‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Des,’ she retorted. If her husband knew that it was sitting in a container being shipped across the Atlantic he’d freak. She was trying not to freak about it herself.
‘Well I guess I can’t do anything about what you’ve done, but just to let you know that when I liquidate the rest of our assets I’ll be deducting what you’ve taken from your share,’ he said grimly.
‘I did what I had to do, Des. You would have mortgaged my apartment—’
‘I was going to borrow that money to buy gold and flip it. Gold will go sky high – look how high it’s gone since we bought in the spring. I’d have made a profit that would have negated much of our losses,’ he said furiously. ‘You overreacted!’
‘You’d have gambled my apartment, like you gambled our money with Madoff, you mean,’ Colette snapped. ‘You treated me appallingly, Des. You should have had the decency to at least ask me to consider the loan option, instead of trying to sneak it through behind my back. I only took what I was entitled to, and I’m entitled to a lot more, so don’t think this is the end of it. And guess what? That woman, whoever she is, is welcome to you because I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again.’ She slammed down the phone, incandescent. How dare he claim she had overreacted? Had he no conception of how badly he had behaved?
By the time she was finished with him, he’d understand . . . and more. You did not mess with Colette O’Mahony and get away with it, as Des would eventually find, to his cost.
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
The Bon Secours was an attractive hospital, Jonathan thought, admiring the red-brick façade and long sash windows of the three-storey building atop Washerwoman’s Hill in Glasnevin. He drove past the long, sweeping, verdant lawn edged with conifers, and swung into the car park. He rooted in his coin tray for two euros. Jonathan resented paying parking fees in hospital car parks, on principle, feeling that life was hard enough for people who had sick relatives in hospital. He’d been caught for fifteen euros in Beaumont the previous week, visiting his old friend and ex-flatmate Orla who was having her gall bladder removed. An elderly woman he’d shared a lift with had told him she was spending more than fifty euros a week in parking fees, visiting a seriously ill relative who had been in hospital for many months. She’d even had to pay on Christmas Day, she’d said, disgusted. It was scandalous: greed, pure greed, and bad scran to Euro Car Parks, she’d declared crossly and Jonathan had laughed, remembering how his mother would say bad scran about someone when she was annoyed with them. It was a real country saying.
Night was drawing in already, he noticed, crossing the car park and seeing the fading smudges of pink-gold sky behind the serrated rims of the trees in the Botanic Gardens. The Christmas tree lights in the houses on Griffith Avenue had twinkled brighter in the gloaming and he’d felt a fierce swell of loneliness to think that another year was almost over and he was still alone. He had given up on his hopes of ever finding a partner. The hurt he’d experienced at Leon’s callous rejection of him, even though it was eight years ago, had brought his barriers up and he had never let himself get close to anyone since. Mostly he lived a reasonably happy life, but Christmas and New Year always accentuated his loneliness, bringing him to a dark place he would struggle not to linger in. Although he was surrounded by family and dear friends he still felt lonely at Christmas, especially when he would come home to his cottage and open the door and walk in to silence.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re very lucky to have what you have, he chastised himself irritably, hurrying up the steps to the entrance to the hospital. A large, illuminated crib graced the foyer and he stood for a moment admiring it with his decorator’s eye. So simple yet evocative. The scene stirred up long dormant childhood memories. Jonathan grinned, remembering a school Nativity play he’d had a starring role in: King Herod. The play had taken place in the school hall and when he had looked down from the stage and seen the audience looking at him as he waved his whip – made out of a tin-foil roll and strips of coloured paper – he had burst into tears and howled, ‘I’m only pretending to be bad, I really do love Baby Jesus,’ much to the consternation of his mother and teacher, but to the delight of the audience who had collectively gone, ‘Awwww!’ That seemed like a lifetime ago, he thought ruefully, sprinting two floors up the wide staircase to St Mary’s.
He knocked on room 222 and heard an invite to come in. ‘Ah Jonathan!’ exclaimed Father McDaid, who was resting against the pristine white pillows, chatting to another man who was sitting in the armchair beside the bed. ‘How very kind of you to visit.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Jonathan asked kindly, handing the elderly man a carrier bag containing After Eight Mints and an anthology of Irish poetry.
‘Not too bad, not too bad at all. Well . . . well this is most kind,’ Father McDaid said in flustered pleasure at the gifts. ‘Er, Jonathan, I’d like you to meet Murray Corry, a friend of mine.’ He introduced the tall, lean, fair-haired man at the other side of his bed. ‘Murray, this is
