Dune Road (18 page)

“I don’t understand. You must feel
something
for her.”

“I have
tried
to feel something for her, but I don’t, and I can’t. She isn’t someone who feels like my child. It isn’t like you, Kit. I promise you it’s not the same. And you must not trust her either. She wants money, and heaven knows her father was paid enough at the time.”

“So what if she wants money? She’s your daughter.” And God knows you can afford it, she wants to say. But doesn’t.

Kit hears Ginny sigh. “Kit, I don’t expect you to understand, but I have more than provided for her. Every time she has gotten into trouble over the years, I have been the one to bail her out, but don’t you go telling her that. When she got into drugs as a teenager, who do you think paid for rehab? I paid her college tuition, which was a waste of time because she dropped out halfway into her second year, and I have supplemented her life behind the scenes for many years.”

“You have? ” Kit is shocked.

“Indeed I have. None of which she knows. This is a private arrangement between myself and John.”

Ginny doesn’t want to explain to Kit that it was duty that made her provide for Annabel. Hers was a pregnancy that was not supposed to have happened, and Ginny paying for Annabel’s mistakes comes from a sense of duty rather than any familial obligation you might expect a mother to feel.

“This child is not someone I owe anything to. She has spent years fighting drugs and alcohol, has never held a steady job as far as I know and is obsessed with money. Her last serious boyfriend was a drug dealer, and she stayed with him because he kept her in cocaine and Rolexes. I know she’s up to no good.”

“You’ve met her? ”

“No. But John sends me pictures, and we talk regularly; he tells me about her. She never knew I was her mother until recently. Now she wants to meet me, and I know this is about money.”

“Mom, you’re saying terrible things. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is your daughter, a child you abandoned, and all she’s asking for is to meet you. Her own mother.” Kit shakes her head in disgust.

“Don’t call me Mom, Kit,” snaps Ginny. “You know how I hate it. This is a girl with ulterior motives. Don’t give her money—it will just go up her nose. Honestly, I’d say don’t have anything to do with her.”

“I have to go,” Kit says, feeling dirty after this conversation. Sullied.

“Bye, darling,” Ginny says, and the connection is cut.

 

Kit tips the wineglass back and glugs the entire contents before refilling it and shaking her head, just as her phone buzzes from the kitchen, signaling that she has a text. It’s from Charlie.

“Unbefuckinglievable,” Kit says, out loud, reading the text. “Suddenly I have a sister who’s not just greedy but a drug addict and alcoholic, and now one of my best friends is dating my boss and refusing to discuss it with me. Could it get any worse? Don’t answer that! ” She looks up at the ceiling, her way of communicating directly with God, curse words and all.

 

The Highfield Inn is not far. It is one of three hotels in town. There is the Berkshire Arms, an exclusive small boutique hotel with trendy restaurant attached, a Marriott that survives only because it provides conference facilities and is thus regularly packed by visiting business people, and the Highfield Inn.

Originally a Howard Johnson, it was not-so-sensitively restored a few years ago. It changes hands every few years, with every new owner vowing to turn it into something truly special, but it still looks like a motel, just a motel with some clapboard siding and a fresh coat of paint.

There is nothing luxurious about the Highfield Inn, and it is not a place anyone “obsessed with money” would ever stay. It sounds like Ginny is making up stories.

Kit has had one glass of wine. Surely she’ll be safe to drive. She could pick up the phone and call this Annabel Plowman, determine by the sound of her voice whether she sounds trustworthy, whether they should meet, but it would be easier still to jump in the car and zip over there, perhaps get a glimpse of her close up, just to get a sense of who exactly she is dealing with.

Kit won’t have to meet her, not tonight. She can go in disguise, a baseball hat and glasses, her hair in a ponytail, a big scarf covering the lower part of her face. God knows it’s cold enough, and what else does she have to do?

She goes upstairs to her closet to grab a hat, and less than five minutes later she’s heading to the Highfield Inn, Annabel’s letter lying next to her on the passenger seat.

