A Time for Friends (7 page)

‘Never mind, I’m immersing myself in my work for the time being anyway.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We need to get a move on. Lunch is on me,’ he added firmly,
taking out his wallet.

‘No!’ protested Hilary, rooting in her bag for her purse.

‘Yes!’ Jonathan gave her a stern look that made her laugh. ‘Don’t forget you’ll be giving me a discount. I’m just worming my way into your
affections.’

‘Well I’m getting our takeaway tonight then,’ she responded equally firmly as a lipstick and one of Millie’s sparkly hairbands fell out onto the table.

‘Right, Mary Poppins, sort yourself and that bag while I go and pay.

‘I’m looking forward to the domestic lighting module. It sure beats the hell out of being stuck at work – it will be the happiest day of my life when I can resign from the
Civil Service,’ Jonathan confided when they headed for the exit.

‘That’s a big step to take,’ Hilary remarked as they emerged onto the quays, the balmy breeze blowing their hair around their faces. The sun sparkled on the Liffey, a flowing,
glittering ribbon of molten silver, and the scent of flowers from a street seller’s stall perfumed the air. A seagull squawked from the
Jeanie Johnston’s
masts and a small boat
chugged towards the East Link Bridge, leaving a foamy swirl in its wake. She inhaled deeply and wished they had time to sit in the sun over a glass of wine and watch the world go by.

‘We all have to take a leap of faith sometimes,’ he said lightly, falling into step beside her.

‘Giving up a permanent and pensionable job isn’t a decision to be taken lightly.’

‘Yes, Mammy!’ Jonathan said drily.

Hilary laughed. ‘That did sound a bit middle-aged all right,’ she conceded.

‘Don’t worry, I want to have a good portfolio of clients, and I’m getting there slowly but surely and you know where you and I should look for business?’ He steered her
across Custom House Quay.

‘Where?’ She was intrigued.

‘Lots of hotels are having spa areas installed, and proper lighting is crucial. That’s the market we need to go after.’

‘Well, would you believe, we’ve supplied lighting for several hotels doing just that,’ Hilary said.

‘Supplied the lighting!’ He made a face. ‘We should
design
, supply and
install.
There’s a whole new market out there just waiting to be tapped in
to.’

‘Are you suggesting we work together?’ Hilary exclaimed.

‘You’ve said it, missus. Hammond and Harpur Interior and Lighting Design Specialists. What do you think?’

‘I think it has a very good ring to it!’ Hilary grinned. ‘“Sculptural”, as Jacintha might say!’

‘Oooohhh bitchy, I like it.’

Laughing, they made their way into the hotel, delighted with the unexpected bonus of new friendship that their design course had brought them.

‘I really think it’s going to be me, Colette. I’ve just had an email from Daniel Burdell. Reading between the lines I think you and I are heading for New
York.’ Des was on a high as they sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven car that was taking them to Heathrow. They’d entertained the Japanese businessman and his little dumpling of a
wife to afternoon tea in the exquisite surroundings of the stately home and now luxury hotel that Cliveden House had become. She wished she’d had time to wander around and admire the antiques
and paintings but she’d performed her wifely duty and made small talk with their guests, and Des’s potential client.

‘Jerry Olsen is going to go ballistic! Tough luck, Jerry boy!’ Des rubbed his hands.

Colette sighed. Was it the line of coke he’d taken before they left, or was he really in with a chance for the promotion that would see them relocate to the US? She hated it when Des took
coke. He was hyper enough without it, but the drug made him edgy and manic.

‘Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched,’ she murmured, but her husband wasn’t listening; he had resumed working on his laptop, tapping furiously as
they sped along the M4. She gazed out of the car window noticing the iconic Round Tower and turrets of Windsor Castle in the distance. The flags fluttering in the breeze and great oak trees framing
the view. In spite of her irritation with her husband, she still thought what a magical, otherworldly sight it was, conjuring up images of knights in shining armour jousting for their ladies. She
had been to a weekend party years ago in a stately country house in Berkshire, soon after they’d married. A striking Piper painting of Windsor Castle hung in the gallery that ran the length
of the house. Colette had thought it beautiful and had returned to gaze at it several times over the weekend incurring the displeasure of her husband.

