She knew by the tone that there was little point in challenging him. She stood, and he held her coat as she put her arms into the sleeves. She went out into the hall, leaving her father to check the doors were locked and the lights were off.
~
“Howya, love.” A fat woman with a ruddy face hoisted herself from her upturned crate and lifted two white roses from a black bucket on the ground in front of her.
Christine could feel her father watching the exchange as she handed the woman a note without speaking, and proceeded through the gate of the graveyard. They walked along the too-familiar path without comment, Christine a few steps ahead of Matt all the way. When they reached the grave, she stood awkwardly, watching him out of the corner of her eye. After some moments had passed, she kissed the marble cross quickly and left the roses down beside it. She took a few steps back, her hands deep in the pockets of her coat. She mustn't forget, it was his wife here too. It wasn't all about Christine. But then.
Matt put his armful of red roses and pink tulips down on the gravel. The grave instantly lost its sombre appearance and seemed almost garish and showy. In spite of everything, it made her smile. She hid her mouth behind the upturned collar of her coat.
“We should think about getting the moss cleaned off,” Matt scratched at a part of the headstone that was greener than the rest.
“Mmm.” Christine looked around her. It was strange being here with her father. With anyone. The day was clear and cold, but there was some heat in the sun, even in its distance. She closed her eyes and felt it on her skin. When she opened them again, she saw her father looking at her.
“Well, I'm ready if you are,” he said. He turned to the headstone and laid his hand on the top of the cross. Christine took one more look at the grave with its floral embellishment, and followed her father back towards the gate.
Sitting into the car, Christine felt her phone vibrate. It was a text message from Craig.
I KNOW U ON A DAY OFF, BUT GIS A CALL IN THE OFFICE IF YOU GET A SEC. IMPORTANT.
Crap. It was unlike Craig to send a message like that unless it was urgent.
“I need to call the office Dad, okay?”
“Sure.” Her father looked quietly thrilled at the prospect of his daughter having any interaction with the real world, and he went to turn down the volume of the car radio. Christine dialled Craig's number.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Christine. Sorry, I know you’re on a day off.” Craig sounded officious. “Doing anything nice?”
Christine looked over at her Dad who was trying to negotiate the traffic on the main road outside the graveyard. “Nothing special. What's the matter? It sounded urgent?”
“Well, it's Shay's kid. Lucy. She's been taken into hospital. Happened last night, I think. It sounds pretty serious.”
Christine’s skin bristled. “What's wrong with her?”
“Dunno, but she had some sort of seizure, and they had to get an ambulance. I don't know much more really.”
“Holy God.”
“Yeah, well I knew you and Nina are close, so I thought you might want to know. Mark said she's unconscious. In a coma, I presume. Anyway, that's it.”
“Right, thanks for letting me know, Craig.”
“No worries. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
Christine looked at her phone. Should she call Nina? There was probably no point, she would most likely be in the hospital with her phone switched off.
“Everything okay?” Her Dad flicked his gaze from the road before him to his daughter.
“Not really.” Christine put her phone down on her lap. “You remember Nina? Shay's wife? You met her once. She used to work at CarltonWachs. Before I started there.”
“Sure, yes. Nice girl.”
“Yeah. Her little girl is in a coma.”
“Oh no.”
“Yeah. All of a sudden. She had a seizure or something.” Christine looked out the car window. “It sounds bad.”
“That's terrible.” Matt sneaked another look at Christine. “How old is she?”
“Oh, she couldn't be more than three. She's their baby.” Christine shook her head. “They're only back from holiday. Shay was showing me photos of her just the other day. Herself and the two boys. She's gorgeous.”
Outside her window, bare trees whizzed past. Nests they had sheltered with their foliage through the summer sat exposed, like tumbleweed caught high in the branches. Little nests, undoubtedly built with such hope back in spring, now empty. Abandoned.
“Poor Shay,” she said.
They drove along in silence. It was a while before Christine noticed that they were headed south, in the direction of the garden centre her father had suggested visiting. She considered arguing with him, but then where else had she to go today? She decided at that moment to let her father take charge. To let him look after her for the day, to tell her what to do and where to go. She also decided against calling Nina. She would text Shay's phone later.
“Did your mother ever tell you about the time you got lost on holidays? We were in Cork.” Her father concentrated hard for a moment. “Or maybe it was Kerry. Anyway, we were on a beach. A beautiful, remote beach. And we lost you.” He looked at Christine. “Did she ever tell you?”
Christine shook her head.
“She probably didn't want to remember it.” He bit his lower lip. “She was frantic. We both were. We had been watching Aggie so carefully in the water. She would have been, oh I don't know, maybe six? Or seven?” He looked at Christine like she might be able to tell him. “I'd say you couldn't have been more than four. Aggie was in the water, just at the edge, and we were watching her so carefully, afraid a wave might come in and knock her down, I suppose. You were just playing near us, digging in the sand.” He turned to her. “You never liked the water,” he said. “But then, I looked up, and you weren't there. And I couldn't see you anywhere.” He shuddered at the memory. “I told Patricia to get Aggie, and I went off down the beach, looking for you, calling your name. But you were nowhere. We couldn't understand it, because you had been there moments before. Back then, you didn't really think that someone might have taken you, but you were only little. And the water -” He stared off over the steering wheel. Staring back twenty-five years. Like he was watching an old cine film that he would much rather have forgotten all about.
