A Time for Friends (31 page)

There was some salmon and lobster left; she could have that with a salad but she’d have to get it herself. She had sent the staff home when they had cleaned up after the delicious lunch
they had served to her departing guests. She’d eat soon and this time she’d enjoy every morsel of her food. How liberating not to have to talk to anyone, or keep an eagle eye out to
make sure glasses were replenished with champers, costly wines and brandies. No one to worry about but herself. A rare and prized occurrence. Bliss!

She lay languidly in the balmy trade-wind breezes listening to the rhythmic, soothing swish of the gentle waves lapping against the curve of white-sanded beach fringed with palm trees and
watching a gleaming white cruise liner glide serenely towards North Caicos. Colette drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke the sky was crimson, the setting sun a globe of molten gold dipping into a gilded sea, the fronds of the darkening palm trees silhouetted against the sky. She had slept for over
two hours and she felt surprisingly refreshed. She slipped her sandals onto her feet and wrapped her sarong around her. She was
starving.

What she’d really love was one of Ishmael’s kebabs, Colette thought longingly, remembering the mouthwatering late-night feast she and Hilary had often shared on Baggot Street, after
a night out in one of the ritzy nightclubs on the Lesson Street strip. The spicy sauce dripping from the wrap into her mouth. Colette smiled, remembering how sophisticated they had thought they
were queuing for Zhivago’s in a dingy lane off Baggot Street, or waiting for Maurice peering out through the peephole in Samantha’s to give them the once-over.
Barbarella’s
,
Sloopy’s, Lord John’s: the nightclub names from her youth came flooding back and she suddenly felt a fierce wave of loneliness for home.

Where had that come from? Colette wondered, wishing she had Hilary here to share memories with and to confide how drained she was and how disenchanted she was becoming with life in the Big
Apple. Hilary was the only one in the world she could admit that to and not feel a failure. There was not one friend or acquaintance on this side of the Pond that she could make that pronouncement
to, secure in the knowledge that it would not be wafted along in Chinese whispers to all and sundry. Hilary would hate her lifestyle, Colette thought, remembering how her friend would far prefer to
go to a trad session than a sophisticated nightclub.

They hadn’t been in touch for ages. They had drifted apart over the past few years, having nothing much in common, each of them immersed in their own busy lives and careers. What she
wouldn’t give to have Hilary here now sharing a bottle of wine, and a meal on the moonlit deck, so that she could have a good old moan about Des and his never-ending, relentless pursuit of
wealth and success. And to confide that she and Jasmine had just as prickly a relationship as Colette had with Jacqueline. Her teenage daughter was in boarding school in Upstate New York preparing
for university. They were currently fighting about which one she should apply for. Colette had suggested Sarah Lawrence but Jazzy wasn’t having any of it. ‘I’m not going to a
finishing school for young ladies,’ she sneered dismissively. ‘I want to go to Berkeley.’

‘You are going to an East Coast university, miss, so you can forget about Berkeley,’ Colette assured her, much to her daughter’s disgust. When Jazzy had heard that Des was
renting a jet to come down to the islands she had thrown a tantrum and insisted she wanted to come on the jaunt, despite it being term time. Another row had ensued, and now she wasn’t talking
to either of her parents. Did Hilary have as much trouble with Sophie and Millie? she wondered. The last time she had seen them, a few years ago, they were so sweet and polite and she had been
mortified by Jasmine’s thoroughly bad behaviour in comparison.

She walked past the shimmering pool and masses of fragrant flowering shrubs towards the villa, wondering why she had thought of Hilary and their carefree, giddy nights of so long ago. It seemed
like another lifetime, and so far removed from the world she inhabited now.

She knew why she had thought of the succulent kebabs of her youth. She knew what this whole weekend had been building towards, knew why she had wanted to be completely alone. She hadn’t
given in to it for months, not even with the stress of the Christmas season and all the entertaining that had entailed, but this weekend had left her feeling utterly fraught, as she knew it would.
Des had ratcheted up the pressure in the weeks leading up to it until she had wanted to scream, ‘Leave me alone, for God’s sakes!’ But she hadn’t, she’d calmed him
down as she always did, and planned everything to the nth degree and now, thankfully, it was over and she could have her reward.

