CHAPTER TWENTY
Debbie stared out at the downpour and watched the lightning streak across the rooftops of the city, zigzagging from a black sky to chimney pots and phone masts with gay abandon. She’d just had a text from her mother to say that she and Karen were shopping in Marbella with Juliet Davenport. The previous day she’d got a text to say that Karen and herself were lazing on the beach at La Cala enjoying massages from two Thai girls.
She could do with a massage to iron the knots of tension out of her neck and shoulders. She’d hardly had a wink of sleep last night. When she’d got home all ready to confront Bryan with the amount of their debt, his sister and cousin were there, sipping wine, while he cooked a stir-fry for them. They were in the area and had dropped in, and he’d invited them to stay for dinner. She’d tried to join in the banter and chat, but her heart wasn’t in it and, eventually, around ten, she’d pleaded a headache and gone to bed. It had been impossible to sleep. The trio were in the lounge under her bedroom listening to music and making no effort to tone it down, and she lay in bed, furious at being kept awake in her own house.
They hadn’t gone home until well after midnight, and Bryan was half tipsy and in no humour to talk about finances when he came to bed. He’d wanted a shag instead. She’d said she was too tired, but he’d persisted, stroking her and kissing her, trying to get her in the mood. It was easier to say yes than end up arguing, and she’d half-heartedly given in, but their coupling had given her no pleasure – not that he’d noticed – and as he lay snoring beside her, she’d felt tense and resentful, wondering why was she always the one in their relationship to have to do all the worrying about their unaffordable lifestyle.
It was ridiculous: she was only a newly married woman, this should be one of the happiest phases of their life together, not fraught with anxiety over money issues. She remembered how carefree and happy they’d been when they’d first started living together. Maybe Bryan had been right about not buying a house or getting married. It was when they’d bought their house that their problems had started. Then the wedding had added to their expenses. If they’d even waited until now to buy a house, they’d have got one much cheaper. They’d bought at the height of the boom and paid crazy money for what they’d got. In one way, Bryan could say that she was the architect of their indebtedness, and she wouldn’t be able to argue with him. It was she who had pushed for them to get married; she was as much to blame for their sorry state as her husband.
She’d slept fitfully after that moment of self-realization and now, as she sat looking at the storm raging outside, she was finding it hard to keep her eyes open and her concentration focused on her computer screen. It was just as well that Judith Baxter wasn’t in her office, Debbie thought wryly, otherwise she would have been down on her like a ton of bricks, to add to her woes.
‘I was very specific in my requirements, Mr Kinsella. Kindly rectify your error immediately and have me and my staff in our new headquarters by the beginning of next week. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, Mr Devoy. That will be sorted by Friday,’ Bryan said reassuringly, running his fingers agitatedly through his glossy locks. He didn’t want that little wart going over his head to complain to his boss. Pat Devoy had been a briar from the moment Bryan had had his first consultation with him, and had caused him nothing but grief.
‘See to it,’ retorted the wart at the other end of the line before hanging up.
‘Little bald-headed bastard,’ muttered Bryan, remembering how the sun had shone on Devoy’s bald pate, giving him the appearance of a just-cooked shiny egg about to be topped.
His phone rang again. ‘Hey, Kinsella, are you on for a night on the tiles Friday night? A couple of mates are coming over from London, and they want to go clubbin’. Strictly stag, leave the trouble and strife at home,’ Kevin Devlin said breezily.
‘Ah . . . sounds good, mate. Leave it with me, I’ll get back to you.’
‘No probs, just wanted to flag it up,’ Kevin said and hung up.
He wouldn’t mind a night clubbing after the week he was having, Bryan thought longingly. But with their joint credit card at its limit, and his own card close, he’d have to eat into his salary, and so far he hadn’t paid the car tax or the NTL bill and, only that morning, their gas bill had floated through the letter box, so that was another couple of hundred down the Swanee. Where could he lay his hands on a few bob, he wondered. His phone rang again. What an instrument of torture it was, he sighed. ‘Hello!’ he said, frazzled, waiting to hear Pat Devoy with some new ‘requirement’.
‘Ah, son, how are you? I’ve hardly set eyes on you since your wedding. Your sister said she’d had dinner with you last night. I miss you terrible, love. We haven’t seen you in ages. When are you going to drop by?’ His mother’s honeyed tones came as a welcome surprise.
‘Mam, it’s been mad busy here since I got back,’ he lied.
‘And I suppose you’re having dinner and so on with Connie – that’s what always happens after a wedding. It’s always the bride’s mother who gets involved; the groom’s ma never gets a look in,’ said Brona mournfully.
