Quentins (20 page)

“I have, for personal reasons of my own, no love for Ireland,” he said. “The legacy of my father is not one that would make me go and look for my roots. I was interested in this project because I thought you were sending them up,” he said.

“But you have the initial notes from Nick.”

“He said it would be frank and groundbreaking. That's why
I'm
here . . . to learn how.”

“And what have you learned so far?” Ella felt a cold lump of disappointment in her chest.

“I've learned that we have stayed too long in this
coffee shop. We should have a break now, then I'll send a car for you and take you to a meal. All this talk about food has made me hungry.”

She was afraid to let him out of her sight. “They have a restaurant here . . .” she began.

“No, they don't, not a real restaurant. Car will be here for you at seven. Okay?”

“One thing before you go.”

“Sure, fire away.”

“I'll be talking to Nick. Will I say it was all a misunderstanding, the whole thing?”

“Why would you say that?”

“From what you said, I thought that it had been.”

“Hey, we're only into talks about talks so far. The real talks are way down the road.”

“But I couldn't betray this restaurant, none of us could. I mean, we'd have to cancel the project if that's what you wanted.”

“I understand, and I respect you. Seven
P
.
M
.”

It was an awkward telephone conversation. “I'm not getting the whole picture,” Nick said.

“Neither am I, to be honest. Could I leave it that we're in talks about talks?”

“Not really, Ella. We've invested all we can in this; we're both in a bit of a panic.”

“That makes three of us, or possibly four. Derry could be in a bit of a panic as well. It turns out that he hated his father and he hates Ireland.”

“I don't believe you.”

“That's what he told me. Will I ring you when I get back? It will be about three or four
A
.
M
. your time.”

“Don't bother, Ella. Leave it till tomorrow.”

Ella wore Deirdre's black dress and red jacket. She had taken a large handbag, which was big enough to hold
papers and photographs without looking like a briefcase. A chauffeur collected her.

“What restaurant are we going to?” Ella asked chattily.

The chauffeur pronounced the name of the place with awe, and as if it were the only possible place to go if you were the guest of Mr. King.

He was waiting at the table. He wore a dinner jacket. In a way he looked quite as formal as he did in the photographs in those clippings she had read so carefully on the flight over to New York. Yet those interviews and articles told very little about him. They gave no hint of his enthusiasms and willingness to work at something until it was achieved. They didn't speak of how his face lit up when he thought they were getting somewhere. He was a very keen businessman, out of her league.

Suddenly Ella felt a wave of inadequacy. “I hope I'm dressed enough,” she said.

“You look very nice,” he said.

“Your wife was not able to join us tonight?”

“Not for many nights.” He smiled.

“Sorry, that's another thing I got wrong,” she apologized.

“No, you looked up your files perfectly correctly. You just didn't get to the bit where it says ‘marriage dissolved.' ”

“Was that a long time ago?” Ella tried to be as cool as he was being.

“Oh, ten years, I'd say, but it's hard to remember because we meet every week at the foundation, you see.”

“Does that work? Well, obviously it does, because otherwise you wouldn't both be able to do it.”

“It
does
work, remarkably well as it happens, and Kimberly is remarried and goes out a lot at night. I don't, so we rarely meet in the evenings. But we met this
afternoon. She was most interested in the project, and she will join us tomorrow.”

“There will be a tomorrow, then?” Ella was almost tearful in her gratitude.

“Of course there will, Ella. Now, look at this menu and tell me. Do your pals in Quentins match up to this place?”

“I wish they could see me now. I wish everyone could see me now.” She looked confident and happy for the first time since she had come to New York.

Kimberly looked as if she were twenty-two, but Ella knew she must be almost forty. With a perfect glossy hairstyle that
had
to be freshly done at a salon every day, a perfect smile with even white teeth, a pale-peach-colored designer outfit and high black heels. She was dazzling. She was also as smart as anyone Ella had ever met. She was totally on top of the project, and realized what Firefly Films was trying to do. She told them of other movies they had underwritten, one about a young songwriter who had believed so mightily in her own career that she overcame all the rejections and obstacles en route. Another was about a woman who arranged a social club for mentally handicapped children to give their parents a break but was closed down by the authorities because she did not have the necessary official qualifications. There was another about the stress of being police wives, and another about a woman who had kept a cat for thirteen years in a no-pets-allowed condominium without anyone finding out.