She flipped the switch for the lights and strolled into the kitchen. ‘Don’t rush, savour it,’ she murmured, pouring herself a glass of fruity Merlot. She couldn’t face
another flute of champagne. She wanted substance. Colette opened the massive fridge doors and surveyed the array of food in front of her. She moved aside the conch salad to get to the platters of
lobster and salmon. She placed them on the kitchen counter and took a crusty baguette from the ceramic bread bin, her mouth watering. She hadn’t had bread in
ages.
She rarely allowed
herself to eat white carbs. Colette cut the bread lengthways and slathered creamy butter all over it and bit into it so that she left teeth marks. It was gorgeous! She took another huge bite and
stuffed some lobster and a hunk of salmon into her mouth so that her cheeks were bulging. A slug of wine and then more bread and lobster. Oh the comfort of it. The reward of it. How she deserved
this solitary indulgence for all the stress she had endured. She felt exhilarated and utterly reckless and free as she feasted, until she could feast no more and she lay bloated, and bleary-eyed
from drink, on the fat-cushioned chintz-covered sofa in the lounge.

Guilt, self-hatred and disgust consumed her and Colette wept bitter tears before running to the toilet to purge her body of the vile food she had consumed. Shaking and sweating as she retched,
she vowed that this truly was the
last
time and she would go on a strict diet and she would never,
ever
binge again.

Later as she lay in bed curled up in a ball, revolted with herself, she realized that there wasn’t one person in the world she could confide in. Not her husband, not her mother, not even
Hilary. Her pride wouldn’t let her. What did that say about her? Colette had never felt so lonely in her life. She sat up and got her Filofax out of her bag and studied her diary. It was
fairly crammed but there were a few appointments she could lose. She wanted to go home to Ireland. It had been two years or more since she’d visited. She had been to London a few times last
year but hadn’t gone back to Ireland. Jacqueline and Frank had flown over to them. They were more inclined to come on mini breaks to New York, so going back to Ireland had not been a priority
for Colette.

It would be good to talk to Hilary. Even if she couldn’t tell her everything that was going on in her life, she could vent about some aspects that were driving her mad. And it would be a
relief to step off the treadmill for a while. Her spirits lifted somewhat. A trip home was just what she needed. She would check her dates with Des and book flights tomorrow.

Worn out and sore and bloated from her food binge, Colette lay back against the pillows and fell into a restless sleep.

Des Williams felt the effects of the Ambien begin to hit as he lay on his massive queen-sized bed, naked apart from a soft towel around his hips, enjoying the sensuous
movements of his lover’s oil-slicked hands across the tightly bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders. He was beyond exhausted. If Skylar was hoping to get some tonight, she was going to be
disappointed, he thought sleepily, groaning when her thumbs went deep into his deltoid muscle. Sex was the last thing on his mind. All he craved was sleep. Deep, deep sleep to revive him for a 6
a.m. start the following morning. The weekend had gone beyond his expectations; he had felt as high as a kite when the sleek long-range jet had raced along the runway at Provi Airport, lifting and
soaring over the glittering waters of Grace Bay heading northwards over the vast Atlantic in a direct route to La Guardia.

His companions were relaxed, chatting animatedly as the stewardess handed out flutes of sparkling champagne to start the two and a half hour flight home. He was looking forward to casually
mentioning to work colleagues that he had leased a jet to fly friends, including his boss, to a villa in TCI. He was a player now; this weekend had put him on another level. Colette had played a
blinder; she deserved her two extra days to wind down and it would give him a chance to spend some quality time with his mistress, and get her off his back about how little attention he paid
her.

