And he, Edward Delahunty, had enabled many of his clients – for a very fat paycheque, it had to be said – to get away with it. He was as culpable as they were, at one level, he reflected, going back into his impressive book-lined library and pouring himself a double measure of whisky.
‘Sell everything except the commodities. We can buy again when they’re on the floor. Buy gold and water and keep me updated,’ Des ordered his stockbroker, marching up and down the kitchen.
Colette felt tentacles of fear coil themselves around her gut. She had never seen her husband so agitated. She poured herself a cup of coffee waiting for him to hang up. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked as he flipped his cell closed.
‘Let’s say we won’t be hosting our Christmas bash in Aspen this year,’ he said grimly. ‘Get a rental agency on the phone and rent it out. It’s going to have to pay its way. We’re going to London for Christmas. That will get us out of entertaining or being entertained. We’ll have to offload the Florida properties. We’ll sell them through London. We shouldn’t take too much of a hit on them.’
‘How has it come to this?’ Colette was aghast.
‘Scrapping the net capital rule, George W and his crony Henry Paulson, deregulation, capitalism, greed. Take your pick.’ Des gulped his coffee, and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s gonna be a late one. I’ll see ya.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting Jazzy for lunch at the Met and then I’ve a meeting with the directors of Dickon and Austen’s UK, and dinner later with them tonight.’
‘Tell Jazzy she might have to sublet and move back home if things don’t improve,’ her husband said gloomily, grabbing his briefcase and taking one last swig of coffee before striding out to the elevator.
Surely it wouldn’t come to that, Colette thought, horrified. Jazzy would hate to move back home. She was having the time of her life in her small, one-bed apartment in Turtle Bay, between Lexington and Third.
She was doing a three-day-a-week digital internship in a big advertising company specializing in billboard and digital advertising and she was loving it, having majored in advertising and marketing at Cornell. She had a part-time job developing social networking sites for a quirky, independent publishing group, and she was dating a Boston lawyer. Jazzy’s life was sweet right now. Colette intended to keep it like that. If needs must she would work an extra day instead of the two days a week she worked at the small, exclusive fine art gallery she had set up for Dickon and Austen’s in New York five years ago.
Des was a terrible worrier and always had been. One of these days she would spend an afternoon with their wealth manager and find out exactly what assets they had. At least she had the Holland Park property at her back, and whatever her parents left her when they shuffled off their mortal coil, and Jazzy would be a very well-off young lady indeed so she wasn’t going to get too perturbed, Colette decided, strolling into her walk-in closet to select her outfits for lunch, business meetings and dinner.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
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HREE
‘Jonathan, they’re beautiful. You always bring down such lovely pots of flowers for the grave,’ Nancy approved when he showed her the vibrant tub of autumn heather, and the yellow, red and purple chrysanthemums that filled the second one. ‘Will we go and put them on the grave after you’ve had a cup of tea?’ she asked eagerly.
‘If you’d like to,’ Jonathan agreed.
‘I would. Then they’d be on it for Sunday,’ his mother declared.
The biscuit cake was scrumptious and he was on his second slice when the phone rang. ‘I’ll get it. Stay where you are,’ Nancy instructed. Jonathan watched her walk to the phone on the kitchen wall, noting that she was a lot slower and stiffer than she used to be. He hated seeing his mam ageing. He knew they were so lucky to have had her with them for so long and for her to be in relative good health, but as she often said to him, only half joking, ‘I’m in the departure lounge now. I’ve had a good innings, so when my flight takes off, don’t you be wailing and bawling. There’ll be no need for it.’
‘Well do you know, I clean forgot, Kitty,’ he heard her exclaim. ‘I’ll get Jonathan to run me up. He’s just arrived. I’ll see you soon.
‘Jonathan! My memory’s gone to the divil. I was so busy getting ready for your arrival I forgot I’d told Kitty Welsh that I’d do an hour’s vigil in the church. They’re holding the Forty Hours Adoration in St Anthony’s. Will you drop me over as soon as I get myself ready? I’m on the half twelve to half one
