Quentins (18 page)

“Oh, they're too hard. We couldn't understand those at all. One thing was the radius and then they called it the diameter and then they called it the circumference, no, that's too hard on our own.”

“Not if you
read
it in the simple way I explain it, it isn't.”

“It
is
, Ella.”

“But you're going to do it. And you're going to know acute angles and obtuse angles. Believe me, you are.”

Simon had a conference with his sister in the kitchen. “Maud wants to know, do you get paid for this?”

“Yes, your grandparents give me money.”

“They're not exactly our grandparents.”

“So when this letter arrives . . . you are both to take it seriously.”

“Why can't you send it by e-mail? It would be quicker,” Simon countered.

“I can't do that.”

“Don't you have a computer?” He was scornful.

“Yes, I do, actually. But the password is jammed, I can't get into it.”

“I could do that in a minute,” Simon said.

“Do you have it with you in your bag?” Maud asked.

“Yes.” But Ella wasn't sure. “It's just that it's not mine. It's a friend's. He asked me to open it for him.”

“Simon is terrific at computers,” Maud said reassuringly.

“Well then, Simon, help her pull it from the briefcase.”

“What do you think the password is?”

“I thought it was ‘angel.' I saw him type it in,” she said. Her heart was thumping. Was she really insane enough to share this with these two children?

“No, it's not ‘angel.' ” Simon had tried it expertly. “It often is something just like that.”

“Cherubs,” Maud said. “Feathers? Wings?”

“Don't think so,” Ella said.

“Is he in America?” Simon asked.

“No. Why?”

“It could be something like Los Angeles.”

She remembered the blue and white tiles on the white walls of the resort of Playa dos Angeles. Playground of the rich, criminals and famous. The hiding place full of billiard rooms and swimming pools.
That
must be where Don lived. That could be the password. She wrote it down with a trembling hand.

Simon entered it and the screen sprang to life. List after list of initials and numbers, column after column of them.

“It wasn't hard,” Simon said loftily.

“No, no, indeed.” She closed it down. “Thank you both very much. I'll bring you a present from—”

“From where?” Maud asked.

“From where she's getting her head stuck together,” Simon explained.

It was midnight. She would be leaving Dublin at noon the next day. She was sitting drinking coffee in Deirdre's flat. Ella needed her wits about her. Deirdre and Nuala were drinking a great deal of wine and laughing a lot. It was as if there had never been any coldness. But they had agreed not to tell Nuala about New York, just that Ella was heading off somewhere to get her head together.

Ella was trying on Deirdre's clothes. “I think I'll take this red jacket, and the black dress, definitely,” she said.

“Yes, I'll be walking to work in my knickers,” Deirdre said. “Take the red and black scarf too, while you're at it.”

“Imagine going off to wherever you want to.” Nuala sounded envious. “It's years since I've been able to do that.”

If the others thought that Nuala's husband, Frank, was always able to do just that, they didn't say it.

She hadn't slept at all by the time she got on the plane. Her only expense at the airport was a fairly heavy-duty makeup. And something the assistant recommended, which was an under-eye concealer.

On the plane she studied the brief that Sandy and Nick had prepared for her. There was an entire folder of clippings, photographs and a biography of the man she was going to meet. She looked at the pictures first. Pleasant enough face, square-shaped, his hair short, thick and coarse, like a brush with bristles. In most pictures he appeared to be peering, almost squinting, at something, causing very exaggerated smile lines at his eyes. His nose was quite snub, but his chin was strong. It
was hard to see if he was tall or short. He dressed formally. He was rarely photographed without shirt and tie even at a young filmmakers' gathering, where everyone else was much more casual. Either he had many tuxedos or he got the same one cleaned regularly, since he always looked smart at the many functions where he was captured. There were no pictures of his home surroundings.

She wondered how old he was, and began to check up. He was born forty-three years ago in New York, the son of an Irish father and a Canadian mother. The eldest of three sons, he described himself as self-educated. Yet some of his citations included honorary degrees from universities, so he must have done a good job educating himself. She read how he had worked in many different aspects of the stationery trade and eventually set up a company specializing in office equipment. It had become a market leader, with branches all over the United States. She read many company profiles, trying to analyze its success and its award-winning status. Nobody seemed to be able to pinpoint the exact reason it had gone on when so many had fallen by the wayside. Any more than anyone had been able to define Derry King, the chief executive officer and chairman of the board. He was described as hardworking and easygoing, and said to be determined but not ruthless.