Win! Win! Win! was Des’s last thought before the Ambien took effect and he began to snore, much to Skylar’s disappointment. Wall Street high-flyers were a disaster in the bedroom,
she thought morosely, but the new diamond pendant hanging between her rounded silicone breasts was sufficient to keep her by Des’s side for the time being. She wiped her hands on the towel
that covered him, and turning onto her back, propped herself up against the pillows. She flicked on the TV, poured herself a glass of ice-cold bubbly from the bottle of Cristal nestling in the ice
bucket and settled down to watch a rerun of
Sex and the City
and speed-read a manuscript that she hadn’t got around to. She had an acquisitions meeting first thing in the large
publishing company she worked for, and she needed to be on top of her game. An agent had assured her that this was the next Norman Mailer and she fervently hoped it had something to recommend it.
Her last acquisition had been a dud, although she blamed sales and marketing for not doing more. Just as well she had a wealthy lover to pay her rent, Skylar thought wryly, even if he did blow ass
in his sleep, and snore.

Dorothy Freemont cold-creamed her face in her extravagantly appointed pink bathroom. She had enjoyed the feel of the sun’s rays caressing her skin on the weekend jaunt to
TCI, but she could do with some refreshing, she thought, noting the broken veins on her nose and cheeks.

Chuck was already asleep in his suite. He had polished off a lot of alcohol this weekend and had been quite smashed when they landed in La Guardia. If Des Williams thought pouring drink down her
husband’s neck was the way to get into their set he was sadly mistaken. Dorothy pursed her lips. The wife Colette was nice enough if somewhat edgy. In fact she reminded Dorothy of herself all
those years ago, when she and Chuck were giving it their all to get ahead. Yes indeed, she had once been as beautiful and pert and blonde as Colette was now, but the ravages of stress, kidney
problems and arthritis, and the medication she had to take, had slowed her body down and caused her to put on weight, far more than she had ever carried, and she had seen the younger woman looking
at her and wondering how she could let herself go so. Give Colette another twenty years and it would be interesting to see what she looked like in her sixties, Dorothy thought.

As for the husband, he’d hardly noticed her. Des had made the fatal mistake of patronizing Dorothy while schmoozing Chuck, the entire weekend.
Only the wife!
she could see him
thinking.
Give her a few beauty treatments and expensive chocolates and she’ll be fine
. Jackass! He didn’t get that
she
was an equal player in all that went on in
Freemont Enterprises? Clearly not! And that was a
big
mistake. Des Williams and his jittery wife, although they did not know it, had just been relegated to the Freemont Z list, Dorothy
decided, slathering on more Crème de La Mer before donning a black-velvet sleep mask and retiring to her enormous canopied bed with her little pug Frow Frow.

‘What is it?’ Jonathan asked early on Monday morning when his mother handed him an envelope with a card in it. They had finished their breakfast and he was standing
on the lawn in the back garden scattering crumbs for the birds. It was a glorious morning. All the cloud and rain and cold from the previous few days a mere memory as a weather front from the south
chased away the northern polar air. There was even a touch of heat in the sun and the crocuses sprinkled around the garden in splashes of Van Gogh-like colour opened to its warm caress. The birds
were singing and his heart lightened at the sound. His overnight bag was in the hall and he was almost ready to leave for Dublin. He wished he could stay longer but he and Hilary were heading to
Wexford and he needed to get on the road.

‘Open it,’ Nancy said, her eyes glinting with pleasure.

‘It’s a book mark!’ he exclaimed when he opened the card and saw what it contained. ‘Oh! There’s a photo of me in the middle. What’s this about?’

‘Read it!’ His mother smiled at him.

‘Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you through and through.

I chose you to be mine, before you left your mother’s side;

I called to you, my child. To be my sign.’

‘And the other one,’ Nancy prompted.

‘“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,

Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

Plans to give you hope and a future.”’

Tears blurred Jonathan’s eyes. ‘Oh Mam!’ He could hardly speak.

‘I got it done on Saturday morning. You know the small print shop in Castle Mall? I gave them the quotes and your photo and they suggested the book mark. Isn’t it nice? I wanted you
to feel good about yourself. God created you and God knows you and that’s all that matters. It was a quote I heard at a funeral recently and I thought it was
perfect
for you. And of
course the one from Jeremiah was one of the readings at Rachel’s wedding, if you remember.’ Nancy was thrilled with herself.