyes were full of tears.

  "Let's think of what we'll eat on Sunday," Ella said. She could cope with anything but sympathy just now.

  Tom and Cathy were delighted with the invitation to lunch. Something they didn't have to cook and serve themselves. It was heaven. But there was a problem which they had to work around.

  "Deirdre, we'd just love to come to lunch, and we'll bring you a really luscious dessert from the freezer," Tom offered.

  "You don't need to do that. I'd love it, but you don't need to . . ."

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  "We do."

  "Why?" Deirdre was suspicious.

  "Because we're going to ask you if we can bring the twins. We"re meant to be looking after them that day. Muttie and Lizzie are going on an outing. We said we'd take the kids. They're so mad and awful really we thought if we gave you a roulade and a pavlova it might sort of make up."

  "How mad and awful?" Deirdre asked.

  "Just desperately curious and inquisitive, really. They ask all kinds of intimate questions without realising it. They might offer to dance, but we can close them down on that."

  "No, we might need it if it's all a bit sticky. Ella says they"re great value. Of course they can come and I get two puddings as well." Deirdre sounded well pleased.

  "What's the worst Maud and Simon could say to this rich American guy, do you think?" Cathy asked Tom.

  "They're very into mating conversations just now. They could ask him about his sexual habits, I suppose," Tom suggested.

  "Oh, yes, they'll definitely want to know about who he mates with. I was wondering if they want parts in the film or anything, you know how much they like to belong," said Cathy.

  "I'm sure he'll be able to deal with them." Tom hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.

  Ella called in to Firefly Films. They weren't expecting her. They hadn't their response ready.

  "It's all so unfair, Ella," Sandy began.

  "People put too much pressure on him," said Nick, who used to say that there was no pit of hell deep enough for Don Richardson.

  "Yes, when Derry King's gone back to New York, I'll cry on your shoulder, believe me I will, but now we have to work out how to make the best of his sudden decision to come here. I'm meeting him tonight to go over our notes."

  She saw their faces lighten. This was exactly what they had hoped for, but they didn't want to appear crass by not acknowledging that the love of her life had first left her and then killed himself. They sat down to plan the campaign.

  Nick and Sandy looked at her with admiration as she pushed the hair out of her eyes. She took out an armful of files, some with coloured stickers on them.

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  "There are so many different ways we could go. In a way it will depend on who talks best. But come on, let's have a look at the stories anyway."

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  Starters

  Derek Barry was entertaining a couple of wealthy clients to lunch. He didn't actually know them. But Bob O"Neill, his partner, had been most insistent.

  They put plenty of work through the books of Barry and O"Neill Accountants, and they were threatening to move elsewhere.

  All they needed was some stroking and patting and reassurance. Bob had intended to take them himself, but his plane was delayed in London and he couldn't get back. Derek must hold the fort.

  There had been hardly any time to check them out. All he knew was their bank balance. That and the fact that Bob O"Neill, the senior partner in the firm, said that it was a Must Do.

  So, Derek sighed and booked a table in Quentins.

  That was one advantage of being the father of the restaurant's owner. He always got a table there. He arrived early.

  "Where can I put you, Mr Barry?" Brenda Brennan was always outwardly polite, but he felt she didn't like him.

  "It doesn't really matter, Brenda. I'm meeting a pair of clients, Bob's, not mine, loads of money, dot-corn millionaires or something. Complete nobodies." He shook his head disapprovingly.

  "Well, I hope they'll enjoy their lunch, Mr Barry."

  She was too cool. He didn't like it. She was, after all, an employee of his son Quentin, and so was her husband, that fancy chef Patrick. Derek Barry, small and self-important, sat down at

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  his table, bristling with a sense that he wasn't being treated with enough respect.

  The couple were shown to his table. In their late thirties, he decided, big, both of them, far from elegant, cheap, ill-fitting clothes. The woman carried a shabby handbag, the man wore a loud jacket. They looked out of place in this quiet, smart restaurant, decorated for Christmas, but not garishly so. Little Christmas trees with small white lights dotted around.

  Still, Bob O"Neill had been adamant. These two were to get the treatment. They paid big fees for the firm's services. Derek Barry was to make sure that they were happy and continued to be so.

  "Mr and Mrs Costello, what a pleasure," he said, standing up. I'm Mr Barry."

  "Bob O"Neill's not coming to the dinner?" the woman said, surprised that the table was set only for three.

  "Er ... no. Mr O"Neill sends his best regards but you know the pressure of business ... he was delayed in London. And as one of the senior partners myself, I thought it was time for us to get to know each other." Derek hated her calling lunch 'dinner", and in a place like this.

  "Well, I'm Jimmy and my wife is Cath," the man said.

  "Ah," Derek said.

  "What's your first name?" Cath asked.

  It "was ignorant rather than impolite, Derek thought, just a woman with no social graces. He wished he had made the time to find out exactly what kind of business they were in.

  He told them his name.

  "So you drew the short straw, Derek," said Jimmy, settling in and looking at the menu.

  Flinching at the way his first name was being used so easily, Derek asked nervously what that meant.

  "Well, I suppose it means that Bob O"Neill sent you to this dinner to do his dirty work," Jimmy explained cheerfully.

  "Like, so that you'll be blamed when we take our business away from you," Cath added. "Do they serve draught beer here? I'd really love a pint."

  Derek Barry felt dizzy. Things were moving out of control. People calling lunch 'dinner" and wanting pints in Quentins. These two people talking
casually about moving their business away from the firm.

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  "Well, well, whatever we must be, we must not be hasty," he said. "No haste at all, Derek," Jimmy said good-naturedly. "We'll just come back to the office with you after our dinner and collect the papers."

  Derek B arry felt a slow anger begin to burn inside him. Had Bob O"Neill realised how serious the situation with these people was? Probably not. Jimmy and Cath Costello were not the kind of people Bob would have known socially. But he would have known that something was wrong. That was why he had made Derek the fall guy.

  Cath was deep in the menu. "Are we all going to have starters?" she asked, almost childlike in her enthusiasm.

  "I don't know what any of them are," Jimmy said, examining the list.

  They were about to lose wealthy clients, and this woman with her tight perm and her nylon scarf twisted around her neck was proving to be far too confident in a restaurant of this standing.

  The waitress said her name was Monica, Mon for short, and she was delighted to help. This one was quails" eggs, tiny little things, in a bed of pastry with a gorgeous sauce served on the side. This one was kidneys with a mustard sauce on toasted scone.

  I never had a quail's egg," said Jimmy. "But I'd love kidneys in mustard sauce. I'm in a lather of indecision."

  "I'm the same way myself, Jimmy. We'll have two starters, that's what we'll have."

  I don't really think ..." Derek began. But he stopped. There was something about Cath's expression that he didn't like. It was as if she could see right through him, could read his embarrassment and snobbish feelings about her earthy way of going on.

  "Are you going to have starters and mains?" she asked Derek with interest.

  He tried not to shudder and show how little he liked every phrase she uttered. These vulgar people were important to his company. Bob had said only this morning that they couldn't afford to lose their business. So Derek knew he must turn on his charm.