Quentins (29 page)

“What's the worst Maud and Simon could say to this rich American guy, do you think?” Cathy asked Tom.

“They're very into mating conversations just now. They could ask him about his sexual habits, I suppose,” Tom suggested.

“Oh, yes, they'll definitely want to know about who he mates with. I was wondering if they want parts in the film or anything, you know how much they like to belong,” said Cathy.

“I'm sure he'll be able to deal with them.” Tom hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.

Ella called in to Firefly Films. They weren't expecting her. They hadn't their response ready.

“It's all so unfair, Ella,” Sandy began.

“People put too much pressure on him,” said Nick, who used to say that there was no pit of hell deep enough for Don Richardson.

“Yes, when Derry King's gone back to New York, I'll cry on your shoulder, believe me I will, but now we have to work out how to make the best of his sudden decision to come here. I'm meeting him tonight to go over our notes.”

She saw their faces lighten. This was exactly what they had hoped for, but they didn't want to appear crass by not acknowledging that the love of her life had first left her and then killed himself. They sat down to plan the campaign.

Nick and Sandy looked at her with admiration as she pushed the hair out of her eyes. She took out an armful of files, some with colored stickers on them.

“There are so many different ways we
could
go. In a way it will depend on who talks best, but come in, let's have a look at the stories anyway,” Ella said.

D
erek Barry was entertaining a couple of wealthy clients at lunch. He didn't actually know them. But Bob O'Neil, his partner, had been most insistent.

They put plenty of work through the books of Barry and O'Brien Accountants, and they were threatening to move elsewhere.

All they needed was some stroking and patting and reassurance. Bob had intended to take them himself, but his plane was delayed in London and he couldn't get back. Derek must hold the fort.

There had been hardly any time to check them out. All he knew was their bank balance. That and the fact that Bob O'Neil, the senior partner in the accountancy firm, said that it was a Must-Do.

So Derek sighed and booked a table in Quentins.

That was one advantage of being the father of the restaurant's owner. He always got a table there. He arrived early.

“Where can I put you, Mr. Barry?” Brenda Brennan was always outwardly polite, but he felt she didn't like him.

“It doesn't really matter, Brenda. I'm meeting a pair of clients, Bob's, not mine, loads of money, dot-com millionaires or something. Complete nobodies.” He shook his head disapprovingly.

“Well, I hope they'll enjoy their lunch, Mr. Barry.”

She was too cool. He didn't like it. She was, after all, an employee of his son Quentin, and so was her husband, that fancy chef, Patrick. Derek Barry, small and self-important, sat down at his table, bristling with a sense that he wasn't being treated with enough respect.

The couple was shown to his table. In their late thirties, he decided, big, both of them, far from elegant; cheap, ill-fitting clothes. The woman carried a shabby handbag, the man wore a loud jacket. They looked out of place in this quiet, smart restaurant decorated for Christmas but not garishly so. Little Christmas trees with small white lights dotted around.

Still, Bob O'Neil had been adamant. These two were to get the treatment. They paid big fees for the firm's services. Derek Barry was to make sure that they were happy and continued to be.

“Mr. and Mrs. Costello, what a pleasure,” he said, standing up.

“I'm Mr. Barry.”

“Bob O'Neil's not coming to the dinner?” Cath said, surprised that the table was set only for three.

“Er . . . no. Mr. O'Neil sends his best regards . . . but you know the pressure of business . . . he was delayed in London. And as one of the senior partners myself, I thought it was time for us to get to know each other.” Derek hated her calling lunch a dinner, and in a place like this.

“Well, I'm Jimmy and my wife is Cath,” the man said.

“Ah,” Derek said.

“What's your first name?” Cath asked.

It was ignorant rather than impolite, Derek thought, just a woman with no social graces. He wished he had made the time to find out exactly what kind of business they were in.

He told them his name.

“So you drew the short straw, Derek,” said Jimmy, settling in and looking at the menu.

Flinching at the way his first name was being used so easily, Derek asked nervously what that meant.

“Well, I suppose it means that Bob O'Neil sent you to this dinner to do his dirty work,” Jimmy explained cheerfully.