Ella got the feeling that he had been courteous to those who interviewed him but not greatly forthcoming. He told no details about what he did for breakfast or how he spent his leisure time. He gave hardly any information about his taste in books, music or theater, saying apologetically that he had worked so hard in his youth that he had never known the luxury of losing himself in music, drama or literature.

When asked about his typical day, Derry King gave no little human glimpses of himself reading the paper
over a plate of fruit or visiting a personal trainer or any minimal insight into his family life at home. Either he did not know how to manage publicity or else he knew how to manage it very well. Ella wasn't sure.

But he did love the visual arts. When he was nine, he had a very inspiring teacher at school who told the children that they could all paint and all find beauty inside and around them if only they looked. This had been a great surprise to the young Derry King. He said that he never claimed to have any artistic talent himself, but it had certainly opened his eyes to the beauty around him, which is why he sponsored so many art competitions among the young in the inner cities.

One of the many jobs he took in order to pay his school fees was that of cleaning and tidying up in a cinema. It meant he saw many movies free. It had left him with a love of the film world all his life. No, he had never been tempted to sink his considerable fortune in a studio or a production company, but had tried instead to encourage young people in various aspects of filmmaking.

He was a philanthropic benefactor who gave to charities across the board. Always he was interested in causes that helped young people, and advanced funds to those who had not been given an easy start in life. You had to read very hard between the lines to work out what he was like, and so far he sounded quite staid, Ella thought.

But that didn't matter. She was coming to New York on Nick and Sandy's hard-earned money, to be entertained and fascinated by this guy. It was her job to make him interested in their project. To sell it as well as she possibly could. There was not a great deal of publicity about his foundation. It was as if he didn't want to be thanked in public for doing good. She could have done with more information.

It was in many ways a bald file. No pictures of him in a penthouse suite in a Malibu Beach hotel. On a ranch on weekends. There was mention of a wife, Mrs. Kimberly King, a leggy number, very possibly a trophy wife. In one interview he said they had no children. In another he said that both his parents were now dead. Nowhere did he say anything about his Irish ancestry. Twice in the clippings he mentioned happy childhood vacations in Alberta, Canada.

She looked long and hard at his picture again.

A man of forty-three, the same age as Don Richardson, who had worked hard all his life. She learned little from his picture. But then, she had learned little of Don after two years of loving him. This Derry King looked much older than Don. Perhaps his life had been harder. He might not have had all the perks and pleasures that Don had. And, indeed, probably continued to have.

T
he hotel was a small, inexpensive but chic place off Fifth Avenue in midtown Manhattan, far from the boardinghouse in Queens where she and Deirdre had stayed that time so many years ago when they had come to New York. It was a place owned by someone's brother, who was meant to give them a great deal but there had been a great misunderstanding. He had thought they were coming out to his place to give him the trade, not the other way round, looking for a bargain. She had been so young then, Ella thought. Imagine them getting upset by that! If she had known what upset was really like!

Anyway, no point in brooding. She must enjoy the days in the hotel to the fullest. She had said she didn't really
need
to spend all this time in New York, but they had insisted. Nick and Sandy had said it was essential that she should be on the spot and available in case Derry King needed to rethink something through with her.

Deirdre had said that it took everyone at least fourteen days to get a head together, especially since Ella's head had been so battered and then tried to cure itself by overwork. Brenda Brennan said that she should make the most of it. New York City in autumn was everyone's dream. She must not think of running back.
Her father and mother said she must write down some of the things she saw, they'd love to hear all about it when she came back. She realized that they were all afraid for her. They were afraid of Don Richardson and what he might do when he came back.

Ella shared a taxi into town with a small, plump Dublin woman who knew every angle there was in the world. She was a dealer, she said proudly, had traveled over with four empty suitcases. She was going to buy stuff in bargain basements for the next four days, fantastic stuff you didn't see at home at all, slippers with pink fur on them, black underwear with red feathers. She'd sell it all at three times what she paid. She did it every year. She could not understand to save her life why there weren't more people in on it. It was the easiest money she'd ever made, and believe her, she had made money in many different ways.

She asked Ella what line she was in herself.

“I'm trying to raise money to make a film,” Ella said.

The woman said her name was Harriet, and that if ever Ella was lonely, give her a ring at her hotel and they'd go out for a few drinks.