Chapter Fourteen

A
few blocks away from the Highfield Inn, Lotus, a trendy Asian fusion restaurant, is hosting Charlie and Keith, Alice and Harry, and Tracy, who, unexpectedly, brought with her Robert McClore.

The manager of the restaurant is fluttering around, quivering with excitement, for this is a first: not only does he have the owners of the hottest restaurant in Highfield in for dinner, but with them is the famous author, Robert McClore!

The waiters, who are mostly Korean, have no idea who Robert McClore is, but they are terrified of their manager, and are following instructions to bring out free tastings, and to provide the best service of their lives.

Alice chose Lotus. She chose it because while they eat at the Greenhouse every day, while they try to eat organic, local produce, no refined sugar, no white flour, nothing with any additives and preservatives, she can’t resist the occasional cravings for spareribs and sesame chicken, or a velvety chicken korma with sag paneer.

And they eat at their own restaurant so much, she didn’t want to have the same food, didn’t want to be interrupted every few minutes with questions from the staff, who, she knows, can handle everything perfectly well themselves when they don’t have the option of asking her.

So when Tracy phoned and talked about meeting for dinner, she jumped in before Tracy mentioned the Greenhouse, and suggested the Lotus instead.

It takes a while for everyone to relax. These are, after all, people who don’t know one another well, and Robert McClore is an unexpected guest, and it is hard to be normal, to not focus on the fact that there is a huge celebrity sitting at their table.

Do they ask him about his books, confess they are huge fans or pretend that he is just like them?

It reminds Alice of the time she went to a party in London and Mick Jagger was there. He was the only celebrity in the room, and for most of the evening nobody spoke to him. It was Mick Jagger! Standing feet away from her, and every time she caught his eye, he smiled, looking desperately lonely, desperate to talk.

But no one wanted to be uncool, no one wanted to give away that they knew who he was, or that they were impressed, and so he stood, on his own, until one die-hard fan finally bit the bullet and went over to say he had been to every Stones concert in London in the seventies, and what was up with that playlist in 1982.

So very different, she thinks, to how Americans react to fame.

One night Oprah Winfrey had come to the Greenhouse for dinner. She had, it seems, been in the area to appear at a fund-raiser for Barack Obama, when he was campaigning for the presidency, and was staying with friends for a couple of days after the event.

They had walked into the Greenhouse for dinner on a Saturday night when the restaurant was packed, and Alice had never seen anything like it. As Oprah walked in, it was as if an invisible spotlight shone upon her. A hush fell over the diners, before a swell of excited whispering.

“Oh my God! It’s Oprah! And Gayle! ” Chatter, chatter, chatter. People made no bones about swiveling their heads to gaze, unabashed, as the group made their way through the restaurant, smiling and stopping to shake hands, to receive praise warmly and graciously.

“That,” Alice said, turning to Harry, “is a true celebrity. Look at how good she makes people feel.”

“It’s the gift of Oprah,” Harry said. “That’s why she is who she is.”

Tonight, at Lotus, Alice notes a similar effect, but on a far reduced scale. Everyone turns to watch them walk through the restaurant to their table, and Robert McClore is clearly recognized, but it dies down quickly, and no one comes up to say anything, to lavish praise upon him, perhaps because they know, from his reputation, how uncomfortable he would be.

It is not until their main courses are brought to the table—sesame-crusted tuna with bok choy and daikon salad, cilantro- soy-lime fish cakes, maple-glazed spareribs, beef tataki with soy-mustard sauce, wok-seared sesame chicken with papaya salad, udon noodles with lemongrass and kaffir lime—that they start to relax, start to enjoy themselves, aided somewhat by the constant refilling of the hot sake and chilled white wine they are having with their meal.

“Okay, Tracy,” Charlie says, when silence descends again, the food having been passed around the table, everyone starting to dig into the mountains on their plates. “Now tell us what this mysterious business venture is.”