Ella couldn't find any common thread among them. Derry and Kimberly seemed pleased. They didn't want to be predictable. Tomorrow they would get down to the nitty-gritty, Kimberly said, and plan out a tour for Derry to make when he got to Ireland.

Ella looked up, startled. “But I didn't think you
were
going to Ireland, Derry.”

“Of course he is. That's only nonsense,” Kimberly said.

“No way, Kim, forget it.” Derry smiled lazily.

“Would you come instead, Kimberly?” Ella pleaded.

“Yes, Kim, you'd love it.” He was teasing her.

“Derry knows I am not going to stir from New York and leave my very young and suggestible husband to all the temptations of this city.”

“Oh, Lorenzo wouldn't stray,” Derry said. “Not in a million years.”

“His name is Larry, Ella, which Derry very well knows, and he is not being left alone to test out any theory.”

Ella looked back at Derry. He didn't seem at all annoyed.

“It will all be sorted out eventually. Kim likes to play games. Always her little weakness.” He spoke without malice, affectionately, in fact.

“Lord, someone has to play games around this place,” she laughed, ruffling his hair.

“Now, less of this wasting time doing a rerun of an old argument.”

“Derry has to go to Ireland sooner or later. He will leave when he's ready. Why don't you tell us your stories, Ella? Tell us all about these people who will make up the movie.”

It was time now, time to convince them that this restaurant was filled with people's lives. She took out her notes and began to tell the stories.

M
artin went back to sleep after he had switched off his alarm. He dreamed a troubled, complicated dream about having the wrong change and being refused service. He woke shaking with irritation about it all and became even more annoyed when he realized it was seven o'clock and that he would now be twenty minutes late for work. On today of all days. He tried to hurry and naturally that made him slower than ever. He got into a shower that was too hot and had to leap out again, knocking down the contents of a shelf. He lost the button off his best shirt, spilled the orange juice in the fridge. He remembered that he had intended to drop clothes off to the dry cleaners; now there would be no time. This meant that he would not have a freshly cleaned suit for tomorrow. It was the day to put out the garbage and he had literally no time. He ran out and realized it was raining, back for an umbrella and heard the phone ring. Before eight o'clock in the morning, it must be urgent. He answered it and discovered to his great irritation that it was his son. “Hi, Dad, it's Jody. Just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten.”

Why did the boy think that he might have forgotten a lunch arrangement made over a month ago?

“It's just that you're always so very busy. It could just have slipped your mind.”

“No, Joseph, believe me, busy people don't forget things like longstanding arrangements. I'm afraid that the luxury of forgetting is only for those who are not busy, don't have anything important to do. Those who have nothing important in their lives.”

Why did he do it? Anger the boy further, widen the gulf between them still more. Delay himself still further. And now Joseph was twittering on about the menu, saying his father must choose whatever he wanted to eat. “Yes, yes, I think that's what one usually does in restaurants,” Martin snapped. But Jody heard no coolness in his father's tone. “I just wanted to make sure you knew you didn't have to keep to the fixed menu or anything,” he tried to explain.

“Joseph, I have to go.” Martin hung up. Outside in the wet street, everyone else had managed to put out rubbish. Other people had gotten up in time and gone to their dreary little jobs and yet he, Martin, hadn't managed it. Martin, who ran the biggest advertising agency in the city, a man known all over the country. Today they were making a pitch for the biggest corporate client ever. Something they had been preparing for three months and now that the day was here, he had to have this tedious anxiety dream and go back to sleep. There were other things that had to be done today too. Kit Morris, his secretary, must be smartened up. She was too old for the job, her face didn't fit and she wasn't up to speed on all the new technology. Perhaps he should put off talking to her until much later in the day. The thing about Kit was that she never watched the clock, she worked very hard. She had been with him a long time. Probably had no other life outside.

On any day of the week it wasn't going to be easy telling her that she didn't give the image he wanted by appearing in a shapeless skirt and long cardigan. But today was a tense day and it wasn't going to be an early
night either. They were having a reception for their American partners at five
P
.
M
. with dinner to follow. The timing could not have been worse. If they didn't get the new corporate account, they would not feel at all like entertaining the Americans.

