An Ocean Apart (14 page)

“Right, my lord,” Archie said, his brow creased in concentration at what his chairman was saying.

“I want you to be Mr. David's contact here for the time that he is away. If there is anything he wants, you deal with it yourself. You don't have to clear anything with anyone else in the company; is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. And Archie, check with Margaret each morning for any faxes that might come through from Mr. David. I shall tell her that they are for your eyes only. Everything must be carried out in the strictest confidence. All right?”

“Of course, my lord,” he said.

“Very good. You head off now, and I'll get Margaret to give you a call when I'm ready to leave.”

Archie nodded, and smiling briefly to David, he walked to the door and left the room.

David looked at his father. “You sounded like ‘M' just then, giving James Bond his orders. What's up?”

George frowned. “I'm not sure. It's just that I have this sneaking suspicion that things aren't what they seem.” He shook his head and smiled. “Maybe age is making me a trifle paranoid—I don't know.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, you head off now. That'll give you time to get back out in the garden with Jock this afternoon.”

David shook his head and flicked through Duncan's brief in his hand. “No, I think that I'd better start reading up on this. I've got to start sometime.”

“Yes,” George replied, putting his hand on his son's shoulder. “I'm afraid that you do.”

Chapter
  
EIGHT

As he turned the car in through the gates at Inchelvie, David saw Jock head towards him on the lawn tractor, carefully manoeuvring his way around the trees as he cut the grass verges of the drive. Feeling a sudden deep pang of envy for the old man and for the hard, yet undemanding simplicity of his job, his immediate impulse was to stop the car and tell him that they would continue immediately with the work on the flower-bed. But he checked himself and simply raised a hand in greeting as he drove past. No, he thought, you really do have to start sometime.

Parking the car at the front door, he ran up the stone steps and entered, then made his way across the hall to the drawing-room. Sitting down at his father's desk, he opened the document and found, stuck to the first page, the yellow Post-it on which he had written Richard Eggar's telephone number. He glanced at his watch. It was half past twelve. That would make it half past seven in the morning in New York. Maybe he could catch Richard before he left for work.

He picked up the receiver of the fax/telephone on the desk and dialled the number. The line cracked and whistled as it connected, followed within seconds by the single long ringing tone of the American telephone system. It rang four times before someone answered.

“Hu-llo?”

It was a man's voice, his vocal cords breaking as he spoke, so that the two syllables of the word ranged from base to falsetto, respectively, making David think immediately that whoever had answered the telephone was either suffering from a bad cold or had just woken up.

“Hullo, is that Richard?” As he spoke, he heard the man cough and clear his throat.

“Yeah, this is he.” The voice was English, but tinged with an American slant.

“Richard, this is David Corstorphine. I was in Queen's Own—”

“David!” The voice, in its drowsiness, lifted a tone. “Hang on!” David heard a rustle of movement at the other end of the line. “Bloody hell, David Corstorphine! Where are you calling from?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland? Well, would you believe it? David! How the hell did you get my number?”

“It was in this month's regimental news. Something about you organizing some sort of get-together?”

“Oh, right.” David heard a stifled yawn at the other end of the line.

“Sorry, Richard, have I woken you up?”

“No, not really … well, actually you have, but I should be up anyway. Just me being lazy. We were out at Montauk last night, and didn't get back till three o'clock this morning. Anyway, what am I talking about? This is crazy. I'm being phoned up at seven-thirty in the morning by a man I haven't seen in years. Could you give me a minute, David? I'm going to put you onto the cordless, so that I can get out of the bedroom.”

The line went dead for a moment, and David sat twiddling the telephone cable around his finger.

“Hi, are you still there?” Richard asked, his voice sounding through the interference of the cordless phone.

“Yes, I'm still here.”

“I'm in the kitchen now. Just bear with me while I put on the kettle. I'm dying for a cup of coffee.” The interference swished as he moved around. “Right, that's it. So, David, how are you? It's great to hear you from you. What's the reason for the call?”

“Well, I was just wondering if—”

“No, hang on, let's get first things first. Tell me, how is the wonderful Rachel?”

David felt his mouth go dry. He tried to speak but nothing came out. For some reason, he had been totally unprepared for the question. All he had expected to do was to ask Richard if he could stay with him.

“Hullo, David, are you still there?”

“Erm … yes … sorry, Richard, sorry … I'm still here. Could you just hold the line a minute?”

Without waiting for a reply, he put his hand over the receiver and sat with his eyes tightly closed, a look of pained concentration on his face. Dammit, it had completely slipped his mind that Richard knew Rachel. Then of course he would have, because they'd been married for a year before he left the army. Now, thinking back on it, Richard had been with them on that mad skiing trip to Verbier. He could always press the “disconnect” button and call back later. No, what the hell good would that do?

“Hullo, Richard, sorry about that. Someone … er … just came into the room.”

“Hey, that's all right. So, how is she?”

“Rachel…” David cleared his throat. “… died last month, Richard.”

He heard nothing for a second except the continued crackle on the line, followed by the sound of a coffee-cup being knocked over on the sideboard or dropped to the ground. When Richard spoke again, his voice sounded distant and weak.

“Shit, David … shit … what … I mean, what happened?”

“Cancer.”

“Oh my God … I'm so sorry. Did she … I mean … how long ago was this?”

“It was only diagnosed in October, and then by December, well…”

“Christ … what a
bastard
of a thing! Poor Rachel.”

“Yeah.”

“How are
you,
my friend?”

“Not … brilliant.”

“Christ … I don't really know what to say … I mean, how are you … sort of … coping?”

“Not … particularly well. I'm staying with my parents at the minute.”

“Right … and you've got children, haven't you?”

