An Ocean Apart (19 page)

Until midnight David sat and listened, his face burning with fever and his eyes heavy with lack of sleep and jet lag. Then, unable to restrain himself any further, he let out an enormous yawn and pushed himself to his feet, an action which brought about an abrupt halt to Richard's outpourings. Mumbling abject apologies to David for burdening him with his problems and for keeping him from his bed, he too rose unsteadily to his feet and together they weaved their way upstairs.

With a sense of relief David shut his bedroom door and sat down heavily on the narrow bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and rubbing at his smarting eyes. He flicked his wrist over to look at the time. Half midnight. That meant he had been on the go for almost twenty-four hours. He let out a sigh of exhaustion and, heaving himself to his feet, made his way to the bathroom.

He gave his teeth a revitalizing brush and splashed cupped handfuls of cold water onto his face in an attempt to relieve the stinging in his eyes and the thickness clutching at his head, caused both by the flu and the overconsumption of wine and whisky. Then, returning to his bedroom, he undressed and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up around his chin to stop the uncontrollable shivering. He tried shutting his eyes, but his head seemed to be taking off in different directions, whirling in circles from Richard's endless chatter, and at the same time sinking in and out of the pillow with too much booze. He needed something to settle his mind, even just for a moment. He turned and scanned the small room for a magazine or a book to read, but there was only a shelf-full of company business plans propped up by a large legal encyclopaedia. He thought that he might have kept a newspaper from the plane journey, so he clambered out of bed and sprang open the catches of his brief-case. No luck. Only the Glendurnich distributor report. Better than nothing, he thought to himself. He took it out, closed the brief-case and got back into bed.

The next morning he was awakened abruptly by a clatter of coat-hangers as the door swung hard against his bed, and he looked up to see Richard's bleary-eyed and colourless face hovering above him.

“Richard? Whatsamatter?” he asked, bewildered.

Richard rubbed at his hair with his fingers. “Look, David, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we've slept in. We'll have to get a move on. I'm going to telephone Star Limos right now for a car, 'cos I don't think I'm in a fit state to drive.”

He hurried out of the room, and for a moment David lay in his bed while the throbbing in his head and the aching in his limbs began to register in his brain. He looked at his watch. It was half past eight. “Oh,
shit!
”

He threw off the bedclothes and jumped to his feet, the sudden movement exacerbating the overpowering feeling of nausea. He stood for a minute concentrating hard to bring it under control, goose-pimples pricking the surface of his shivering body.

“Oh, for crying out
bloody
loud! Why now?” He grabbed his sponge-bag and made his way through to the bathroom. There was no time for a shower, only a quick wash and a shave, before he was back in his room to riffle through his suitcase for clean underpants, shirt and socks.

“Dan'll be here in three minutes,” Richard's voice sounded up the stairs.

A host of butterflies suddenly invaded David's stomach, and his fingers started to shake as he fumbled with his tie. Christ, he thought to himself, this is all I need. Bloody late for the meeting and a dose of flu to go with it.

He pulled on his trousers and, pushing his feet into shoes while still on the move, he grabbed his jacket and brief-case and ran downstairs.

Richard was already in the kitchen, flying around the room picking up bits of paper off different surfaces and stuffing them into his brief-case. “Sorry about this, David. Listen, grab a cup of coffee. It's in the percolator. I'm afraid it's left over from last night, but at least it'll be strong.” A car horn sounded outside the house. “Christ, no time! That'll be Dan now! Come on!”

He ushered David out onto the deck and locked the door, then hurried down the steps, his guest hard on his heels. Dan was waiting for them on the street, holding open the back door of the Lincoln. They both bundled themselves in, and as the car powered off down the street, Richard slumped back against the head-rest. “Bloody hell, I feel rough! How're you doing?”

“Not too good. I think I've got the flu as well as a hangover.”