Martin sighed as he hastened along the slippery pavement. This of all days to have to meet Joseph for lunch. But the boy had been adamant. It was the anniversary of Rose's death. His wife had been dead for fifteen years. Martin had thrown himself into work since it happened. But tragedies affect people in different ways. Joseph had dropped out of school only weeks after the funeral. It had been impossible to talk to the boy about anything since then.

Martin arrived wet, out of breath and bad-tempered at his office.

“They're waiting for you,” Kit said cheerfully.

“Please, Kit, don't come at me with profound wisdom. Not today.”

Kit was not at all put out. “It's all right, Martin. I've given them coffee and your apologies. I told them you'd had a power breakfast and you couldn't cancel. Actually it might work to your advantage.” She smiled at him reassuringly.

Martin squared his shoulders and began his morning.

He wasn't to know it, but other people's mornings were difficult too. His son, Jody, had walked and paced around a small bed-sitting room rehearsing over and over the speech he would make at lunchtime in Quentins restaurant. Would it come out as he intended it to? The more often he said it, the less likely it seemed.

In the restaurant, under the watchful eye of Brenda Brennan, the Breton waiter, Yan, was polishing the cutlery on each table with a soft cloth and having a bad morning. There had been a letter from home with vague mentions of his father going to Concarneau to have
tests in the hospital. Nobody said what the tests were for. Should he go home and find out? It would be useless to telephone, they would only tell him not to waste his hard-earned money.

Kit Morris was not having a good day either. It didn't help that Martin was behaving like a spoiled child. She had her own problems. Like what the future was going to work out for her elderly mother. She was no longer able to cope on her own. It would be coming to live with Kit or going to a home. There were no other options, her married brothers had made that clear. Kit needed some time to think it through. She had been going to ask Martin for a few days' leave. But today was not the day to ask him.

Martin sat at his table in Quentins, drumming his fingers. One of his colleagues had driven him there. The man had patronizingly urged Martin to have a good, relaxed lunch, noting that he was on a fairly short fuse today. So now he was fifteen minutes early and of course that boy would be late, as he always was. Martin went over the meeting in his mind. The people had been very cagey, they had not said yes or no to the pitch that had been made. They would let him know later in the day. Most things had gone well.

What he needed was a good stiff drink. The waiter, foreign of course, didn't manage to catch his eye. The boy did look over once, but his eyes were vacant, so Martin clicked his finger so as to attract his attention. Something happened to the boy's face then. A veneer of coldness came over it. It was so deliberate that Martin could not believe his eyes. The young pup was not even going to acknowledge him. This was not good enough, it simply was not. This was a top-class restaurant with standards. He clicked his fingers again and the boy's face was like stone. Martin felt a nerve beginning to tic in his forehead. He stood up and was just about to approach
Brenda Brennan to complain in the most forceful of tones, when there was a sudden power cut. Every light in the place went out. In a dark, heavily curtained restaurant on a wet, overcast day, it was astonishing the effect it caused. The place seemed to be in complete darkness. For a moment, Martin thought that he had been having a blackout and was greatly relieved to hear fellow diners gasp, laugh and make remarks about the incident.

Holding the table for support, he eased himself back into his seat. Brenda had organized her troops with candles on every table within minutes. She moved among them all, assuring everyone that they cooked by gas as well as electricity. So there would be no problem and she insisted that everyone have a drink on the house by way of an apology.

“That's if you can get anyone who will serve you one,” Martin grumbled.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Brenda Brennan was startled.

“Well, that Latin lover over there seems to have been stricken with deafness and blindness even at a time when the lights
were
on,” Martin said.

“Yan is one of our best waiters, so you do surprise me, but let me please serve you, sir. What would you like?”

He saw her speaking to this boy, Yan, while he tried to explain something. He was being very definite about whatever it was he was saying. Martin couldn't hear, but he saw Brenda seem to console him and place her hand on his arm. And then she was back with exemplary speed with his vodka, and he tried to relax. Eventually the waiter approached to leave him the menus. Martin had not yet succeeded in relaxing.

