He averted his eyes from Amy-Joanne on the other side of the breakfast table now. She had grown stouter and plainer during their union and it pained him to see her eating so heartily. He pictured, in contrast, his sister Katharine, the complete opposite in shape and size to Amy-Joanne, tall and thin and lanky though similarly unattractive, poor girl. He had always considered Katharine competent but undynamic; she had gone to work in a shop at age seventeen, and that is where he had expected her to remain, at least until she got married and started producing legions of children of her own.
He truly had never imagined that she had it in her to up sticks and move to another hemisphere. But there she was, busily plucking rubber from the bounteous forests of the Amazon and the material’s rising fortunes might just turn out to be fortuitous, the spotting of this advertisement to be a case of right time, right place. Because Mayhew was unhappily aware that he was in a bit of tight spot just now, the life savings business, of which he was founder, chairman and chief executive, in a fair amount of trouble.
‘Guaranteed returns,’ the newspaper ad for the rubber enterprise affirmed, and further down, in the small print, ‘this cannot go wrong. Invest $5 a month and accrue an annual income of $500. Invest $150 a month and receive $5,000 per annum.’
Reading these astonishing figures – even better than the ones he had promised to investors in the Ladies Deposit Association! – Mayhew pondered quite how it was that Katharine had not managed to get rich yet. Obviously, it can’t have helped that her husband had upped and died almost as soon as they’d got to Brazil, but it seemed like this rubber malarkey was such a dead cert a chimpanzee could run it and make a fortune. Mayhew sighed, and watched as Amy-Joanne took another piece of toast. This was the problem with a woman trying to do a man’s job. It was bound to end in failure, or at the very least, a great deal less success than should ensue. What a good thing he might be in a position to give his sister some assistance.
Amy-Joanne, arrested in the process of spreading butter on her toast by the sight of his eyes upon her, gesticulated towards the newspaper.
‘Something interesting, my dear?’ she asked, somewhat nervously. She was often cautious in her approaches to her husband, especially in the morning, when he was not at his best, and especially at the moment, for he had been in a particularly bad humour for some weeks.
‘No.’ Mayhew’s answer was short and curt.
The maid stepped forward to offer more coffee and the trickle of liquid pouring from a pot was the only sound to disturb the silence for the next few minutes. Amy-Joanne turned her attention back to her toast and Mayhew became acutely aware of her attempts to eat and drink noiselessly. He’d told her once, mildly and for her own good, that she sounded like a pig at its trough at meal times and she’d been self-conscious about eating in front of him ever since, much preferring it when he had his luncheon at the club and his dinner out with friends.
‘Do you have any plans today?’ he asked her. He had no real interest in her reply, save for the fact that he wanted to know where she’d be. Over the last few weeks and months he’d been fomenting a plan for how he could deal with the awkward matter of his failing business, his sterile marriage and his uncertain future in one fell swoop. Amy-Joanne’s whereabouts today was crucial information if the plan was to succeed.
‘I’m meeting mother at Macy’s,’ Amy-Joanne replied. ‘To do some shopping,’ she added, unncessarily.
‘That’s generally what people go to Macy’s for,’ commented Mayhew, drily.
Amy-Joanne blushed, embarrassed at her own stupidty. Mayhew felt a pang of guilt. The last seven years since their engagement hadn’t been so bad, really. They lived in absolute comfort, holidayed wherever and whenever they liked and wanted for nothing. Or, at least, he wanted for nothing. For Amy-Joanne and her mother, things were rather different. Mayhew knew that there was something lacking from their union that most people were expected to produce within the first few years. For himself, he was glad that there were no children. But for Amy-Joanne, he knew it was a lack she felt sorely. Divorce, though, was something she would never have contemplated, however bad things got. Puritanism ran thick through the Burnetts’ veins; godliness was the highest virtue.