‘For heaven’s sake, stop skulking here and come and mingle. We’re going grouse shooting. Go and change,’ he instructed.

‘Go without me, I’m not sitting shivering in that damp weather waiting for you to shoot some poor unfortunate birds. I
told
you that I wasn’t going
shooting.’

‘Some help you are,’ he’d muttered angrily, stomping off, and she’d thought how exhausting it was climbing the social ladder sometimes.

Colette grimaced at the memory. They had found their niche in London – her aunt’s connections had proved invaluable – and she was very comfortable with their place in the
haut monde
. If they went to New York it would almost be like starting afresh and those Waspy East Coasters were notoriously cliquish as she’d found on their frequent trips Stateside
over the years.
And
they’d have to take Jasmine out of prep school and away from her little friends. It wouldn’t be easy. But, on the other hand, she
loved
New York.
And what a feather in their cap it would be, and how impressed her parents would be, if Des got this plum job and they ended up living on the Upper East or West Side of Manhattan? The Met, MoMA,
the Guggenheim, the Morgan and L&M, and so many more cultural delights, all on her doorstep. Des would have Wall Street but they would be her pleasures.

Colette brightened up as they merged onto the M25 speeding towards the exit for Heathrow. She could see planes in their holding patterns circling in the distance and hoped there’d be no
delays to their flight. It was rare these days to take off on time.

Now that she was on her way Colette had started looking forward to her trip home to Ireland. She wouldn’t say anything about her husband’s job interview until it was in the bag,
though. It would be too ignominious if she’d spoken about it and then Des didn’t get the position. Image was everything in your own home town.

She’d tell Des to drop her at Hilary’s, and have a good chat with her friend about it. Colette wouldn’t mind saying it to her. She knew better than anyone the person behind the
bright, self-confident façade Colette put up. She could always depend on Hilary for advice. Besides it would be more enjoyable having a drink and a chat with Hilary than having to make
polite conversation with Des’s colleagues. He had reservations for dinner in Guilbaud’s, but tonight she wasn’t in the mood for fine dining, hovering waiters, and over-rich food.
She actually had a strange longing for a kebab, she thought in amusement, remembering how Hilary used to go mad when she’d eat half of hers after a night out.

‘I want you to drop me off at Hilary’s when we get to Dublin. I’ll take a cab to the hotel later,’ she said as the driver swung around the roundabout and drove towards
Terminal 1.

‘But we’re going to Guilbaud’s.’ Des looked at her, perplexed.

‘I’m not in the form, darling. I’m tired. That dinner for the Americans took a lot of work and energy and I just want to flop with Hilary for an hour or two and wind
down.’

‘Fine, if that’s what you want,’ Des said, packing away his laptop. ‘Have you told your folks we’re coming over?’

‘No, I’ll ring them from the hotel tomorrow and we can arrange to meet up.’ Colette refreshed her lipstick and ran a brush through her hair as they pulled up at the set-down
area.

‘They won’t be too happy that you haven’t let them know you’re coming,’ Des warned.

Colette shrugged. ‘I know they’ll be in a huff. I’ll worry about that tomorrow.’ She slid gracefully out of the car, making sure she had her copy of
Vanity Fair
in her Louis Vuitton travel bag. She would read her favourite magazine in the comfort of first-class on the short flight home. Now that she was at the airport she was dying to surprise Hilary and
have a good girly natter.

‘It was like being in an Aladdin’s cave of lighting. They’re beautiful showrooms – you should be very proud,’ Jonathan remarked as he and Hilary
divvied up spring rolls, crispy duck and lemon chicken and rice, in her kitchen. He had meandered around the showrooms, particularly enjoying the uplighters and downlighters and the glittering
cascades of the sparkling chandeliers that were displayed artistically throughout.

‘Thanks. I like to keep up to date with new designs but I like classic fixtures as well. It’s all about keeping the balance right.’ Hilary drizzled hoisin sauce over the
shredded duck and added some cucumber and shallots.

‘Were you always interested in lighting as a career?’ He topped up their glasses of Bin 555, their second bottle, and followed Hilary outside to a patio enhanced by an array of
planters overflowing with vibrant, fragrant blooms, and where she had set a round mosaic table beneath a pale green parasol.

‘Oh nice,’ he approved, glancing around appreciatively.

