Three quarters of an hour later she strolled into Des’s twenty-eighth-floor corner office. He was on the phone and waved at her as she sank onto the soft cream Argentinian-leather sofa by the window. He cut short his call and picked a document from his desk.
‘Hi, sweetie, you’re a doll for coming down.’ He kissed her and sat down beside her and flipped the pages over until he came to the signature page. ‘There you go. I’ve signed already,’ he said, uncapping his pen and handing it to her.
‘Des, I don’t have time to go through this now,’ she said in dismay, glancing at her watch. ‘I thought it was just a single sheet. I’ll be late if I stay to go through it. I’ll take it with me and give it to you tonight.’ She stood up.
‘There’s nothing in it except legalese,’ he said exasperatedly.
‘Des, you know I read things before I sign them. If my name is going on a document I want to know what it is I’m signing,’ Colette said firmly.
‘I’m telling you, there’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve been through it already,’ he assured her.
‘I’ll read it in the car. Now I have to go – the traffic is dreadful,’ she said, handing his pen back.
‘Ah leave it there. I’ll bring it home with me,’ he scowled.
‘OK, wish me luck,’ Colette picked up her Vuitton clutch and blew him a kiss, trying to hide her annoyance that she had wasted time when her schedule was so tight. Still, she’d got a Town Car because of her detour.
‘Good luck,’ Des muttered and she knew he was annoyed but Colette ignored his displeasure. She was damned if she was going to sign papers without reading them. He was too careless and impulsive sometimes. He’d sign anything their broker put in front of them. She stepped into the elevator, anxious to be on her way. It would never do to be late for her appointment. That would not reflect well on the company she represented, or on herself. She shivered on the sidewalk as she waited for her driver to pick her up. It had turned bitterly cold and she tucked her cashmere wrap tighter around her throat, hoping that it wouldn’t snow.
The black sedan purred to a halt and the driver got out and opened the car door for her. Colette sat in the back seat and stretched her legs. There was a selection of magazines in the pocket and she chose Vogue and began to flick through the pages, extremely thankful that she didn’t have to drive. It began to sleet, and she watched people on the sidewalks unfurl their brollies. Colette settled back for her journey, glad she was in a snug cocoon as her driver headed northwest on Pine Street towards Broadway and Exit 14.
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ muttered Des, jaw clenched as he shoved the unsigned document back into the envelope and shoved it into his briefcase. Today was turning out to be a real bummer. He’d hoped against hope that Colette would just sign on the dotted line. He should have known better. He hadn’t pushed the issue. He didn’t want her to think it was anything other than a run-of-the-mill transaction. If she asked him about it later he’d just tell her that the time limit had expired for the share offer and a good opportunity had been missed.
He picked up his cell and scrolled down until he got the number he was looking for. He dialled it and groaned when it went straight to voicemail. ‘I have a window between five and seven, let me know ASAP if it suits,’ he said briskly and hung up. Sleeting rain battered the window, and he had a sudden memory of his boyhood bedroom and the cosy window seat overlooking a copse of bare-branched trees, dark rolling clouds shrouding the countryside, and how warm and comfy he was as the rain pelted against the panes and he read his library book – a seafaring adventure by Patrick O’Brien – and munched on a Trigger Bar and a packet of crisps. How he would love to be in that little nook right now and far, far away from the steel-and-glass building that suddenly seemed like a prison.
Colette yawned as the elevator doors slid open into her foyer. The housekeeper had switched on some lamps, but Des wasn’t home yet. His keys weren’t in the Lalique bowl on the fine Italian demilune console table that graced their foyer. Clara Alton Graham had some very impressive pieces too, Colette mused, dropping her keys into the bowl. That collection of Meissen bird figures was worth at least two hundred K. When the Widow Alton Graham liquidated her assets she certainly wouldn’t be on the breadline or anything like it, although she might think she was pretty close to it, having lost millions in the last year.
Colette kicked off her shoes and padded into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. Encarna, their housekeeper, had left a smoked salmon mousse starter, and a casserole of Mexican chicken stew and quinoa, and a side of creamy mash for Des, who hated health foods with a passion. A chilled Sancerre would be just what the doctor ordered, Colette decided, hurrying down to the bedroom to change into a luxuriously soft, satin-trimmed towelling robe. She flicked on the TV while she took off her suit, pausing momentarily to watch the Madoff arrest, shocked at the extent of investor losses, which commentators were putting in the billions. What could those people expect? If it sounded too good to be true then it WAS too good to be true. And Madoff’s returns were uncommon.
Everyone in their circle was on edge with all the financial upheaval that was going on and no
