portrayed Northcote in bib-and-brace overalls astride a tractor mower on which he frequently relaxed, supervising the gardeners at his weekend estate in upstate New York. The caption had given his Wall Street nickname of ‘Farmer George.’
‘Jane’s not happy at his doing that any more, either. Thinks it’s dangerous at his age.’
‘You don’t think golf’s going to be the alternative?’
‘He hasn’t played regularly for years.’ He hesitated. ‘Charity secretary will mean Jane staying up in the country more.’
Alice didn’t say anything.
‘I could stay over sometimes.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Would you?’
‘You know I would. When will she know?’
‘Soon. Certainly by the fifteenth.’
‘Let’s hope she gets it.’
‘It’s pretty guaranteed.’
‘Can you make Friday?’
He shook his head. ‘All the overseas executives are starting to arrive from Wednesday onwards for the conference.’
‘I’ve got another Forbes commission I can work on.’
‘You’re soon going to need your own accountant!’
‘I thought I had one.’
‘You have.’
‘Call me. Let me know what we can fix.’
‘Of course. And it’s a promise about the cabin.’
She shifted slightly, looking beyond him to the bedside table. ‘It’s gone three already.’
‘These business lunches get longer and longer.’
‘You should be going. And I should be working.’
‘I’m sorry… I…’
‘Stop it!’
‘I’ve got a feeling that there’s a serious problem,’ he suddenly blurted.
Alice pulled away from him. ‘What?’
‘I want to be sure first.’
‘You’re not making sense.’
‘That’s the problem: it doesn’t make sense.’
She separated from him entirely, going up on one elbow. The sheet fell away from her but she didn’t try to cover herself. ‘Has George made a bad mistake?’ She’d eulogized him in the profile, put her own judgement on the line.
‘He could have done.’
‘Then you’ve got to talk to him today.’
‘I know.’
He had chosen to talk it through with her, decided Alice, feeling a warm intimacy again. ‘Can you put it right?’
‘I don’t know, not yet.’
‘It might help if you told me about it and we tried to think of a way together.’
‘I can’t involve you.’
‘Darling! What is it?’
He shook his head, not speaking.
‘So it’s bad?’
‘It could be.’
‘Could you be in serious trouble?’
‘It depends what I do.’
‘You know the answer to that – you’ve got to do the right thing. That’s all you can do.’
‘It might not be that simple.’
‘Please let me help!’
‘I won’t involve you any more than I already have,’ he refused again. He twisted abruptly out of the bed but stayed sitting on its edge, his back towards her again. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘But you did. Now it’s stupid to stop.’
‘I’ve got to speak to George.’
‘Then will you speak to me?’
‘I don’t know. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Too many things that even I don’t know about, not yet.’
‘You’ve frightened me.’ That wasn’t true. She was irritated at his refusal.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… oh shit!’
‘We are going to talk about it,’ Alice insisted. ‘If not now then soon. Talk about it and fix it.’
‘I’d like to think we could: that I could.’
‘We can.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Talk to him this afternoon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Call me later, if you can?’
‘If I can.’
Alice remained in bed, watching him dress, loving him. As he moved to leave she said: ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be the end of the world.’
Carver kissed her, holding her tightly against him for several moments, but left without replying.
With the concentration upon the annual conference it was easier than usual for Carver to plan his days to include Alice, leaving himself with only two, easily satisfied clients and the morning’s dictated letters to sign.
When he called his father-in-law, George Northcote said: ‘You just caught me. Got a meeting here in town tonight: staying over.’
‘We need to talk, George.’
‘Tomorrow. My meeting’s at six, so we’ll talk tomorrow. Lunch maybe?’
‘Now, George!’ insisted Carver. ‘It’s important.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You. Me. The firm. Everything. That’s what I think I’m talking about. Everything.’
Two
‘There’d better be a hell of a good reason for this!’ greeted Northcote. The voice was big, like everything about the man. He remained seated at the antique desk, hunched over it, bull-shouldered beneath a mane of white hair. It was a familiar, confrontational pose Carver had seen the other man adopt dozens of times with IRS inspectors and company tax lawyers and opposition, challenging accountants.
‘I think there is,’ said Carver. Or was he over-interpreting, imagining an aggressive defensiveness about the older man? Maybe. Or maybe not. There was enough for him to question this man who had always been unquestionable. Again the qualification came. The problem was that there wasn’t enough. There was a huge, gaping black hole that had to be filled with something he could understand.
‘What?’
Carver lowered himself into a facing, button-backed chair. ‘I happened upon some current working figures for
