A Gift to You (21 page)

‘Oh!’ said Sadie . . . disappointed.

The knots tightened in Ciara’s stomach. She’d pushed the D word to the back of her mind over the last while. Now it loomed large and threatening again. Another great worry to add to
the ones she already had.

Alison McHugh sang to herself as she packed her toilet bag for the weekend. She was looking forward to the trip to Kilkenny immensely. She felt young and carefree, so different
from the past few years. It was a joy to be free and almost single again. Not that she wanted a divorce, she decided as she folded her white lacy negligee. She’d given the matter a lot of
thought.

No, she was happy as she was. She wasn’t going to disgrace the family name with a divorce. Brenda could have Garry, but she wasn’t getting her mitts on a half share of the house and
whatever money would be divided between her and Garry if they divorced.

Alison didn’t want Brenda to become Mrs McHugh. That would alter the status between them too much. She’d had always enjoyed being the object of Brenda’s envy and, as long as
she stayed married to Garry, Brenda would be the poor little spinster who couldn’t
quite
get a man of her own and had to settle for used goods, while Alison would have the security
of her wedding ring and still have men attracted to her like moths to the flame. It was almost like being a teenager again.

I’m quite the
femme fatale
, she thought giddily as she packed her sexy black suspender belt.

Garry switched off the news and switched over to Lyric as he drove home along the M50 after work. He hoped his mother had cooked a roast dinner. He was hungry. He’d have
his dinner with his Ma before going over to watch the match on Sky in Brenda’s. He’d heard on the grapevine at work that the Carrolls, a couple he and Brenda knew, had divorced. No
doubt she would give him another ear-bashing tonight. Well, she was barking up the wrong tree there. He had no intention of ever getting married again. Once was enough. Besides, he was dammed if
that cow, Alison, was going to get her hot sweaty little paws on one penny of his money. He’d worked hard for that house. It was his investment. He wasn’t going to split the profits for
it down the middle so she could go and set up with her new toy-boy lover. Let
him
buy his own house and set her up in the style to which she was accustomed. Not that he’d let on to
Alison that he didn’t want a divorce. He’d keep her dangling. It was the best way to keep women. On their toes. Anyway, he had Ciara to think about, he thought self-righteously. He
wouldn’t inflict divorce on her. He had to be a responsible parent. And besides, if Brenda got tired of him, and his mother kicked him out, he’d need to have a roof over his head.

No, Garry scowled, divorce was not an option and if people didn’t like it, they could bloody well lump it. His life suited him just fine the way it was.

George Hume paced the Italian marble floor in the lounge of his Kensington apartment and let fly a stream of profanity as he flung the paper he’d been reading onto the
leather sofa and glowered at his wife. ‘It’s not looking good for me declaring bankruptcy here; they’ve turned down another pair from home now. They’re appealing but I have
my doubts. I should have gone to the States like that Anglo fucker, and “The Baron”. Those cute hoors will get away with it.’

‘Don’t curse,’ his wife Cora said wearily.

‘I’ll curse if I bloody want to,’ George snarled. The phone rang and he stiffened. ‘Answer that,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Tell them I’m out.’

Cora picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said, trying to keep her voice composed.

‘Cora, it’s Brian Dolan from Brook and McConnell. I had an enquiry about houses in your area – a Chinese businessman wants to buy. Discretely. I said I’d let George know.
Not a bad offer, considering prices have dropped fifty per cent. He’s willing to go two and a half.’

‘Oh, dear, Brian, that’s a big drop. I’ll tell George you rang,’ Cora said dispiritedly.

‘I might get another 20K at push; unfortunately, it’s a buyer’s market.’ Brian said glumly.

‘Indeed. Thank you, Brian. I’ll get back to you before the weekend.’

‘What was that all about?’ George glowered at her. Middle age had not been kind to her husband, Cora reflected, studying George dispassionately. He was florid, balding, and two jowls
on either side of his mean little mouth gave him the look of a particularly aggressive bulldog. His eyes were sunken beneath puffy eyelids, like two little grey marbles.