Ella tried to cover her amazement that Harriet named a very expensive hotel. There must be good money in importing exotic lingerie. Or was it smuggling? The lines were getting more and more blurred. If you could afford a hotel like that, why were you bringing over four empty suitcases to buy cheap gear. Why were you sharing a taxi with someone into town. Then again, maybe that kind of economy was exactly
why
Harriet could afford the five-star hotel she was staying in.

She settled into her own hotel and had a long bath. Deirdre had given her a very expensive oil, “to put you in a good mood.” Its scent seemed to seep into every
part of her body and all around the room. Ella didn't really believe that these unguents and lotions did any good, but she did feel a lot better. And maybe looked a little less drawn.

Then she called the hotel beauty salon to make an appointment for the next morning. She had promised Nick and Sandy that she would have her hair done before she met Derry King. On behalf of the company they said she had to do this. They didn't want her frightening him away before the negotiations started. And then she found herself wandering around the room, pacing like an animal in a cage. To her amazement, she felt restless and edgy. In need of company, any company. It might be midnight back home, but it was only seven
P
.
M
. here. Outside her windows, a New York evening was just getting under way. If only Deirdre were here. They would have great fun. Or Nick and Sandy—she enjoyed their company. If they were here now with a bottle of inexpensive wine that Sandy would have found in some liquor shop, they could sit and plan their strategy.

Or anyone else she liked. Brenda Brennan from Quentins, for example. She was surprisingly good fun when you got to know her.

She looked over at the laptop. No, she would keep her promise to herself. Don't look into all it contained until she had dealt with Derry King. There would be plenty of time later. And now at last she knew how to unlock its secrets. She really owed young Simon for that.

Deirdre called around to the Bradys for solidarity. “It will do her no end of good, this trip,” she said.

“I'm very anxious, Deirdre, our daughter to be running away from someone as if we were all in gangland! Couldn't she have given the laptop to the Guards and be done with it?”

“She
will
do that when she comes back, I'm sure of that,” Deirdre murmured. “She'll do the right thing. It will just take her a little time.”

“Deirdre, I've been phoning you all night.”

“I was out, Nuala. But now I'm home. What is it?”

“Listen, Frank got a message from Don.”

“He never did.”

“Yes, late this afternoon. I've been trying to find you.”

“And what did he have to say to Frank?”

“Apparently a lot of it was completely wrongly reported.”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“No, really, he explained it was all taken out of proportion.”

“Is this why you rang me, Nuala?”

“Well, yes and no. You see, Frank was wondering whether Don might contact Ella?”

“Why in the name of God would Frank think that?”

“Well, I said that she went off somewhere today and she didn't tell any of us where she was going.”

“So?”

“So Frank thought she might still be carrying a torch for Don.”

“Carrying a torch!” Deirdre screamed with laughter. “A torch, no less. What a ludicrous thing to say. Is Frank losing his marbles? If she was carrying a torch anywhere near him, she would gouge his eyes out. She hates him, Nuala, you know that.”

“Love and hate aren't all that far apart,” Nuala said prissily.

“I don't think so in this case, and did Frank get this idea out of the air or did you sow it in his mind?”

“No, I didn't sow it in his mind, but after he was talking to Don, he seemed to think it was a possibility.”

“And he's all buddy-buddy with Don now?”

“I told you there was a misunderstanding. Don has sent a sum of money to a post office box, one of Frank's brothers picked it up.”

“So Frank has forgiven him.”

“He's listening to him anyway.”

“And what does he hear?”

“That Don wants to make it up to Ella. He'd like to know where she is.”

“Well, I have no idea. She went to clear her head and I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

Deirdre sent up a silent prayer of thanks that they had told Nuala nothing. Suppose they had innocently said where she was going. One of Don's henchmen could have been waiting for her in the New York hotel this very minute.

Nick and Sandy were just going to bed when Deirdre rang. “I know it's silly, but I'm just sitting here on my own, worrying. She
is
all right, isn't she? It's just that if he's getting Frank and his desperate brothers to use Nuala to get to Ella . . . He even paid them the money they lost.”

“Do you think we should tell her?” Nick asked.

“I don't know. Part of me thinks we should, but then, it's your pitch. I don't want her to go to pieces on you out there.”

“The job's not as important as her being all right. Look, I'll discuss it with Sandy and then we'll give her a call.”

“Think about it, Nick. If she's on her own out there, it might be worse for her to know.”