“Yup. Three. They've only just gone back to school.”

“Jesus, I'm so sorry, David, for you all. I mean … shit! I'm so glad you telephoned to tell me.”

David took a deep breath and cleared his throat again, realizing that Richard had given him the briefest opportunity to get away from the subject. “Look, Richard, that's not actually why I'm calling. It's just that, well, I have to come over to New York on business for a couple of days, and I was wondering if—”

Richard cut in. “Great! Can you come and stay?”

“Would that be all right?”

“Of course it would be. The only thing is that Angie is going back to Boston for a couple of weeks to visit her parents—but that's no problem, we'll just have to cope for ourselves. When are you coming over?”

“On Tuesday. I haven't got the tickets yet, but it'll be the morning flight from Glasgow, which gets into Kennedy at about twelve-thirty
P.M
., if my memory serves me correctly.”

“And what are your plans for that day? Do you have a meeting?”

“No, it's not until the Wednesday at ten.”

“Right, and have you any idea where the meeting is?”

“Somewhere on Madison Avenue.”

“Okay, just hang on a minute while I get my diary. It's through in the sitting-room.” David heard him move off through the house and then a frenetic rustle of papers before he spoke again. “Right, tell you what I'll do. I have an account with Star Limos here in Leesport, so I'll get a car over to Kennedy to pick you up. It's just over an hour's journey out here, so you can get the whole of Tuesday afternoon and the night to unwind, and then I'll take you in myself on Wednesday morning. My office is on Madison as well, and I'll bet you're only three or four blocks away from where I'm going to be anyway.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to be a nuisance—”

“No way, José! Don't be stupid! I'm actually working summer-time hours at the minute, so I'm usually out here Friday through to Monday and then head off to the city for the remainder of the week. But while you're here, I'll just come back every night. That's no problem at all! Anyway, I've a mountain of paperwork to catch up on and the office can always E-mail me stuff if need be.”

“Well, if you're sure, Richard, that really would be great. I can't tell you what a weight that is off my mind. It'll make my trip a great deal easier.”

“It's a pleasure. Look, see you on Tuesday, okay? And, David … well, just
shit,
I'm so, so sorry about Rachel.”

“I know. It's just one of those things.”

“No, it's not. I know for you it's probably everything. Look, if you want to talk about it when you get out, I have really good ears. Anyway, enough said at the minute. Have a good flight, my friend, and look after yourself.”

David dropped the receiver onto its base and sat rubbing his hands up and down his trouser legs, realizing they were trembling from the sheer effort of talking about Rachel. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the document, then immediately threw it back on the desk without opening it.

“Oh, bugger that!” He jumped to his feet and made his way out into the hall and upstairs to put on his work clothes.

Chapter
  
NINE

“This is meant to be the summer term!” Sophie said, pulling her blazer around her and tucking her hands under her armpits. “Summer terms are meant to be warm!”

The clonking contact of cricket ball against bat floated out on the chill breeze from the centre of the pitch, and a light ripple of applause sounded from the brave but sparse audience that encircled the game. The boys, who were fielding out on the ground, pulled their sweater sleeves down over their hands and jumped up and down to keep warm.

“Is it like this up at Inchelvie?”

Resting up on one elbow, David plucked absently at the daisies that carpeted the grass at the edge of the boundary. “No, it's been worse, actually. Last Thursday was about the first time that the sun broke through—but there wasn't much heat in it.”

“I wish there was a switch we could turn on for summer,” Harriet said, rocking herself back and forth as she perched on her father's hip-bone, “and then everything would become, well, summery just like that.”

“Ow, Harry, don't do that! It's quite sore!”

Harriet let out a giggle and stopped momentarily, then, fixing him with a grin of wicked intent, began rocking again in short spasmodic bursts, testing out her father's resilience.

“Right, you little devil!” he exclaimed, swinging his arm round and pushing her down onto the grass. “War is declared!” He tickled her fiercely, making her shriek out in hysterical laughter.

“Dad, stop it!” Sophie said in an embarrassed whisper. “Mr. Hunter is watching us from the cricket pitch!”

David sat up, pulling a face at Sophie's reprimand, but continued to keep his younger daughter at bay by darting his hand back at her every time she tried to make a move.

“I don't think we need to watch the
whole
match, do we?” Sophie asked, pulling her knees up under her chin.

“Probably not.” He looked over at the score-board. “That's the last batsman in for their team anyway, so they'll all be coming off quite soon. I think we should keep watching just in case Charlie
does
get the chance to bowl.”

Sophie sighed. “It's just such a boring game, cricket.”

She reached her hands behind her neck and pulled the elastic scrunchie on her mousy-brown pony-tail tight against the back of her head. David looked across at her and clandestinely studied her face. Tiny smile lines, creasing the olive skin at the sides of her mouth and eyes, were now the only indication that the hardened, unemotional glare which she had adopted since her mother's death was alien to her character. She wore it like a mask, as if in some way smiling or laughing might be construed as being disloyal to her mother's memory. On her upper lip there blossomed two small but angry spots, blemishes that in the past would have caused her as much anxiety as a smallpox outbreak, but which now were left untreated and uncared for. It was like looking at an incomprehensible abstract painting—textures of unhappiness, longing and dogged bravery all mixed together on a canvas of incipient beauty.

“That's exactly what Mummy thought,” David said eventually. “She had absolutely no time for the game either.”

Harriet sat up from her supine position at the mention of her mother and leaned across her father's body.

“What games
did
she like, then?”

David thought for a moment. “Well, you
know
she liked tennis—and—she was quite good at fishing. What else?”

“I know!” Harriet said, jumping across his legs and coming to sit between them both. “She liked cooking!”