‘What are you looking for at Macy’s?’ he asked, deciding to be kind. Amy-Joanne’s look of gratitude at his taking an interest in her potential purchases would have been touching if it hadn’t been so pathetic. Irritation arose in Mayhew anew. It reminded him of when Emily Burnett had agreed to his proposal of marriage. The plain ones were always the most grateful. Their mothers, even more so.
He drained his cup of coffee and rustled around on the table for his glasses and the newspaper. He got up and made for the door, and was at the threshold before he realised he hadn’t given Amy-Joanne a chance to answer. He turned back and looked at her expectantly.
‘Mother thinks we need some new linen for Turbury,’ she answered, obediently.
Mayhew raised his eyebrows. There was linen aplenty in every one of the houses, so this mission seemed unnecessary. But if it kept Amy-Joanne occupied, he didn’t much care. He had far too much on his mind.
At the office, he gathered up the day’s pile of mail. The amount of letters arriving was doubling by the day. It had started as a gentle flow, become a torrent and was now a veritable tsunami. A knock at the door drew his attention away from the tidal wave of post that lay in front of him.
‘How are you doing, old man?’
It was Robinson, a stockbroker acquaintance with an office down the corridor.
‘Good. And yourself?’ Mayhew hastily shoved the letters inside his roll top desk so that they would not be visible to his visitor and sat back in his chair, looking every bit the successful life savings investor.
Robinson pulled a disgruntled face. ‘So so. It’s always slow in the summer, isn’t it? But I’ve had better seasons, nevertheless.’
Mayhew grimaced in sympathy. Whatever Robinson’s troubles were, they couldn’t be anything like as bad as his own. His chickens, as the saying went, were well and truly coming home to roost.
‘You getting any time away from it all?’ he asked. He knew Robinson’s wife and children had gone to the coast and were not due back until September.
‘Going next week,’ replied Robinson, suddenly cheered. ‘Yourself?’
‘Amy-Joanne and her mother are planning to spend the summer at Turbury,’ he shrugged, ‘so I’ll go at the weekends. When work allows.’ He gestured towards his desk.
There was a short, awkward pause. Mayhew had a sudden premonition that Robinson was not just here to make idle chat and the stockbroker’s next words confirmed this supposition.
‘I heard a few investors were pulling their money out.’ Robinson made it a statement, not a question, as if he had no doubt as to the correctness of the fact.
Mayhew shifted awkwardly in his chair. He didn’t know how Robinson could have got hold of this information and was momentarily disconcerted.
‘There is quite a bit of movement at the moment,’ he responded, smoothly. Recovering his equanimity he raised his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘But nothing too serious. People are entitled to take their money out as well as put it in. Indeed, I’m glad if they do. Shows we are achieving our aim of a happy financial future for ladies everywhere.’
He gave a loud, hearty laugh but Robinson didn’t join in.
‘My aunt invested with you,’ he continued. ‘What she doesn’t have in stocks and shares, she entrusted to the Ladies Deposit Association. She loved the proprietor Miss Jennifer Jones, her picture in the adverts, the information in the brochures, felt she was a woman just like herself.’ He paused. ‘I’ve never seen Miss Jones here.’
The words were conveyed in a tone of innocent observation but they fell on Mayhew like a ton weight.
‘No, well.’ He grimaced regretfully. He recalled the tense afternoon he’d spent in Greenwich Village with the aged German artist who had drawn the sketch of Jennife
r Jones that adorned all Mayhew’s advertising and marketing material. The old gentleman’s charcoal pencil had flown across the stiff paper, skilfully capturing the likeness of someone who didn’t exist, creating lines and curves, the slick of an eyebrow, the gentle curl of lips, gracefully sculptured cheekbones. As the bonnet began to take shape, Mayhew remembered wondering fleetingly if he had been right to go for that type of hat. But then he had focused on Jennifer’s Mona Lisa smile, the demure, almond eyes and the becoming bow beneath the chin and had been more than satisfied with his decision.