“Go to bed, Deirdre. Don Richardson can't ruin everyone's sleep in the Western world.”

They called her hotel, but she was not in her room. Nor was she in the hotel dining room. “It's one in the morning,” Sandy said disapprovingly.

“It's only eight
P
.
M
. there. We're not her mother and father.”

“Still, who does she know there? Where can she be?”

Ella was at a party in Harriet's suite, drinking cocktails and meeting some of Harriet's contacts. They were mainly women in their fifties, scouts whom she had sent out looking for supplies. Some of them were younger men wearing a lot of jewelry and expensive jackets. Harriet had not been at all surprised that she phoned and had welcomed her warmly. Everyone was interested for a moment when she was introduced as a moviemaker, but they lost interest when they heard it was a documentary.

Harriet's contacts had brought her samples. Ella examined yellow negligees with rhinestones, scarlet thongs and black panties with pink lace rosebuds on them. Had Ireland changed a great deal? Or did everyone else at home wear underwear like this and Ella was the only one left out?

“You can buy anything you need at cost,” Harriet said to her kindly.

“Thanks, Harriet. I don't have much of a sex life going at the moment. I think I'll pass, if you don't mind.”

“Fine-looking girl like you, you
do
surprise me,” Harriet said.

Some of the contacts seemed to suggest that owning a proper wardrobe of what was on display was the sure-fire way of restoring a good sex life fairly speedily.

Ella had eaten nothing and was beginning to feel a little light-headed. “Well, if I thought they'd help sell my film idea to Derry King,” she said, pretending to consider one of the little corsets.

“Not
the
Derry King!” said one of the contacts.

“You've heard of him?”

“There was a big piece about him in the paper today . . . but what was in it?”

None of them could remember.

“I hope he hasn't gone bankrupt,” Ella said. That would be all they'd need. But it appeared that it had something to do with rescuing a dog shelter. Derry King had not only given the place the funds it needed, he had marched with the protesters personally and raised their profile considerably. “A dog lover, I see,” Ella noted. It hadn't mentioned that in any of the files.

“Then I'll buy that jeweled dog collar for him,” she said.

“It's a bit flash, Ella. I mean, it's only five dollars. It's for guys to give their girls who have silly bowwows.” Harriet didn't want to steer her wrong.

“No, what's more, I'll buy two. I know a dog called Hooves back in Dublin who'd absolutely love it.”

She had three more cocktails, went back to her own hotel, and fell asleep without even listening to her voice mail on the telephone.

This was meant to be her day off. Her whole day to relax and get ready for tomorrow, to meet the great Derry King, investor and apparently a dog lover. And now she had the most unmerciful hangover. Slowly she got herself into the day. The woman at the beauty salon suggested a facial. It was very expensive, but what the hell. She would pay Firefly Films back one day. That's what she was going to spend the rest of her life doing anyway, it seemed. Paying people back.

“Sorry, Nick, I was out last night. I forgot to check for messages,” she said when she found the winking light and called him back.

“Great, Ella. You're really on top of things over there,” he said.

“No, I'm fine. I have such hair and such skin you just wouldn't believe it.”

“Terrific.”

“What were you on about anyway?”

He told her briefly about it all, how they were all a little bit worried in case Nuala might just have gotten any of it right.

“Not very likely, based on previous performance.” She was brisk.

“Don't be flip, Ella. We're your friends, okay?”

“Sure, sorry, it's just that I'm a bit frail. Nuala's half-wit take on everything doesn't seem real from here.”

“Why are you frail?”

“Hung over. Mixed cocktails.”

“Jesus, Sandy, she's been spending our money on cocktails.”

“No, they were free. I met this woman on the plane . . .”

“I don't want to hear about it . . . listen, Ella. It could be serious. He's paid off Frank and his brothers simply because he's married to a friend of yours and hopes she knows where you are.”

“No, he doesn't want to contact me,” she said.

“Why do you say that? Hasn't he got Mike Martin
and
Frank sending out feelers?”

“If Don really wanted to talk to me, he'd find me.”

“And would you talk to him?” Nick asked fearfully. He had a sinking feeling why Ella kept the laptop. She wanted Don to get in touch with her.

“Probably.” She sounded very far away.

“But you can't. Not without someone else being there.”

“This is costing you a fortune, Nick. Thanks for being involved, I mean it and thank Sandy and Dee for me. But I'm fine.”