The House on Sunset Lake (13 page)

Chapter Sixteen

‘Here. Just pull over here.’ Jim leaned forward and stuffed a twenty through the Plexiglas screen behind the driver. The cab slid to a halt next to the elderly couple standing at the kerb. His parents, he realised with a sudden shock.

He sighed to himself as he jumped out of the taxi. He had planned to get there early – punctuality was one of Bryn’s personal bugbears – but it seemed they had second-guessed him.

‘Hey there,’ he said, closing the door and embracing them both awkwardly. ‘I did say one, didn’t I?’

‘Your father likes to be on time, you know that,’ said Elizabeth briskly. She was wearing a bright blue trench coat, tightly knotted at the waist, and had clearly taken advantage of one of New York’s many blow-dry bars.

‘Saul used to bring me here,’ said Bryn with a scowl, nodding at the door of 21. ‘Thought we could have gone somewhere different.’

Jim smiled politely. ‘I didn’t know. Besides, I thought you’d like it. It’s a New York institution.’

He ushered them inside, wondering what his mother would have to say about the restaurant’s quirky interior – hundreds of model aeroplanes, trucks and other ephemera hanging from the roof beams – but she didn’t have a chance to comment as Gerry, the maître d’, swept forward and greeted Bryn like an old friend.

‘And this must be Mrs Johnson, a great pleasure.’

‘This is our son James,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He lives here now.’

‘Really?’ said Gerry. ‘I hope we’ll be seeing you regularly.’

Jim smiled, biting back the observation that he had been to 21 for dinner twice in the last two months and no one had got terribly excited.

Gerry escorted the group to a curved booth, Jim and Bryn on the ends, Elizabeth in the middle.

‘So, happy birthday,’ smiled Elizabeth.

‘It’s not until Sunday.’

‘I know, but we’re here to celebrate.’

‘I really appreciate you coming over. Shame you can’t stay until the big day.’

‘You don’t want your parents hanging around your fortieth birthday party.’

‘I’m not having a party,’ he laughed. ‘Not when I’ve got a hotel to get opened by November.’

‘Melissa would have planned a party for you,’ said Elizabeth, raising a brow.

‘I’m not sure a fortieth birthday is anything to celebrate. I’m just going to have a quiet dinner. Maybe go to the cinema. See if there are any reruns of
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel
anywhere.’

His mother smiled cynically and began to tell him about all the things they had done since they had arrived in New York the evening before: dinner with friends, then cocktails at their hotel.

‘Salman picked us up from the airport,’ said Bryn pointedly.

Jim knew there was no point reminding them that he had offered to collect them but had been told they were going straight out for dinner.

‘Have you seen Saul yet?’

Saul Black, his father’s New York agent, was long retired. Bryn would never have admitted it, but Saul was responsible for his change in fortune. Their stay in Savannah resulted in Bryn’s biggest hit – the multi-million-selling novel
College
, which was conceived and part-written at the Lake House.

‘We’ve only been in the country twenty-four hours,’ said Bryn, back on his short fuse.

‘You should go and see him, Jim,’ said Elizabeth softly. ‘He’d love to see you. Do you remember the superhero pen he gave you when he came to London one time?’

‘The pen is mightier than the sword. I think that was what he told me when I tried to hit him with a plastic light sabre.’

Elizabeth fished about in her small handbag, drew out an address book and began copying something on to a piece of paper.

‘I’m not going to tell him you’ll pop round if you won’t, if you’re too busy. But it would be lovely if you could go and see him.’

‘I’m not completely chained to my desk, you know.’

‘Try,’ she pressed as the waiter came to take their order.

‘So your father has something to announce,’ said Elizabeth, evidently tiring of the subject.

‘Announce?’ Bryn harrumphed, glowering at Elizabeth, but Jim could detect a smile under the frown. ‘You make it sound like I’m abdicating or something,’ he grumbled. ‘Just some nonsense in the honours list.’

‘It is not nonsense,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s about bloody time, if you ask me.’

Jim looked from one parent to the other. ‘Well?’ he prompted.

‘CBE,’ said Bryn bluntly.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ trilled Elizabeth, beaming. Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his mother smile that widely.