‘Not at all, Mam. It’s not like that,’ he assured her. ‘I only saw Connie once. She’s away in Spain – for the next few weeks,’ he exaggerated slightly. ‘Honest, it’s been crazy here catching up with work since I’ve come back.’
‘Oh, is that so?’ she said, somewhat mollified.
‘If there was any chance of one of your speciality rack-of-lamb dinners, I could call over after work,’ he suggested lightly.
‘Go on with you – what time will you be here at? Are you bringing Debbie?’
‘No, she has something on,’ he fibbed. ‘It will just be me. We can have a good natter. I should be there around sixish.’
‘Lovely. I’ll be looking forward to it immensely, son.’
‘Me too, Mam, me too,’ Bryan said as he put the phone down. It would be nice to be made a fuss of and have one of her scrumptious roasts. She did his rack of lamb perfectly pink on the inside, just the way he liked it. Debbie always tended to overcook it when she made it. And, if he confided to Brona that he was a bit skint, she’d give him a few bob, like she always did. She was a great mother, he thought fondly. And he was her pet.
She knew he had the extra credit card, because the bills came to her house. He’d been living there when he’d applied for it a few years ago. When he’d asked her not to mention the bills in front of Debbie, she’d understood perfectly. She’d encouraged him to have a little extra money on the side, said it was good for a chap. Brona understood him better than anyone, and wouldn’t like to see him broke. Maybe he might get a night out, after all, on Friday, Bryan thought, cheering up as he sent a brief email to Debbie before trying to get a team together to sort out Baldy Devoy’s ‘specific requirements’.
Having dinner at Ma’s tonight as will be in that neck of the woods for a fit-out. Should be home around nine. Love ya, babes. B xxxxxx
Great, thought Debbie as she read her husband’s email, she wouldn’t have to cook. She’d get something ready-made on the way home. Maybe it was just as well Bryan wouldn’t be home until nine, because he’d be well fed and in good humour. He always was after a visit to his doting mother.
She’d have all their figures on the table, ready for him. She’d done an Excel spreadsheet with everything clearly displayed. Tonight, whether he liked it or not, Bryan was going to have to finally face facts because, at the rate they were going, they’d be lucky to have a roof over their heads with another ECB interest hike on top of the one their building society had imposed ratcheting up their repayments.
‘So there’s your draft for a hundred thousand, Barry. Just sign here, if you will.’ Malachy Ormond passed a form over his desk for Barry to sign, which he did with a flourish, as the banker slid the draft into a slim white envelope and handed it over to him.
‘Appreciate it, Malachy,’ Barry said, standing up and shaking hands with the portly, grey-haired man sitting across the mahogany desk from him.
‘Pleasure, as always, doing business with you, Barry,’ Malachy said expansively as he walked with him to the door. ‘Must have a round of golf some day.’
‘Yes, we’ll set one up,’ Barry agreed, pocketing the envelope.
As soon as he was sitting in his car, he dialled Jeremy’s number.
‘I have that draft for you, Jeremy. If you want to pop those papers in the post, I’ll sign them and send them back with it.’
‘Not at all, my boy, I’ll send a courier over,’ Jeremy declared. ‘You’ll be getting them at three fifteen; they’ve slipped from three twenty – rocky day on the market.’
‘Yes, I saw that, checked it up on your index. All shares are getting a walloping, my investments are getting a battering, particularly my bank shares,’ Barry moaned.
‘Indeed. We’re all in the same boat there, unfortunately, but it’s only temporary, Barry, nothing to worry about. They’ll come back up.’
‘So you’re sure about investing with SecureCo International Plus?’
‘Absolutely certain. These are rock solid. I had one investor spend three million on them last week,’ Jeremy said suavely, implying that a measly one hundred grand was a pittance in comparison.
‘Right so,’ said Barry, reassured despite all the gloom-and-doom talk about the economy and looming recession.
‘Trust me, Barry – when SecureCo International Plus is floated next year, shares are expected to go as high as five hundred. These guys wouldn’t be putting big money into a company that wasn’t going to do the business, believe me. These are all astute financial heads who know their stuff, and they get sound advice. We, at Crookes and Co., feel SecureCo International Plus is good to go, despite the downturn in the markets. We are advising all our clients that it’s one to buy into. You’ll be laughing all the way to the bank, my friend.’
‘That’s something to look forward to for sure. Cheers, Jeremy.’ Barry hung up, feeling more optimistic than he had in a while. It was good to feel he was still a player . . . a minnow perhaps, compared to some, but a player nevertheless. Imagine being able to whack out three million smackers on shares, he thought enviously. These were the kind of people Aimee was working for now, the superwealthy, and they were in a different league entirely.