“Well you must have found me, cos I'm here now,” Christine smiled at him.
He looked at her, his eyes glassy. “We did,” he said. “You were probably only gone five or ten minutes at most, but I'm telling you, it felt like an hour. Especially to your mother.”
Christine looked down at her hands. Her poor darling mother. “So where was I?” she asked.
“You were up in the dunes,” Matt said softly. “I saw you first. Your mother came just after me, dragging poor Aggie by the hand. You were completely oblivious to the whole episode. You didn’t realise we were searching for you at all. And do you know, we stood watching you there, even through our panic.” He shook his head. “Still to this day, I -” Matt exhaled and leaned back against the car seat. “You had found a steep dune, and you had climbed to the top, and were running down. So fast.” He turned his head to her again briefly. “You were only little. It must have been terrifying. But you ran down, squealing. And your legs couldn't keep up and you'd tumble to the ground at the bottom, laughing, out of breath no doubt. But then you got up, and climbed the dune again, and did it all over.” He laughed to himself. “We must have watched you do it three or four times before your mother couldn't bear it and had to go to you and hold you in her arms. She really did think we had lost you.” He sounded serious again. “But you looked so, so free.” He smiled at the memory. “So fearless.”
Christine looked at her father. His face was full of pride and admiration for that little girl. She couldn't remember ever being lost, but she remembered the dunes. The feeling of being out of control, of her legs moving forward half on purpose, h
alf by gravity. The feeling of standing at the top, and looking down, knowing what lay ahead, heart racing. The feeling of being terrified, but of leaping out anyway. The feeling of exhilaration. She remembered feeling all of those things.
And she remembered seeing that pride on her father's face, all through her life, through school plays, well fought hockey matches, good exam results, when she qualified with her degree in Maths in Dublin. She had once earned his pride, his admiration. But it had been so long since he had looked at her in that way, she had almost forgotten. She had once been that little, fearless girl he had been so proud of.
But now that little girl seemed all but gone.
Twenty FourMark looked out of his office building and across the river. The roads far beneath him were clear of snow, but there still remained frozen mounds of it dotted along the footpaths. It could stay like that for weeks.
“A burst water main,” Petra continued, her voice sounding even more tinny that usual on the speakerphone. “So the noise is unbearable. There’s water to the building, but they’re advising us not to drink it while the works are being carried out, so I’ve arranged for a supply of bottled water for each floor and increased our order of water-cooler refills.” She sounded decidedly put-out. “Anyway, other than the path being dug up outside, and the outrageous noise, it’s not too much of a problem.”
“Right,” Mark said, watching a boat being moored just past Michigan Avenue bridge. What type of person had nothing more important to do than take his boat out on the river on a Thursday in January? Whoever he was, he had his priorities right. “Right. Good. Nothing else?” He turned back to look at the conference phone on the table before him, half-expecting it to have acquired heels and a sticky-out chest.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And nothing new on Lucy?”
“No.” Petra was noticeably solemn. “Shay phoned in this morning. I don’t think they’ve left her side the whole week. They must be shattered.” She sounded like she was talking to herself.
“And the doctors haven’t said anything more?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not this morning anyway. She, she just doesn’t seem to be improving.”
“Yeah.” Mark didn’t even try to imagine what Shay must be going through. “Okay, well if there’s nothing else.”
“No. I’ll check in with you tomorrow before I leave the office,” Petra said. “And I’ll see you on Monday, Mark.”
“Yeah,” Mark replied. “See you Monday.”
Twenty FiveChristine fumbled with her coat and laptop case, trying to reach her phone which was ringing in her pocket. She almost managed to grasp it, but it slipped from her hand and bounced across the carpeted floor. The ringing stopped.
With a loud exhalation, she made to retrieve it, but a dark-haired suited man who had been directly behind her in line got there first.
“I 'ope eet was not an important call,” he smiled.
“Thanks,” Christine took the phone from his hand.
“Engleesh?”
“Irish.”
“Ah, oui. Très bien. I spent a summer in Kerry wiz my family as a child. Very beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Very wet,” he raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her.
Christine glanced at the phone. Missed call from Mark. He was probably running late. She put the phone in her laptop bag and folded her coat over her arm.
“Did you fly in zis morning?” It appeared that her new companion had no interest in ending the conversation there.
“No. We have an office here in London too.” The group of men in front of her finally moved, and Christine took a step forward to a long table which was almost hidden by rows of small plastic badges. She smiled at one of three girls who sat looking up at her enthusiastically.
“Christine Grogan. CarltonWachs.”