Cora took a deep breath; he was going to flip when he heard what Brian had to say. ‘Some Chinese businessman is interested in buying in our area. Brian thinks he could get two and a half
million for the house, or perhaps two seventy at a push,’ she said calmly.

George’s eyes bulged and he turned purple. ‘Is he for real?’ he spat. ‘That house cost me five and I had an offer of ten for it in 2006. Tell him to go fuck himself if
that’s the best he can do for a detached seven bedroom house in Ballsbridge.’

‘At least we’d have money at our back if we sold it; they can’t come after it because it’s in my name,’ Cora pointed out. ‘And we’d get at least another
million for the paintings and furniture.’

‘I couldn’t live on two and a half million; are you mad?’ George looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

‘Well George, bankruptcy is our only route and you’re spending a fortune here trying to declare it in the UK. And we can’t afford the mortgage on this place any more
and—’

‘Enough, Cora, why can’t you say something positive instead of spouting out negative crap,’ he raged. ‘Do something to help me for a change.’

‘Like what?’ she asked exasperatedly, thoroughly fed up of him and their precarious financial situation.

‘Go over to Dublin and make sure the house is OK and make sure that fella you hired to maintain the gardens is doing a proper job. I don’t want the place going to rack and ruin, and
then go and put the place in Spain on the market. That’s in your name too. Open a separate account out there; we can use that to pay some of these bloody legal fees. We’re going to take
a hit out there but it’s costing too much to maintain. I’ll get Valentina to book your tickets. I’m going to the club.’ He marched out of the room and a few minutes later
she heard the front door slam.

Goodbye and good riddance, Cora thought jadedly, walking over to the window to look out over the elegant square with its small private park in the centre. Their three-bedroom, three-bathroom,
two-reception, high-ceiling apartment in a smart mansion block, ten minutes’ walk from Kensington High Street, had been their home for the last year, as George tried to persuade the courts
and his creditors that London and not Dublin was the base of his business operations so that he could avail of the UK’s far more lenient bankruptcy terms. Nothing Cora could say would
dissuade him from his quest, despite the fact that every Tom, Dick and Harry at home knew he had worked out of a swanky office in Merrion Square. George couldn’t accept that his greedy,
acquisitive career as a developer was well and truly over and he owed the banks millions.

Cora couldn’t care less about the banks. They had behaved so appallingly and given loans that were clearly unsustainable, where no checks had been carried out regarding ability to pay.
Those immoral bankers had gambled just as much as the clients they had actively encouraged to borrow massive amounts. They had all wooed George in the boom and now were determined to get their
money back.

George and his fellow gamblers were all squealing like stuck pigs, maintaining they had been taking for a ride. Well, she was no genius, or financial expert, but she understood what a
‘personal guarantee meant’, and had insisted years ago that her husband pay off the mortgage on their home and that it was never to be used as a guarantee for
any
loan he
applied for. He had pooh-poohed her but she’d stuck to her guns and eventually he’d paid off the house in Ballsbridge, with a loan from Anglo. Now they were suing him, but the mortgage
had been with another bank, it was paid off, she had the deeds and they couldn’t touch the house. When the first signs of the bust became apparent, he transferred the house to her name as
well as the villa in Spain.

Cora watched her husband rev the engine of the Merc and scorch out of the square, and exhaled. He wouldn’t be home until late. She was free of him for the rest of the day.

It was a warm May afternoon and she suddenly felt claustrophobic, wanting to get out of the whitewashed elegant square to see trees and blue sky and a vista that didn’t include buildings,
no matter how elegant. She missed Dublin and the ease and speed she could get from Ballsbridge to the sea or the countryside.

She walked down the hall to her bedroom and took a pale pink pashmina from a drawer in the tallboy. She was wearing cream linen trousers and a black long sleeved V-necked cotton top. She wrapped
the pashmina around her and took off her nude L.K.Bennett slingbacks and slid into a pair of espadrilles. She took her bag, library book and keys and hurried down the hall, anxious to get out in
the fresh air.