‘She’s not in the best of health,’ Mayhew said, pursing his lips regretfully. ‘A lady of a certain age can have, how shall I put it, difficulties in getting out and about. But fortunately, because of sensible investments made in her very own company, she can live in great comfort while also being housebound.’
Upon finishing this statement, Mayhew struggled to keep the triumphant note out of his voice. I’m good at this, he thought, caught up in his own solipsistic bubble, really very impressive. What a shame it’s all got to come to an end.
But Robinson wasn’t giving in. ‘My aunt told me she wrote to ask for a full withdrawal six weeks ago but has heard nothing. Do you know why that is?’
Mayhew’s pulse quickened as his heart slowly sank within his chest. He placed his hands together, fingertips to fingertips.
‘I have found some, how shall I put it, irregularities in several requests for the withdrawal of funds,’ he said, slowly and sonorously, as if there was a danger that Robinson would not understand. ‘Quite a few older, unmarried ladies saying they want their money out because their nephew or godson or whoever has told her she should give the cash to him instead, that he’ll take better care of it.’
Mayhew tapped his fingertips against each other. ‘Now, I’m sure you can understand that, as a responsible businessman, I need to be certain that this money, when I release it, is not going to fall into the wrong hands.’
Robinson stared at him. Gradually, it dawned on him what Mayhew was suggesting and his face turned an uncomfortable shade of puce. ‘You mean you think I’m trying to steal my aunt’s money?’
Mayhew made a moue of disappointment tinged with the sadness of experience.
‘Not you, no of course not. But you understand that I have to examine all requests to ensure that no one is being exploited. It takes time. But it’s in my clients’ best interests.’
Fortunately for Mayhew, Robinson seemed to fall for this, even expressing his contrition. ‘Very good,’ he said, and then added, ‘well I’m glad you’re taking such good care of her. It’s a pity not all financial advisers are so honest.’
Mayhew accepted the compliment with a modest inclination of his head. And then, with an air of finality, he concluded the conversation.
‘And now if you don’t mind, I must get on with my work.’
Robinson left, shutting the door behind him. Mayhew folded his arms upon the desk and let his head fall onto them. That had been a close shave; he had no idea that Robinson’s damned aunt was an investor in his fund. But though he’d put Robinson off the scent for a while, he wouldn’t stay away for long, Mayhew was sure. He needed to act – and fast.
Opening his desk, he swept the letters, unopened, into the wastepaper basket. He cleared a few items from the table top; his fountain pen and a photo of Amy-Joanne. It always showed that a man was a good sort if he proudly displayed a picture of his nearest and dearest – and of course such a man would take it with him when he left. Exiting his office, he locked the door securely and pocketed the key.
At the bottom of the stairs he said a friendly goodbye to the security guard in his navy uniform.
‘Off early today, sir?’ said the guard, always pleased to be noticed.
‘Summer, isn’t it?’ answered Mayhew. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’
‘Oh yes, indeed.’ The guard nodded in hearty agreement even though, as far as Mayhew knew, he hadn’t had a day off work in all the years Mayhew had had his office here.
He doffed his hat at the charwoman forever cleaning the marble floor with her grey, fetid cloth.
‘A good evening to you,’ he said and she blushed and grinned toothlessly back at him.
‘And to you, Mr Mayhew, sir,’ she burbled, like the guard always gratified with being singled out for his attention.
A couple of police officers were coming up the gleaming stone steps as Mayhew approached the revolving door. He pulled his hat as far down over his forehead as it would go, then took a copy of the New York Times from his briefcase and bent low over it, pretending to be absolutely absorbed in its contents. As he stepped into one glass segment of the door and followed it round to the exit, the police officers entered another to arrive in the foyer, intent on cornering their prey inside, oblivious to the person going around with them but in the opposite direction. Emerging unnoticed, Mayhew tucked the newspaper under his arm and, whistling as he went, took the monumental marble steps two at a time, the perfect image of a successful businessman without a care in the world.