“Like so that you'll be blamed when we take our business away from you,” Cath added. “Do they serve draft beer here? I'd really love a pint.”

Derek Barry felt dizzy. Things were moving out of control. People calling lunch dinner and wanting pints in Quentins. These two people talking casually about moving their business away from the firm.

“Well, well, whatever we must be, we must not be hasty,” he said.

“No haste at all, Derek,” Jimmy said good-naturedly. “We'll just come back to the office with you after our dinner and collect the papers.”

Derek Barry felt a slow anger begin to burn inside him. Had Bob O'Neil realized how serious the situation with these people was? Probably not. Jimmy and Cath Costello were not the kind of people Bob would have known socially. But he would have known that something was wrong. That was why he had made Derek the fall guy.

Cath was deep in the menu. “Are we all going to have starters?” she asked, almost childlike in her enthusiasm.

“I don't know what any of them are,” Jimmy said, examining the list.

They were about to lose wealthy clients, and this woman with her tight perm and her nylon scarf twisted around her neck was proving to be far too confident in a restaurant of this standing.

The waitress said her name was Monica, Mon for short, and she was delighted to help. This one was quails' eggs, tiny little things, in a bed of pastry with a
gorgeous sauce served on the side. This one was kidney with a mustard sauce on toasted scone.

“I never had a quail's egg,” said Jimmy. “But I'd love kidneys in mustard sauce. I'm in a lather of indecision.”

“I'm the same way myself, Jimmy. We'll have two starters, that's what we'll have.”

“I don't really think—” Derek began. But he stopped. There was something about Cath's face that he didn't like. It was as if she could see right through him, could read his embarrassment and snobbish feelings about her earthy way of going on.

“Are you going to have a starters and mains?” she asked Derek with interest.

He tried not to shudder and show how little he liked every phrase she uttered. These vulgar people were important to his company. Bob had said only that morning that they couldn't afford to lose their business. So Derek knew he must turn on his charm.

“Before I decide what to eat, why don't you let me get some drinks in, Cath and . . . er . . . Jimmy, and then you'll tell me what it is you actually do.”

“But you know what we do,” Cath said simply. “You are our accountants. You must know what we do.”

“Well, you see, as you said, it's really Bob O'Neil who deals with you . . . very big firm, lots of clients nowadays, many different aspects, the whole problem of expanding . . .” He looked at them helplessly.

“Then why did you ask us to dinner?” Jimmy asked, tearing his bread roll apart as if it were a killer fish that he had to demolish first.

“Bob couldn't make it himself this once. So he asked me to stand in at the last moment . . .”

“And you never looked us up?” Jimmy said. “Lord, I wouldn't last one day if I didn't know about the people I was meeting.”

Derek looked miserable. “I'm sorry, Mr. Costello. I'm
sorry, Jimmy. You're right. It was a courtesy and I did not have time. I didn't make time. I apologize. Can you tell me about yourselves. Now?”

“What do you want to know, Derek?” Jimmy asked.

Derek wondered what to ask them. “Do you have children?” he heard himself ask. He wondered why he had said it. Normally he never asked about people's families.

“Do you?” Cath asked in a level voice.

“Yes, just one son. He didn't follow me into the business, as I had hoped he would. I even had a room for him, but I'm afraid he didn't take to the accountancy business.”

“Imagine!” Cath said. “And did he do all right on his own?”

“Very well. This is his restaurant, as it happens.”

“Well, you must be delighted with him,” Cath said, her eyes far away.

“And your children?” Derek asked. “Did they go into your business with you?” Again he didn't know why he wanted to know. He was not one for the personal question.

“No, we went into it for them, really,” Jimmy said.

There was a silence. Derek knew that he must smile and be charming. Tomorrow he could rail at Bob O'Neil for landing him in all this so very ill prepared. Today he had to get these people on his side.

“So? Your actual day-to-day work?” he said, his face nearly splitting with a smile.

“Takes up about sixteen or seventeen hours of the twenty-four,” Cath said in a matter-of-fact way.

“Starting at six in the morning and ending at ten or eleven with a pint before closing time,” Jimmy explained.