“It’s not mysterious.” Tracy laughs. “It’s just that I’ve found this building in South Norwalk that’s unofficially for sale, and I’ve been to see it a few times, because I think it would be a great place for a branch of Namaste. I never expected Namaste to take off in the way that it has, but I’m realizing that yoga is becoming an integral part of people’s lives. We’re living in terrible times, times of stress and worry, and while the corporate world seems to be collapsing around us,” she pauses as Keith nods in agreement, “the inner world, the world that embraces all things natural, green, organic . . .” she looks at Alice, then Harry, who nod, “. . . is thriving. People know that there’s more to life than making money, and for many people, yoga is the first step.”

Tracy takes a deep breath before continuing.

“I always saw Namaste as being far more than a yoga studio. It’s a
lifestyle
. I see it as a place where you can hang out all day, have lunch, have a smoothie, shop for organic products for your home. I want to be able to provide babysitting for children, to give classes on how to make the world a better place. It’s more than yoga, it’s a vision for the future.”

“It does sound amazing when you put it like that,” Charlie says. “And I agree that more and more people are becoming interested in an alternative lifestyle.”

“That’s just the thing! ” Tracy says animatedly. “It’s not alternative any more. It’s becoming the norm, and I want to capitalize on that.”

“So the world is moving away from making money, and you want to make money off the back of that?” Keith laughs, and Tracy pales.

“No! ” Her voice is loud as she jumps on the defensive. “That’s too harsh. I want to provide a service to give people what they want. And if it becomes successful, well, great. Why not? ”

“So tell us about the building you’ve found.” Charlie shoots a warning look at Keith, smoothes things over.

“It’s a warehouse, just off Water Street. It’s one of the old red-brick buildings that used to be an industrial warehouse. It’s just under twenty thousand square feet, needs a ton of work, but could be the most amazing space for a yoga studio. I’m telling you, the energy in that place is wild! ” Her eyes light up. “It’s like it’s just been waiting for us to come in and take it over.”

There is a silence.

“Us? ” Harry says, good-naturedly.

“Well, that’s the thing. It isn’t officially on the market. I happened to hear about it from a girl who comes to the yoga center.”

“Who? ” Charlie is curious.

“Oh she’s not a regular. She’s in some of my evening classes. You don’t know her. But her husband works on Water Street, and this building is owned by a colleague of his. He was hoping to develop it into condos, but he’d leveraged himself to the hilt, and now that the market has collapsed all his investors have pulled out and the building’s about to go into foreclosure, which means he’s desperately looking for a firesale, but doesn’t want to list it because he doesn’t want word to get out about the trouble he’s in.”

“Which means what?” Keith asks. “Isn’t the bank insisting he put it on the market? And how much is he asking? ”

“Apparently, he’s done some kind of a deal with the bank, where they give him a break if he can sell it privately, and he wants six for it.”

“Six? Six what? Six hundred thousand? ”

“Charlie! That seriously would be a bargain!” Tracy laughs. “No. He wants six million, which is a pretty good deal. He was looking at developing it into eight luxury loft apartments, each of which was going to sell for around a million.”

“A million for a loft in Norwalk? Are you
sure
? ” Alice is surprised. A million dollars would buy you a pretty wonderful house in Highfield, and Highfield is far more upmarket than Norwalk.

“South Norwalk has exploded over the last few years, and lofts there are becoming really desirable.”

“Well, not that desirable. Obviously,” Keith says.

“It’s true, the market isn’t what it was, but I have different plans. I’d see turning the entire first floor into a fantastic yoga studio and restaurant, which is why I want to get you involved”—she looks at Alice and Harry—“with a store, and conference rooms. That would take up about ten thousand square feet, and then we could still develop the second and third floors, still turn those into apartments, and we would market them as more than apartments because it’s a different way of life—the key to alternative living.”

Tracy sits back, pleased with herself.

“So . . . how much do you need to raise? ”

“That’s a good question. I’m glad you asked me.” She reaches down and pulls out some papers from her bag. “I’ve prepared some numbers.” And, with a smile of encouragement from Robert McClore, she hands them around the table.