The girl checked a long list of names on a sheet of paper before her, before nodding at Christine. “Yours should be -”
“I see it.” Christine picked up her name tag from where it sat innocently next to one that said Mark Harrington CEO, CarltonWachs Ireland. Wow, that was one clock she would like to turn back. Not New Year's Eve itself, no, she couldn't wish that away. Regardless of how it had turned out, she still got shivers when she thought of that night. Good shivers. But suggesting that he attend the conference. That had been really stupid. She accepted a thick bundle of papers and brochures from the girl behind the table and turned towards the huge double doors leading into the auditorium.
“À tout à l'heure, Meez Grogan.”
She looked back over her shoulder to see her new friend clipping his name tag to his finely-tailored lapel, the three seated girls gazing at him. Christine smiled and kept walking. Goodness, that was all she needed.
Inside, the enormous room was dimly lit and brimming with suits. Rows of chairs filled the floor facing a temporary podium, where a long table and six chairs were set facing the audience. The stage was illuminated from behind by a huge projected rectangle of blue light, welcoming the delegates in various languages. Christine found a spare half-row, halfway down the room. In a worryingly similar fashion to a school classroom, the majority of the back rows were already full, mostly with men, many of whom would undoubtedly use the two days seated in a dark room to catch up on some nap-time. Christine put her bag on the chair next to her and looked around. No sign of any familiar faces so far. Sally from the London office was also to attend, but she had told Christine that she might not make the first day's talks. A general sweep of the room revealed the anthropological demographic she would have expected. Eighty percent men in suits, a smattering of bearded, hippie-types dressed like lumberjacks. The women were almost all under the age of thirty, and standing or seated next to one of the older, suited men. The few older women she could see were almost exclusively in ill-fitting skirt suits. Christine crossed her legs and smoothed out the fabric of her new wool trousers she had bought herself at the weekend.
“Is this seat taken?”
She jumped and looked up to see Mark carefully lifting her bag and placing it on the floor at her feet.
“Oh, hi.” She silently cursed herself for blushing. “I'm sorry I missed your call earlier. I was about to phone you.”
“That's okay,” Mark looked like he doubted her. “I phoned from the cab on my way from the station. I thought I wasn't going to make it, but the traffic was surprisingly light.”
“Great. How was your flight?”
“Early,” he yawned.
She couldn't help it, she yawned too. They regarded each other for a second, and laughed. Christine looked away first. She really didn’t want to get into a heart-to-heart about –
“I have some good news,” he interrupted her thoughts.
“Oh?”
“Lucy. She's going to be okay.”
Tears involuntarily sprang to Christine's eyes.
“Shay phoned me as I was boarding. She came 'round late yesterday evening apparently, and spoke to them all.” Mark nodded. “It's great news. She asked for her teddy, and a drink of milk.”
Christine closed her eyes in a silent thank you.
“Shay said that she slept well last night. Well, for a few hours anyway.”
“I'm just so glad,” Christine said, wiping her eyes as discreetly as she could. The person charged with chairing the conference started to speak from the podium.
“I know,” Mark whispered. She could feel him looking at her, and she kept her eyes trained on the projected slides above the stage. They sat listening to the speaker outlining the two-day event. He then introduced a B-list politician to formally open the conference. The man took his place behind the microphone and started speaking with a voice that had all the tonality of an expiring bluebottle.
Christine found she couldn't concentrate. It was fairly inevitable that the conversation they, well she, had successfully avoided having thus far, would happen in the next twenty-four hours. How could it not? She could g
uess how the evening would go already. They would go back to their rooms after the last talk, then they'd meet for a drink at the bar before the conference banquet. They'd still be sober enough to keep their counsel at that stage, and there wouldn't be any opportunity of having a personal conversation at the dinner table seated next to eight or ten other delegates.
But then there would be the awkward moments between the end of the meal and bedtime. They'd both have had a few glasses of wine by then, and the chances of them not discussing New Year's Eve would be slim. If she were honest with herself, she knew that they probably needed to talk things through. Draw a line under it. Clear the air, whatever. She glanced at Mark as he listened intently to the man droning on from the stage.
What she mustn't do, is end up back in bed with him. Even if it seemed like a good idea in twelve hours time. She considered writing a note on her hand, a sober reminder of her current resolve for later on when all resolve would be forgotten. But the idea of inking 'DON'T SLEEP WITH HIM AGAIN' on the back of her hand right now seemed a little ridiculous.
“So what parts should I really pay attention to?” Mark spoke in a low voice as the politician continued his rant.
Christine laughed. “All of it, of course.” She flicked through the itinerary. “The talk on energy markets should be useful to you.” She turned a page. “And the talk on emissions trading tomorrow morning. I know the guy giving that. He's an analyst with CBR in New York. He's a good speaker.”
The noise level in the room was beginning to rise as the politician warbled on, apparently oblivious.
“So do you know many people here?” Mark looked around.
“Not really,” Christine said. “Sally will be here tomorrow. There are usually a few analysts I recognise from attending other talks. Sometimes you'd spot a college buddy or two.” She looked up suddenly, and cast her eye around the room.
“Know him?” Mark covertly pointed to a man seated in the row in front of them. Apart from the obviously expensive wax hat he held on his lap, his attire suggested that he had wandered in off the road having slept in a ditch the previous night.
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