He wondered would her humour have improved any. He’d had the shock of his life when he’d come home from work the previous evening to find her in bed with the curtains drawn, fast asleep. Melissa had told him that she’d come home and gone straight to bed, saying she was exhausted.
It was just so unlike Aimee, and he was worried. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her, so he’d let her sleep, and had left some poached salmon and salad in the fridge for her when she woke up.
She’d come down to the kitchen around nine thirty and eaten a small amount of the meal. Melissa had gone to the pictures with Sarah, so his wife hadn’t felt the need to be particularly civil to him, and had answered his queries as to how she was feeling with a sarcastic ‘What would you care?’ before going back to bed. She was asleep when he went to bed around eleven thirty. As he lay in the dark listening to her deep, even breathing, he remembered how exhausted Connie had been in the early months of her pregnancy, with a tiredness that just overwhelmed her. Was he being thoroughly selfish insisting that Aimee go through with the pregnancy, he asked himself miserably as he twisted and turned beside her. She was so bitter towards him now, so antagonistic. Would they ever surmount this obstacle in their relationship? Their child would always be a reminder that he hadn’t respected Aimee’s wishes. Her taunt that he was just like Ken had hurt. He was far from being an authoritative, dictatorial bully. They would never have lasted all these years together if he had been but, clearly, in Aimee’s mind, he was now cut from the same cloth as her father, and there was no going back.
He wished he could ask Connie’s advice, but she was away in Spain and, besides, she’d made it quite clear she didn’t want to be involved. Aimee would hit the roof if he ever thought he discussed her with his ex-wife. He wondered had she discussed her pregnancy with the businessman who’d offered her the job. He couldn’t really ask what was going on because she’d just tell him to mind his own business, but he hoped mightily that the venture would go ahead. If she lost her chance at being the MD of her own company because of her pregnancy, she’d never forgive him for that either. Eventually, he’d fallen asleep, gaining some respite from his racing thoughts.
Aimee had left for work before he’d finished shaving, and they hadn’t spoken that morning so he had no idea if she was feeling better or not. Impulsively, he decided to ring her.
‘Yes?’ Her tone was pure frost.
‘I just wanted to see if you were OK,’ he said evenly. ‘I was worried about you.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she clipped.
‘Aimee, we’re going to have to talk some time,’ he retorted.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ she snapped back, and hung up.
Stung, he placed the phone into the hands-free kit and drove back to the office, sorry he’d even bothered to call to see how she was. If that was her attitude, she could get lost, he fumed. He wouldn’t bother his ass to make the effort again. And she could get her own bloody dinner tonight, because he was going to eat in town and then go and have a round of golf and a couple of drinks at the golf club. He’d had enough of martyrdom.
‘That was a great day’s shopping,’ Juliet exclaimed, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes. She was surrounded by bags. ‘I know my luggage allowance is going to be well over the limit.’
Connie grinned as she leaned back on one of the cane loungers at the side of Juliet’s pool, and stretched luxuriously. ‘I’m baked.’ She blew her hair away from her face.
‘How about we change into our swimsuits, have a swim, then an ice-cold Pimm’s and a snooze, and then have a light supper? Incarna’s left a selection of tapas and a lovely tuna salad for us in the fridge,’ Juliet suggested.
‘That sounds heavenly.’ Karen smiled over at the older woman.
‘Or if you prefer we can meander over to the marina and eat in Da Bruno,’ said Juliet.
‘Incarna’s supper sounds lovely,’ Connie interjected. ‘Honestly, I couldn’t eat a big dinner. That lunch in Marbella was gorgeous. And, besides, my feet are killing me, I could just about meander into the pool. Thank you, Juliet, for such a lovely day.’
‘Oh no, girls! Thank you!’ Juliet exclaimed. ‘I haven’t had as much fun in such a long time. I feel soooo relaxed. Now let’s go and swim,’ she urged, ‘because it’s a hot, hot afternoon.’
Half an hour later, the trio lay on plump cushions, sipping the cold refreshing Pimm’s that Juliet had made for them. Their swim had cooled them down, and they were in a state of contented lethargy. The sun glistened silver on the pool, and the honeysuckle, mimosa and bougainvillea wafted their perfumed scents through the lush gardens that surrounded Juliet’s low, sprawling, whitewashed villa. High walls and gates ensured total privacy. They could hear the soothing, shushy sound of the sea lapping the shore at the end of the winding narrow road where the villa was built.