* * *
At Kitty Little’s house, he found her lying idly on a couch eating grapes, which she was sharing with the lapdog that sat at her feet. Her maid, who had let him in, swiftly made herself scarce.
‘It’s been too long,’ Kitty murmured, nestling her face in his chest as he knelt beside her.
‘You know I’ve been busy,’ he said, soothingly. ‘I have responsibilities, don’t I?’
‘But they should only be to me,’ she said with mock-childish petulance, and then laughed.
Mayhew smiled indulgently. Her looks were coarser now, lacking the fresh-faced sheen of youth and untouched beauty. But his mistress was still the most attactive woman he’d ever laid eyes on. After Mayhew’s marriage, she had disappeared, apparently to Italy to try to repair things with her husband, from whom she had long been separated. Then the story had changed to Kitty being there to sign divorce papers, and to try to extract an appropriate sum of money from the man as a settlement. Either way, she had been gone for a number of years.
But then she had returned, and so had the feelings that existed between her and Mayhew. Mayhew, who had the glorious attribute of being unaffected by moral scruples of any kind, had had no hesitation in rekindling a relationship. With the benefit of his own burgeoning business, and Amy-Joanne’s overflowing bank account, he had helped to set Kitty up in this house and bought her a sky-blue coupe to get about town in style and comfort.
Pulling Kitty up from her sofa, he led her to the bedroom where he buried himself in her, suddenly desperate for this escape from real life, for this stalling of time for half an hour or so. She was getting plumper, but her voluptuousness only made her more attractive, more alluring. And there was still no comparison between her luscious softness and Amy-Joanne’s rolls of fat. At the thought of his wife, Mayhew groaned and thrust himself harder into Kitty.
‘Oh yes,’ responded Kitty, automatically.
This was the problem, his little difficulty in the bedroom. What happened so wonderfully, so magically, with Kitty or any other lady of the night he sought the company of, was not possible with his wife. Mayhew simply couldn’t perform with Amy-Joanne. This was why there were no children, and as of today, it was assured there never would be.
Afterwards, he and Kitty drank champagne and Mayhew felt something unfamiliar stirring within him. He hardly recognised the emotion. Was it sorrow? Love? He drank more champagne and dismissed it, whatever it was.
At the door, Kitty lingered, not letting him go. Trying not to show his impatience, Mayhew gently detached her limpet arms from him.
‘I need to be off. I’m expected… somewhere.’
Kitty nuzzled her lips against his neck. ‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’ she murmured. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
‘It’ll have to wait,’ he whispered gently, kissing her forehead. ‘I really do have to go.’
She wa
s trying to arouse him again, to beguile him into staying the night with her. He did that sometimes. But not tonight. Not ever again.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow, sweet one,’ he said, ‘once Amy-Joanne and her mother are ensconced at Turbury, we’ll have all the time in the world for sharing our secrets.’
‘Take this then,’ Kitty said, thrusting a pale pink envelope into his hand. ‘And let me know as soon as you’ve read it.’
Mayhew eyed the missive suspiciously, as if it not sure what it was about to do. What could be so important that Kitty had taken the trouble to write it down in anticipation of a hurried visit – or no visit at all?
A siren in the distance made him jump, and his heart lurched. He gave himself a little shake. He was letting his nerves get to him and that would never do. Hurriedly, he backed out of Kitty’s door. ‘I’ll see you again soon, little one,’ he whispered softly, layering his voice with the impression of sincere love. There was no time to lose. If he was going to get out unscathed, and with the money, this was his only chance.
Waving, he set off purposefully down the narrow, cobbled street, briefly pausing to blow Kitty a kiss before he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
* * *
He could already smell the sea air, taste the salt blowing from the ocean in the brisk breeze. He’d picked Brooklyn Bridge as the place to do the deed. It was the wrong time of year, only just getting dusky at seven p.m., but he had no choice. It was now or never. Putting a hand in his pocket, he felt for the passport. It was still there, safely nestled against his hip.
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