‘That’s amazing, Dad,’ he said, leaning across and clutching Bryn’s hand. ‘Seriously, it’s really well deserved. I’m proud of you.’

Bryn met his eyes for a long moment, then glanced away. ‘Lot of rubbish really,’ he said. Jim saw that his mother was about to object, so he jumped in first.

‘So do you have to go to the palace? Is there a presentation?’

‘Not a presentation, an
investiture
,’ said Elizabeth, with evident pride. ‘It’s very formal. They’ve sent a list of acceptable attire and a guide to the etiquette on the day.’

‘Wow, part of the establishment now, Dad?’

‘I’d turn it down if I thought it’d make a blind bit of difference,’ Bryn snorted.

‘Why should you turn it down?’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’re a pioneer, you’ve changed the face of English literature . . .’

‘I’m really thrilled for you. It’s brilliant. We should have a party,’ suggested Jim. ‘I’m due a visit back to London. Maybe we can hire out Wheeler’s or Wiltons.’ They were two of his father’s favourite restaurants.

‘Actually, we thought we’d have a party here.’

‘In New York?’ frowned Jim.

His mother leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.

‘Your father’s had a very exciting opportunity come his way.’

‘I don’t know about exciting,’ he blustered. ‘But it’s an opportunity and it’s good to try different things.’

‘What opportunity?’

‘I’ve been offered a visiting fellowship at Columbia. Just for a semester, although we’ll see how it goes.’

‘Teaching?’

‘I like to think of it as
inspiring
. You know, Martin Amis did it for a little while at Manchester University. The job can be so solitary sometimes.’

‘So we’re moving over,’ added Elizabeth.

‘Fantastic,’ said Jim, not entirely sure how he really felt about it. He had spent a lifetime living in Bryn Johnson’s shadow. Growing up, he’d lost track of the number of times he’d simply been introduced as ‘Jim, Bryn Johnson’s son’, as if he didn’t actually exist in his own right. Even when he had moved into the corporate field, his father’s reputation still preceded him: the bankers and politicians he met, who all liked to consider themselves well read and literary, seemed to take him that little bit more seriously when they connected his surname to the great prize-winning writer. But in New York, he didn’t have that baggage. No one cared where you came from, only where you were going.

‘We can keep an eye on you,’ added Bryn.

‘Right,’ he said, taking a large gulp of his gin and tonic.

‘You know your mother and I lived here for a while before you were born?’

‘Really? I didn’t.’

‘Yes, carefree times,’ Bryn said, a smile creeping on to his face. ‘It was just a few weeks. We were real beatniks, living in a cold-water flat off Washington Square. Everyone was a poet or an artist, everyone playing bongos, all the girls wearing smocks. It was glorious.’

‘And we went out to Sagaponack to stay with your editor friend,’ Elizabeth added. ‘It was just the most beautiful place on earth.’

‘Back when the right sort of people lived in the Hamptons . . . These days I hear it’s all financiers and businessmen. All bought with ill-gotten gains from exploiting the peasants.’

‘So who are you going for dinner with on your birthday?’ asked his mother, changing the subject.

‘Just a few friends.’

‘That’s nice, I’m glad you’re managing to meet people. It’s not easy at your age.’ She didn’t say it unkindly, but it still irked him.

‘Is Simon going?’ asked Bryn, tasting the wine that the sommelier had brought over.

‘Don’t be daft, Dad.’

‘Well, you can invite him to my investiture party. Or did we decide it was going to be another seventieth birthday party?’

‘Both,’ said Elizabeth, turning to Jim. ‘We should be able to get a contribution from your father’s publishers, so if you’ve got any suggestions about venues, somewhere nice, then let me know.’

‘We don’t need Jim’s help on that. We can have it at the club . . . So how’s work?’ his father asked.

‘Good. Busy.’

‘How often are you in Savannah?’

‘Once every couple of weeks.’

‘Is it still the same?’

‘It’s much buzzier. Lots of chic shops on Broughton Street.’

‘What about Casa D’Or?’

‘It’s beginning to look a lot like its old self. It was very run down when we bought it. The Lake House has been sold too. The Sittenfields both died. A young family has it now. Anyway, we’re having a party too. A launch party. I should be able to swing an invite for Mr and Mrs Bryn Johnson CBE.’

‘Have you seen her?’