“Christ, you poor bugger! You should have said something!” He paused. “Look, I'm going to come back tonight, but you'll probably be finished way before me, so I suggest you get yourself to Penn Station and just take a train to Patchogue. You can get a taxi from there.” He delved in the pocket of his jacket, at the same time flicking open his brief-case. “There's the key of the house, and”—he took a mobile phone from the case—“I think you'd better call ahead and tell them that you're running about half an hour late.” He shook his head and looked sheepishly at David. “I really am sorry about all of this.”

The journey thereafter was completed in silence. Richard, green-faced in his sufferance of the mother of all hangovers, sat snoring loudly with his mouth open and his eyes closed, while David pulled his jacket tight around himself to try to curb his interminable shivering. Dan drove as fast as the speed limit and the traffic would allow, but by the time they reached the queue for the toll at the Midtown Tunnel, Richard's projected half-hour delay was already five minutes over schedule.

Dan looked round from the front seat. “Do you know where on Madison you're going, Mr. Costawfin?”

“Yes, somewhere between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth East.”

Dan nodded. “Right—that's easy enough. Just along Forty-second and up Madison. If it's all the same with you, Mr. Eggar, we'll drop off Mr. Costawfin first.”

“Certainly, Dan,” Richard agreed. “Without question.”

The horn-blowing Manhattan traffic was heavier than Dan had anticipated, with the result that it took a further ten minutes to reach the block of Forty-fifth and Madison. Bidding Richard a cursory farewell, David jumped out of the car, then proceeded to take another ten minutes of frantic searching to find the building in which the offices of Deakin Distribution were situated. By the time he came out of the creaking lift onto the fifteenth floor, the clock on the wall opposite read five past eleven. He looked up and down the corridor. At the far end, a polished brass plaque bearing the company's name hung on the wall beside a pair of large glass doors. He ran towards them and burst into the reception area so forcefully that the young blonde receptionist, her mouth open with fright, pushed her seat back from the desk, as if she felt that her office had suddenly come under siege from an Armed Response Unit.

David turned to catch the hinged glass door as it swung wildly back and forth following his forceful entry. “Sorry about that,” he said almost inaudibly, trying to calm the situation by talking quietly.

The girl never took her eyes off him, but warily drew her chair back to the desk. “Can I help you?” she drawled, an annoyed slant to her voice.

“Yes,” David said, trying to catch his breath following his exertions of the past quarter of an hour. “I'm afraid that I was meant to be here at ten o'clock, but I was held up. I'm from Glendurnich Distilleries Limited.”

“And you are…” The girl ran her finger down the appointment book on her desk before looking back up at him with a sudden light and happy look on her face. “… Mr. Corstorphine?”

“That's right.”

“If you would like to follow me, sir, the directors are waiting for you in the boardroom.”

David followed her as she teetered along the narrow, newly carpeted corridor, her feet splayed out in stiletto-heeled shoes which made her tight-skirted bottom swing unnervingly from side to side in front of him. She stopped outside one of the doors, knocked and, without waiting for a reply, opened the door and stepped aside to allow David to enter.

A group of five or six men sat slouched in their chairs around a long boardroom table, some with their hands linked behind their heads. As he entered, they pulled themselves upright and swung round to look at him, then jumped to their feet in unison. A silver-haired man who had been sitting up at the far end made his way down the side of the table to meet him.

“David,” he said, approaching him, his hand outstretched and a wide, beaming smile on his face. “Charles Deakin, managing director of Deakin Distribution.”

David took his hand, and Deakin clenched it in his powerful grasp, giving it a shoulder-dislocating shake. He let go and clapped his hands together, as if wanting to start proceedings immediately.

“So you eventually found us,” he said, pulling out a vacant chair for David and making his way back to his own at the head of the table. “I must apologize for not having sent you directions. I thought that you must have been to New York before and knew about our morning traffic!”

Charles Deakin had reached the top of the table as he finished his sentence and, turning to face David with a sardonic smile on his face, was joined in his moment of amusement by a rippling murmur from the rest of the assembled company. David smiled weakly. Apart from their managing director, all of those around the table were at least ten years younger than himself and dressed as though they were following a strict company code of attire—in razor-creased shirts, muted silk ties and brightly coloured gold-slided braces. He became acutely conscious of the fact that his own dark grey worsted suit looked old and dull, not only standing out in stark contrast against the vibrance of his companions' dress, but also perfectly reflecting the way that he felt within.