They had spent the morning in the big shopping centre, La Cañada, just on the edge of Marbella, and had then gone to lunch in Orange Square before taking a stroll along the Paseo. They’d indulged in more shopping and window-shopping in the chic designer stores that lined the sun-drenched streets in the once-exclusive and fashionable resort. No longer the domain of the elite, Marbella still exuded an air of flashy affluence and style. But, as they circled the roundabout to exit the town on their way home, the tackiness of the other side of the coin was there to see. An open-topped car in front of them stopped, in it two middle-aged, olive-skinned, seedy-looking men with their hair slicked back. The driver beckoned to a voluptuous young blonde posing on the side of the road. After a quick word, she’d quickly got into the back of the car.
‘God, it’s so blatant, isn’t it?’ observed Juliet.
‘I’d be petrified. Isn’t she worried going with those two men, two complete and utter strangers?’ Connie remarked, feeling utterly sorry for any girl who made her living from prostitution.
‘I wonder is that her pimp? He was talking to her before she got into the car.’ Karen pointed out a skinny, curly-haired man with designer shades who was speaking to an exotic-looking dark girl with fantastically braided hair. She handed him some money and palmed a small packet he exchanged with her. He was obviously dealing drugs, in broad daylight at the side of a busy roundabout, and didn’t seem at all concerned that he might be caught.
‘We don’t know the half of what goes on, we’re so cocooned in our own smug little worlds,’ Juliet said as she swung off the roundabout on to the motorway. ‘It’s a far different world our children and grandchildren are living in to what we were used to. I was just looking at my grandchildren on the night of my art exhibition, and they are so advanced for their age. I look at Melissa, and she’s dressed like an eighteen-year-old, and with all the jargon, and she’s only a child still. They have to grow up so quickly, don’t they? Their childhood is so short now. Those magazines have so much to answer for. And clothes designers. They sexualize kids.’
‘I know, it’s an awful shame,’ Connie agreed. ‘Because behind that totally with-it, cool façade, Melissa’s still a child at heart. There’s an innocence about her that hasn’t been compromised yet. Some of those teenagers are living the lives of twenty-five-year-olds. Kids having sex at twelve and thirteen is scary. I would have had a fit if I thought Debbie was having sex when she was in her teens.’
‘I mean, look at us. I was in my early twenties before I lost my virginity, and it was a big deal. Now, it’s nothing special,’ Karen remarked.
‘I was a virgin when I married Ken and, girls, I have to say, I’ve never had an orgasm with him – how sad is that?’ Juliet confessed.
‘That’s awful. That’s a bad buzz, as Melissa would say,’ Connie sympathized.
‘But, God, I should have got an Oscar for faking. He thinks he’s a stud. If only he knew. I’m lying there thinking, Oh, get it over with, for heaven’s sake, and he thinks he’s George Clooney.’ She chortled, and they all started to laugh, having all faked it at some stage in their lives.
‘Wouldn’t fancy George Clooney,’ Connie grinned. ‘He believes his own publicity. He seems completely shallow. All his girlfriends probably have to fake too, to protect his ego.’
‘Bet I wouldn’t have to fake with Harrison Ford,’ Karen said wistfully, as they whizzed past the high towerblock of the Don Carlos.
‘Me neither.’
‘Or me.’
Juliet smiled, remembering their conversation. They’d had a great laugh on the short journey back to the villa, and Juliet couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so free.
The early evening sun was much less intense now, and she could hear Karen snoring on her lounger. She felt utterly peaceful. She had clicked so well with the two other women. She felt very comfortable in their company. They’d had a thoroughly enjoyable day, and she very much hoped that when she went back to Dublin they could continue to meet occasionally for a meal or an evening out.
Although he had phoned the landline several times, she had not spoken to Ken since she’d left Dublin. She felt insulated from him in Spain, and it was a very restful feeling. She wondered lazily how he was managing, but then he drifted from her thoughts and she fell into a doze, imagining Harrison Ford rescuing her from danger and her falling into his arms, kissing him with wanton abandon.
For the umpteenth time that day, Ken Davenport glanced at his watch on his way to the taxi rank at Malaga airport. It was just coming up to eight, Spanish time. They had been sitting on the tarmac for almost the guts of an hour before the plane had been given clearance to take off, and he was in a very bad mood indeed, despite the fact that the pilot had assured them, as they flew out over the sparkling Mediterranean to line up for landing, that they had made up some of the lost time with the help of tailwinds. His bad humour had not abated one bit when he was hit by a scorching blast of heat as he left the confines of the air-conditioned terminal building and saw the queue in front of him waiting for taxis. By God, he swore to himself as he waited impatiently in line, Juliet Davenport would feel the rough edge of his tongue before this day was out.