His mother’s expression had cooled. Jim watched her flash a look of disapproval to his father and he knew what they both were thinking. Under the circumstances, he thought it best just to say no.

Chapter Seventeen

Circling down from a cloudless sky, it looked like a child’s drawing of a desert island. Lush green strips of palm, ringed by ivory beaches and lapped by azure sea. All clichés had to begin with a truth somewhere, thought Jim, shifting in his seat to peer further out of the Gulfstream’s window, so perhaps the Turks and Caicos islands had been the inspiration for those countless images of paradise: endless white sand, coconut trees, maybe even a girl called Friday.

Of course, Jim was the sidekick today. Simon had decided to fly out to see the RedReef development in person – hence the private jet – and Jim was really only going along as a go-between, a middleman to oil the wheels between Simon as the potential buyer and the vendor of RedReef, Connor Gilbert’s investment vehicle, CJI. Perhaps he had oversold the ‘old friends’ dynamic between him and Connor, but in all honesty, it could work for everyone. The resort would be a good fit for Simon’s portfolio and a quick sale would be a dream solution to Connor’s cash-flow problems. Plus it meant that Jim got a couple of days in the sunshine, which was never a chore.

‘RedReef,’ said Connor’s lawyer, Lance Freer. ‘Even sounds pretty, doesn’t it?’

‘When did you buy it?’ asked Simon, looking out of the porthole. They had been in the air for over three hours and had made convivial conversation throughout, but now Jim could see Simon shifting the conversation to a more professional footing.

‘Three years ago,’ replied Connor stiffly.

‘Not long,’ Simon said thoughtfully, still staring out of the glass.

‘Long enough to know the dangers of diversifying too far out of sectors I don’t have much experience in,’ added Connor with more modesty than Jim had ever heard from him before.

Simon nodded as if this was an acceptable answer.

A shiny black car met them on the far side of customs and drove them the short distance to a jetty, where a sleek motor launch was waiting.

‘It will only take twenty minutes,’ said Connor, leading the way up the gangplank. ‘Plus it’s the best way to approach RedReef: absolutely spectacular, as you will see.’

Jim breathed a sigh of relief as the boat drew closer to Baruda. The sea had been a dazzling emerald for some distance from the shore, but as they neared the island, the vivid colour faded until it was gin clear, which only served to show off the pink-tinged whiteness of the sand. Connor hadn’t been wrong about the beauty of his resort, and for that Jim could be thankful; it had certainly been a risk inviting Simon out here sight unseen.

A uniformed waiter had been standing on the aft deck ready with cocktails for the VIP guests, and Jim had winced as Connor quickly gulped his down and gestured for another.

‘When in Rome, eh?’ he grinned.

Connor had been a ball of nervous energy ever since they had met at Teterboro airport in New Jersey for the flight, and had tried to steady himself with champagne on the plane. Jim was no psychologist, but even he knew that communicating your desperation to a potential buyer was a poor strategy.

As the boat docked at a wooden quayside, Connor offered Simon a hand to step up on to the jetty.

‘Welcome to RedReef,’ he said, sweeping an arm grandly towards the complex. ‘The finest luxury destination in the Caribbean.’

He really didn’t need the hyperbole. The resort did all the talking for itself. Built around a glistening lagoon, it was made up of a series of stand-alone villas, each facing the water, many with their own strip of private beach. Painted in candy colours, they had a traditional Caribbean feel. The shabby-chic look was intentional, noted Jim, taking in the deceptively high finish.

‘I thought we’d get you settled into your suites, then I’ll get Udo, the general manager, to give you the tour.’

As Jim and Simon travelled round the resort in a golf cart, Jim made a mental inventory. He could see Simon taking in the same details: the spa, restaurant, beachside bar and water sports centre. The fine details of the hotel – the bright hand-crafted Creole bed linens, the outdoor showers, the wood-panelled library stocked with books about the island – were all well done to produce an effect that was chic, casual and comfortable. The only problem was that it did not fit into Omari’s aesthetic at all.

‘So what do you think?’ asked Jim when Connor and the general manager had left them alone.

‘It’s a good location, that much I can see. But it’s not an Omari. It’s too rustic, too basic,’ Simon said, echoing Jim’s own concerns. ‘We’d have to pull it down and start again. The spec is good, but not the best, and the best is everything Omari represents.’