As Deakin sat, everyone around the table immediately followed his lead. David moved quickly to his own chair, realizing that he was in danger of getting completely out of step with the meeting. God, he thought to himself, what am I doing here? I should be in bed. Anyway, this was destined to be a mistake. I should never have agreed to come out here in the first place. His head pounded mercilessly, perspiration soaked the back of his shirt, and he became aware that his cheeks were shivering uncontrollably. He leaned forward in his chair, thinking that he should try to offer some explanation for his being late, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Deakin cut in.

“I'm afraid that we'll have to press on, David, as some of the guys have other meetings scheduled for mid-day. Alex here”—he held out his upturned palm in the direction of the young man beside him, who leaped to his feet and went to stand by the flip-chart in the corner of the room—“will be carrying out the presentation, and will introduce you to each of my colleagues in turn as he explains their individual involvement in the marketing and distribution strategy that we have laid out for Glendurnich.” He opened the presentation document in front of him. “So, gentlemen, if you will all turn to page one, I'll hand over to Alex.”

Deakin swung his chair round to face Alex, and there was a sound of acetate scraping against paper as the men opened their files. David, trying to keep up with proceedings, leaned over the side of his chair, picked up his brief-case and opened it up. The document was not on the top. It must be below the pad of paper. It wasn't there. He slid his hand to the bottom of the pile of papers and flicked his thumb through them. Nothing. He pulled open the flaps on the lid of the brief-case and stuck his hand down inside, but they were empty. A cold, terrifying sense of realization overcame him as his frowning concentration began to clear away hazy memories of the night before, and he remembered that he had taken it out to read in bed. Oh, no, he'd never put it back! It was still on his bed.

Alex, who had started the presentation, halted when he noticed David still scrambling inside his brief-case and stood looking in his direction, turning his black marker over and over and tapping its end impatiently on the palm of his hand. Charles Deakin, following the eye-line of his young colleague, swung round in his chair and looked down the table towards David. There was silence. David glanced up and saw that everyone was looking at him.

“Are you all right, David?” Charles Deakin asked.

David pushed his fingers through his hair and scratched at the back of his head. “Erm, I'm sorry—no—I don't seem to have the paperwork. I think I've left it behind.”

“Not in Scotland, I hope!” Charles Deakin said with a chuckle, and his colleagues once more dutifully joined him in his amusement.

“No!” David said, a little too loud, thinking that he had to defend what little credibility he had left with the assembled company. “I mean, no, I've left it in my bedroom where I'm staying.”

Charles Deakin nodded and smiled down the table at him. “No problem,” he said slowly, as if he were about to explain a point to a classful of primary-school children. “If you would like to take Jack's copy and Jack, you share with Curtis.”

Jack slid the document down the table, and David smiled an embarrassed thank-you at him. Deakin swung his chair back to face Alex. “Right! Let's get going.”

Everything, from that moment on, came in a blur. Alex's voice sounded as if it were being played back through a slowed-down tape recorder, as the young man waarp-waarped his way through the presentation. He introduced each of the men in turn, and one by one they stood up, grinned in David's direction, and sat down again, their movements as slow and as fluid as the motions of weightless astronauts, without David's catching either their names or what roles they would be playing in the future marketing of Glendurnich in America. His mind drifted, a bizarre continuity in its train of thought. It started with his father, and how he had let him down so badly by making such a fool of himself at this meeting; then he thought of meeting his father in the boardroom at Glendurnich and how delighted he had been that he was to be staying with Richard; Richard, his friend, caught in a spiralling whirlpool of discontented unfulfilment with Angie, his wife; his own wife, Rachel, and the turmoil in his mind suddenly abated as he returned to Scotland with her, to long summer evenings down at the loch with their children, Rachel lying spread-eagled with laughter on the bank, while he, his jeans rolled up to his knees, waded into the loch to catch on camera the mad and uncoordinated antics of the children in the boat.