“Oh, I see you've noticed me at last,” he said.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said.

“Don't even try to tell me that you didn't see me,” Martin began.

“No, sir, I did see you. I am sorry for not coming over.”

“And why didn't you?”

“You made this sound with your fingers.” Yan did that click.

“Yes, because I wanted to get you to see me.”

“I trained with a maître d'hôtel who said we must develop a diplomatic blindness if such a thing happened, and not to serve the person. Ever. But Mrs. Brennan, she has just explained this is not the policy here, so I apologize.”

“Things like that might work in France . . .” Martin began.

“I am from Brittany, sir,” Yan said. His face looked pale and anxious. Possibly Brenda had threatened to sack him. The boy did not look well.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked unexpectedly.

“Thank you for asking me. I'm a little worried in case my father might be ill and if I should be beside him.”

“Are you close to your father?” Martin asked.

“No, he is far away in Brittany,” Yan explained.

“I meant can you talk to him, do you like each other?”

“No father can really talk to his son, no son can really talk to his father, only the very lucky ones. But I care very much, yes.”

At that moment, Martin saw his own son being shown to the table. The familiar surge of annoyance filled him. Joseph . . . or Jody as he insisted on calling himself . . . wore a torn anorak and gray faded sweater underneath. He looked so shabby, so out of place, yet his smile was confident and happy.

“Dad, I'm so sorry I'm late. The buses were full because of the rain, and I was so anxious to get here because . . .”

“It's all right, Joseph. Give the waiter your order for a drink. It's free because the electricity has failed.”

“Has it?” Jody looked around in amazement. He said, “I didn't even notice.”

Martin looked very impatient. The boy was showing himself to be almost an imbecile.

“Please, Joseph, get some grip on reality,” he began.

“But, Dad, I was so excited coming to see you to tell you the great news, great, great news.”

“You've got a job?” his father asked.

“I've always had a job, Dad,” Jody said.

“If you call sweeping up leaves a job.”

“It's gardening, Dad, but that's not the point. The point is that—” Jody stopped, hardly able to speak with the magnitude of what he was going to say. “The point is, Dad, I spent two whole mornings wondering how to tell you and now I wonder why, why was I rehearsing it?”

“Rehearsing what?”

“I saw you, Dad, as I came across the room talking to the waiter . . .”

Jody indicated Yan, who had not left but was looking from one to the other as if he were at a tennis match. “And you looked so kind and concerned, like an ordinary person, not a great businessman . . . so I said to myself, why do I have to wait until it's a good time to tell you. We are going to have a baby, Jenny and I . . . we are so excited, I can't tell you how pleased and happy we are. Imagine a son or daughter of our own. A new person!”

The hint of tears was in his eyes, the eagerness that had never died. The optimism that even his father's cool, dismissive attitude had never managed to quench shone out of him.

At that very moment Brenda came over with an envelope for Martin. “Your secretary delivered it by hand. She said she knew you would not like to be disturbed by the telephone.”

Kit had chosen this moment of all moments to bother him with some office business. He barely looked at it but tried instead to think of a response to his son. Before Martin could speak, Yan had taken Jody's hand. “Mes felicitations . . . I mean, my congratulations, what a wonderful piece of news. You must be happy, you and your wife.”

“Jenny and I aren't married . . . we never saw the need . . .” Jody began.

“No, no . . . in French it is the same word, wife and woman.”

“So it is,” Jody said, but his eyes were on his father. “Do you want to open your message from the office, Dad? It might be important,” he said humbly.

Martin was almost too choked to speak. “Nothing is as important as this,” Martin stammered eventually. “I'm so very pleased for you both and for me and maybe . . . maybe”—his voice broke—“maybe there's even a way your mother might know.”

“Of course she does.” Jody beamed.

Yan stood back as if he expected the two men to stand up and embrace . . . and with one movement they did. Something they had never done before. Almost embarrassed, they sat down and looked at each other.

“No, please, Dad, open the message. It's making me nervous,” Jody said.

Kit had written to say that they had gotten the corporate contract and she had taken the liberty of ordering champagne to celebrate with the American partners. “Everyone is so pleased, Martin,” Kit wrote. “You've made this place much more like a family than a workplace. Well done from all of us.”