‘That Omari represents,’ said Jim slowly.

Simon frowned.

‘I’ve had an idea for a while, but coming here has brought it to the table.’

Simon was listening with interest.

‘I think we need to create a spin-off brand from Omari. A junior Omari. A feeder for the main brand, which represents the very best – and the highest price points – that the hotel industry has to offer.’

‘Keep talking.’

Jim’s thoughts gained momentum. ‘You know the client demographic of the Omari hotels – CEOs, high-net-worths
– but I think there’s a class of luxury traveller that doesn’t want anything too lavish. I’m dating a girl at the moment. She’s twenty-seven and she likes the nice things in life, but it’s feeling the sand between her toes and drinking green organic smoothies that matter to her. She wants a ceiling fan, not air con; fresh, simple food, not complicated Michelin-starred meals.’

‘So we’re aiming at millennials?’

Jim had been a long-time admirer of Chris Blackwell’s Island Outpost chain. Yes, its properties were luxurious, but they also had a bohemian hipness to them that appealed to rock stars and supermodels, and he could see the Omari group launching something similar.

‘I just think there is an opportunity for us in the market, a younger, lo-fi brand that uses the luxury of nature, and RedReef would be perfect as our debut resort. It needs very little work, purely cosmetic stuff. It closes anyway for hurricane season in a couple of weeks. We can do a soft launch in December, give the new brand a fanfare after we’ve opened Casa D’Or.’

‘Ambitious.’

‘You know me.’

Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘What do you think about the low occupancy rates?’

‘Well there’s obviously room for improvement, but that’s one of the reasons why this hotel interests me.’

‘And the lack of an international airport on the island?’

‘Being a little bit off the beaten tracks fits in with the ethos of the brand.’

‘Our new brand,’ smiled Simon, looking at Jim with pride.

‘If I get the green light . . . If you trust me.’

‘When my beverage company launches a new drink, of course I try it. But I don’t design the can, or concoct the flavour. I have a team that I trust to do that, and with Omari, if you believe this is the right property to kick-start a new diffusion brand, then I will support you, provided your decisions are professional ones, not sentimental.’

‘Sentimental?’

‘Connor is a childhood friend, Jim. I do my research too. I know his New York business is in trouble. I know this is essentially a fire sale.’

‘I knew Connor when I was twenty and I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ said Jim, feeling as if he had been caught out. ‘But I happen to think RedReef represents an incredible opportunity for us to do something different.’

Simon nodded, and Jim felt a palpable sense of relief.

‘I want you to negotiate hard on price. He’s desperate. We need to take advantage of that.’

Jim smiled unconvincingly as Simon glanced at his watch, making it clear that their conversation was over.

‘I’m going back to my room. Catch up on emails.’

‘Do you ever stop?’

‘Remember the shack in Jaipur, Jimmy. I didn’t get from there to here sitting back and watching the sunset.’ Simon smiled, lifting his hand to wave goodnight, and disappeared in the direction of his suite.

Jim grabbed a beer and wandered down to the shore, enjoying the sour sensation of the cold drink on his tongue. He had never been one for beach holidays. His perfect vacation was motorcycling along a stretch of coast or scuba diving in the warm waters of Thailand or Australia rather than lazing on a sunlounger pretending to read. But as his mind drifted to whether he too should be checking his emails or making some calls, he admitted to himself that he’d forgotten how to relax. The act of doing nothing had been filed away under self-indulgent and prohibited, a problem that he suspected was exacerbated by being surrounded by people who lived life in exactly the same way.

He tried to remember the last time he had been scuba diving, but the answer, for the moment, eluded him. Somewhere over the course of time, work had become inseparable from being somewhere hot and sunny. He didn’t go anywhere these days without doing a site visit, researching an area for commercial opportunities or at the very least sitting on a veranda with his laptop.

Squinting up, he saw a teenage boy, maybe twelve or thirteen.

‘Coconut, boss?’ The smiling youth had already cracked one open, with a straw poking from the hole.

Jim gestured to his beer. ‘Got a drink, thanks,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ said the kid. ‘Alcohol’s no good for you in the sun. You need real refreshment. And coconut only two American dollar.’