‘I love being outside, now sit and eat,’ Hilary instructed.

‘The lighting career?’ he prompted as he sat opposite her.

‘Not at all,’ Hilary laughed. ‘I got lumbered with it. Dad has heart trouble and my sister was in the middle of her degree and I was just about to start university, so she
couldn’t give it up and it fell to me to keep the show on the road, and here I am well over a decade later.’

‘And what would you have liked to have done?’ Jonathan asked, licking hoisin sauce off his fingers.

‘I wanted to study languages. I was good at French and Spanish at school. I became fluent in French when I worked as an au pair in Paris. I think all children here should learn languages
in primary school. Nearly everyone on the Continent has two or more. They put us to shame.’

‘Mais oui
.’ Jonathan took a bite of his spring roll. ‘Hmm, this is
très bon
or even
muy bueno
.’

‘You’re bilingual,’ Hilary remarked before taking a slug of her red wine.

‘Tri, actually, Ms Hammond,’ he said smugly. ‘I know Irish as well,
ta
and spring roll
ana mhaith ar fad.
’

‘I’m suitably impressed,
Monsieur
Harpur.’

‘I’m only teasing,’ he joked. ‘I have schoolboy French and the only other Spanish I know is
la cuenta, por favor
and
ningún hombre podría
compararse a ti.’

Hilary chuckled. ‘“No other man compares to you!” You charmer.’

‘You have to have the basics when you travel abroad,’ Jonathan declared airily, leaning back in his chair and looking out over the shrub-filled garden. ‘This is lovely and
private. When I get a place of my own, privacy will be a huge priority for me. I always think the garden should be an extra room, so to speak. This one works extremely well.’ He studied the
verdant lawn edged with curving flowerbeds and an array of blossoming shrubs. The branches of an old apple tree and a damson tree on either side of a winding stone path met in a tender embrace
creating a shady emerald archway that drew the eye to another raised seating area with a small water feature and a variety of ferns and bamboo. ‘That’s a charming feature down
there,’ he said.

‘That was
my
baby,’ Hilary said proudly. ‘My Zen garden. That’s where I go for a bit of peace and quiet, and to read whenever I get the chance, which is
rare.’

‘You did a great job of it, and the garden.’

‘Well, I can’t take responsibility for the rest of the garden as such,’ she confessed. ‘It was well matured when we bought the house. An elderly couple lived here, the
McMillians. They were great gardeners and then the husband died and the wife had to go into a nursing home. She interviewed every person who put in an offer and chose us, because she felt we would
look after her garden. She was a very feisty lady. I used to visit her in the home and take photos for her, and we had her visit for tea every now and again until she got too frail. It gave her
great happiness to sit and look at the damson tree and apple tree, especially in the spring. Oh Jonathan, it’s absolutely glorious with the arbour of frothy pink and white blossoms. It would
be perfect for a wedding,’ she sighed dreamily, feeling deliciously tipsy.

‘You could rent it out as a wedding venue.’

‘Now that’s an idea, I must suggest it to Niall.’

‘He’s dishy,’ Jonathan approved. He’d seen their wedding photo on the mantelpiece in the lounge.

‘Umm, can’t argue with you there.’ She leaned over and topped up his glass before refilling her own.

‘Are you happily married?’ He smiled across at her.

‘Very,’ she nodded. ‘Very, very happy.’

‘You’re lucky. I’d give anything to be in a stable, happy relationship,’ Jonathan confided.

‘It will happen, some day when you’re not looking. He’ll come into your life, and you can have a ceremony under my trees,’ she grinned. ‘But not in the autumn
because you might get conked on the head by a windfall.’

‘There’s a good crop budding already.’ He glanced over at the fruit-laden branches.

‘We generally have a good harvest of damsons and apples. The girls love picking them. Every autumn I used to make Mrs McMillian damson jam and apple chutney with her own fruit. She loved
it. The girls used to bring it to her in a little basket with a bow on it. She passed away a couple of years ago.’

‘You are a kind person, Ms Hammond,’ Jonathan said, raising his glass to her.

‘Not at all, I’m a grumpy wagon most of the time,’ Hilary retorted, embarrassed.

‘Perhaps that too, but kind nevertheless. And talented. Perhaps we could go into Zen garden design while we’re at it.’