“But surely you don't need to work that hard . . .” he said, appalled.

“Oh, we do,” Cath said.

“But Bob O'Neil told me that you were very financially secure . . .” Derek was bewildered. “Why do you work so hard?”

“To forget,” Cath said simply. “To take our minds off the children.”

“The children?” He looked from one to the other.

“Bob didn't tell you?” They couldn't believe it.

“No, he told me nothing.” Derek was ashamed.

“We had three children who died in a fire ten years ago. We nearly went mad, but someone told us that if we worked and worked it would make it better.”

Derek looked at them wordlessly.

“So we did just that,” Jimmy said.

“Hour after hour, year after year,” Cath said. “It wasn't great, of course, but I think it would be worse if we hadn't. We've no way of knowing, but I think I would have been worse if there had been time to think.”

“I suppose it gave you a comfortable lifestyle, anyway,” Derek said. He didn't know how to sympathize. Better to look on the bright side.

They looked at him, speechless.

“What do you actually do for a living?” Derek asked eventually.

“Fund-raise,” Cath said. “Didn't you know? Doesn't Bob tell you anything at all?”

“I'm beginning to think he doesn't,” Derek said. “He told me you were very wealthy people.”

“Worth a dinner?” Jimmy said.

“Worth a dinner, yes.” Derek felt ashamed.

“And you didn't even know that we're leaving your firm?” Cath asked.

“No, not until I met you. No. And of course nothing is definite yet . . .”

“He's an odd kind of partner, then, Derek,” Cath said.

“I don't really know the whole story.” Derek blustered a little.

“We went to your firm because you were respectable and well thought of. If we could put your name on the bottom of our notepaper it gave us a bit of standing. People couldn't think we were just two yahoos . . .”

“I'm sure they wouldn't have thought—” Derek began to protest.

Jimmy interrupted him: “Of course that's what people would say. Two poor, mad yahoos who can't see straight because of their own tragedy. Why should anyone give us money and believe that we'd spend it right? That's why we needed people like you. Or thought we did.”

“Oh, but you do . . .” Derek began again.

“No, we don't. We realized this. You see, we said to Bob that we thought the fees were a bit steep . . .” Cath said.

“Not that we thought you should work for free or anything, just because our work is for charity . . .” Jimmy said.

“But it turned out that he didn't really care at all about what we were doing. He just looked at a file and said there seemed to be a very healthy profit balance and he didn't know what we were complaining about . . .” Cath was indignant.

“He said there are sort of fixed rates an hour,” Jimmy said.

“Which there are, of course,” Derek said. “But I imagine we could discuss . . .”

“No, that's not it. You see, he didn't even care that we are a charity,” Cath said.

“Oh, come come come . . . of course he does . . . of course the firm realized you were a charitable . . . organization, but . . .” Derek said with a little laugh.

“You didn't,” she said simply

It was unanswerable.

Brenda Brennan was at their table supervising the serving of a second starter. She also handed Cath an envelope.

“Mrs. Costello, everyone in the kitchen was so impressed when they heard you were both here, they made an immediate collection for your children's fund. Every single person contributed.”

“How did they know we were here?” Jimmy wondered.

“I'm afraid we recognized you from television. Believe me, Mr. Barry was very discreet about you. Gave us no information at all about you, concealed your identity even.” Her eyes were hard and cold.

Derek remembered how he had described his guests. He flushed darkly to think about it.

Jimmy got out a postcard and wrote a thank-you note to the people in the kitchen. Cathy took a receipt book out of her big, shabby handbag. They counted the money and sent a receipt to the kitchen staff as well.

Two honest people maddened with grief over lost children, people who had now been ignored and patronized by his own accountancy firm. He longed to reach out and touch them and hold their hands, beg them to tell him what had happened the night their children died. He wanted to take out his checkbook and give them a donation that would stun them. He could have told them that not everyone has it easy. Take Derek's own life, for example. His wife had left him for a few years. She came back remote and distant. His son lived abroad and kept in very little contact. He felt he could talk to these odd people about it, and he would see they got not only vastly reduced fees, but that they also got a sponsorship as well.