Jim liked the kid’s moxie and handed him a five. His name was Victor and he had been working the beach since he was old enough to walk: jewellery, sunglasses, rugs, anything he could lay his hands on.

‘Beats paying tax, I guess,’ smiled Jim.

‘Oh no,’ said Victor. ‘I still pay tax, everyone does. Unless you want to wake up with a rock tied to your feet.’

Jim turned as he heard Connor call him. He circled back to the beachside bar, where Connor was waiting for him.

‘I hope you like seafood. I’ve ordered the
fruits de mer
platter,’ he said, sitting back in his Adirondack chair.

‘You sure you really want to sell this place?’ said Jim. ‘I mean . . .’ he waved his glass in the air, ‘it is pretty special.’

‘No choice,’ said Connor. ‘It’s this or . . . Well, there isn’t really an alternative.’

‘Does Jennifer know we’re here? You said she had issues about Casa D’Or. I don’t want any more awkwardness.’

‘That was different,’ said Connor, not looking at him.

‘I’m grateful for this,’ he said after another moment. ‘You know I really don’t want my business to go the way of my father’s.’

‘What happened there?’ asked Jim, remembering how Robert Gilbert had been the Deep South hotshot.

Connor shrugged. ‘He took his eye off the ball. He never really managed to leave the eighties, didn’t understand the global economy, wanted to keep doing business in Charleston in the clubs and on the golf course. Got too comfortable. Started enjoying moments like this a bit too much.’

‘Isn’t that what it’s all about?’ said Jim.

‘He lost his business, his marriage when my mother decided to divorce him. I’m not sure that was worth the daily pina coladas, are you?’

‘Connor, sometimes you have to remind yourself how lucky you are. You’re got your health, a property empire, a beautiful wife . . .’ He tried not to linger on the last words of that sentence.

‘A wife with a chronic drink problem,’ Connor said quietly. ‘Maybe you can help solve that next. She seems to listen to what you say.’ That familiar challenge was back in his eyes.

‘Drink problem?’

Jim frowned. From his observations, Jennifer seemed to have the perfect life now. The Hamptons estate, the New York town house, the society profile and the sideline in philanthropy. At the Memorial Day party, people had waxed lyrical about what a wonderful woman she was. The millions she quietly raised for charity – smaller and more unfashionable causes than say the ballet or the opera, Jim had noted with some degree of pride. They had been bittersweet observations, of course, that she lived such a seemingly happy existence without him in it. But ultimately all he cared about, had ever cared about, was Jennifer’s safety and happiness.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Have you not noticed the exuberance with which she drinks martinis?’ replied Connor, lifting a brow. ‘Although that’s only the half of it. It’s the vodka bottles hidden in her boot collection you have to worry about. I’ve tried doctors, shrinks, even suggested getting her out of the country, maybe Europe somewhere.’

‘You think it’s that bad?’ asked Jim with panic.

Connor laughed mirthlessly. ‘
She
wouldn’t say so. It’s more common than you’d think, especially in our perfect world. And of course Jennifer has certain things she is drinking to forget.’

Jim stayed silent.

‘You know we never had children,’ said Connor, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear him. ‘We tried. There were two miscarriages, and an ectopic pregnancy, but no baby.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He thought about his old friend’s warm way with people. She would have been a wonderful mother.

‘Jen nearly died with that ectopic pregnancy. There was blood . . . so much blood. It was a long night, but she got through it, and the next morning she cried so much I thought she would never stop. I held her and told her it didn’t matter, that the two of us was enough, and that was when she told me how guilty she felt.’

‘Guilty?’

‘She told me that she’d had an abortion when she was twenty-one and that the miscarriages, the ectopic pregnancy, were a punishment for what she had done.’

Jim took a second to process it.

‘She had an abortion when she was twenty-one?’ he said slowly, unable to hide the quaver in his voice.

Connor sat back in his chair and looked at him.

‘I had to work that one out too, Jim,’ he said evenly. ‘Couldn’t understand. I mean, I loved her. She loved me. We were living in New York together by that point. Why would she abort our baby when she knew how serious we were about each other? She admitted it in the end. It was because she didn’t know if it was my baby. Or yours.’

He knocked back the rest of his beer and tossed the bottle on the sand.