The sound of birdsong lifted her heart as she emerged onto the square. The trees were leafy and fresh, still springlike, and a balmy breeze lifted her ash-blonde hair from her forehead,
refreshing her as she walked briskly along the tree lined streets towards the High Street. She normally liked to dawdle along and window shop, or poke around the antique shops, but today she wanted
to be away from traffic and people and she kept up her pace. She’d call into the whole food market on the way back and get some corn-fed chicken breasts, and salads for supper. She would be
eating alone. George wouldn’t thank her for corn-fed chicken and salads. She’d pop into M&S and get him some lamb and steak dishes and plenty of their creamy mash for while she was
away.

She crossed at the lights just before the Royal Garden and thought wistfully that it would be nice to have a massage and facial in their sumptuous spa. But George was scrutinising all her bills
now and it wasn’t worth the hassle. How times had changed, she reflected wryly, as she saw the hotel’s doorman whistle for a taxi. She’d even cut down on the amount of taxies she
took and sometimes took the tube, although she tried to avoid it in the rush hour.

She made a left turn down Palace Avenue and strode through the gates into Kensington Gardens and felt herself relax. It was her favourite place in London and the sight of the palace reminded her
of a lovely day she had spent with her sister who had flown over to spend the weekend with her in March. They had explored the palace from top to bottom, thoroughly enjoying the tour of Queen
Victoria’s rooms, and the exhibition of Diana’s dress, before poking around the well-stocked gift shop. They’d had a delicious lunch in the Orangery, where she was now headed. She
sat at a table outside and ordered coffee and a smoked salmon salad. She tried not to feel guilty spending money on lunch out but she felt she deserved it. George was giving her a dog’s life.
He was taking it all out on her and she was at the end of her tether. Tears welled in her eyes and she swallowed hard and strove to regain control before the waiter came back with her order.

It was the unfairness of it all. She had stood at his side for all these years, the perfect wife and mother, ignoring his little flings in the boom years when little blonde gold-diggers made a
play for him and his oversized wallet. She had entertained for him, spent hours making polite chit-chat to people she neither knew or cared to know, she had kept his houses in perfect running order
and seen to their impeccable decor and all the thanks she got from him was tirades of abuse as each new unwelcome development unfolded.

Well, she’d had enough of him and his appalling moods; she was going to go home and do what she had to do in Dublin and try and avoid the prying eyes of the press, and then go to Spain and
stay for at least a month chilling out, she thought crossly, composing her features into a smile when the waiter placed her food in front of her.

She ate her meal and drank another glass of wine and, after leaving her waiter a generous tip, she made her way across the Broad Walk to the Round Pond, and took a deckchair. Another expense for
George to worry about, she thought with grim humour as she paid the collector. It was peaceful to sit and watch the tourists feeding the swans and ducks, and children floating little boats over the
water, as the breeze caressed her and the azure blue sky delighted her. She took her library book, a Catherine Dunne novel, out of her bag and settled herself to read. Deeply engrossed, she jumped
when her mobile rang, and impatiently rooted for it in her bag. She scowled when she saw the name flash up. ‘Hello,’ she said coolly.

‘Mrs Hume, Valentina here. Mr Hume has asked me to book your flights to Dublin and then from there to Malaga. Shall I leave the return flight from Malaga open? And how long do you want to
spend in Dublin?’ George’s secretary said in her snooty, clipped voice.

‘Four days in Dublin will do fine, and get me the early-morning flight to Malaga please, Valentina,’ Cora said crisply.

‘Certainly, Mrs Hume. Anything else you require?’ Valentina enquired with her customary condescending air.

‘That will be all, thank you. Goodbye.’ Cora hung up and made a face. Valentina was a supercilious little madam whose attitude left a lot to be desired.

Twenty minutes later, her phone rang. It was George. ‘Why are you not at home?’ he asked irritably.

‘Because I’m going shopping in M&S to get the meals you like for when I’m away,’ she retorted.

‘Oh! Well, I’ve sacked my legal team and taken on a new one. They’re taking a different tack entirely and I think we’ve a real chance of winning. I want—’

‘George, are you out of your tree? How much is that going to cost you? They’ll promise you the moon. They don’t care whether you win or lose, all they want is
your—’

‘I’m sick of you and your negativity, Cora. Get off my back, for crying out loud. It’s my money. I worked my ass off to make it I’ll decide how to spend it.’