A Time for Friends

by Patricia Scanlan

  No one who knew her would ever think she was prone to moments of insecurity. They wouldn’t believe it of her. Only Hilary knew the real Colette. She could always tell her friend her true feelings and worries because Hilary was no threat to her in any way, shape or form. Colette knew that she was brighter, slimmer, prettier, more elegant, and more successful and infinitely wealthier than her childhood friend, and always had been, and that was the way of it. And that was why she could show her insecurities. She supposed it was like having a sister. Hilary was the sister she had never had. If she needed a bit of bolstering in the Big Apple she could always phone her.

  She took one last look at the view, wondering when she would see it again, before snapping shut the locks on her case, just as a young porter arrived to collect their luggage.

  Their chauffeur-driven car was waiting at the hotel’s entrance and Colette smiled at the doorman as he held open the door for her. Had she ever, in all her sauntering around one of Dublin’s premier locations, thought that she would take a chauffeur-driven car for granted? When they were in New York, Des always used a Town Car and put it on expenses. They had come a long way from taking yellow and black cabs and she squeezed his hand as he got in beside her. ‘Let’s go impress the legal eagles with the news. I’m so proud of you, Des. You deserve it.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ He leaned across and kissed her. ‘A lot of it is down to you too. We worked our butts off, and it paid off, and the best is yet to come.’

  The best is yet to come. She liked the sound of that, Colette decided, wishing that that little knot in her tummy she always got when she and Des were meeting her parents would disappear.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘But we’ll never get to see Jasmine! We hardly get to see her enough as it is,’ exclaimed her dismayed mother when Colette revealed their momentous news an hour later as they sat down to eat in the sunny conservatory that overlooked the shimmering, silver-blue sea.

  ‘Cut back on work and come and spend summers in the Hamptons with us,’ Colette said smartly, knowing full well that work and ‘the Firm’ were sacrosanct.

  ‘We can’t do that, we’re up to our eyes in work, you know that,’ Jacqueline said tetchily, handing her a platter of crab, prawns, oysters and scallops.

  ‘Delish,’ Colette approved, spooning portions onto her plate before handing the platter to Des.

  ‘Your father got them fresh in Howth.’ Jacqueline smiled at her husband.

  ‘Nothing but the best for my little girl.’ Frank passed her a bowl of crispy Caesar salad.

  ‘Thank you, Dad,’ she said coyly. Her father had always spoiled her rotten. She was the apple of his eye.

  ‘So you’re off to New York, Des. Big step! They’ll work you hard over there.’ Frank eyed his son-in-law over the top of his bifocals.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Des said a touch defensively. He wasn’t particularly fond of his in-laws. They always made him feel a mite inferior. They thought they were so smart, so intellectual, and so successful. Their smugness and sense of entitlement knew no bounds. Jacqueline in particular seemed to have forgotten her roots and acted the lady to the manor born. She had looked down her pointy nose at his mother and her travel agency business. It hadn’t stopped her looking for a free upgrade to the Caribbean for a flight once though.

  ‘But poor Jasmine, having to leave all her little friends.’ Jacqueline nibbled on a prawn while Frank poured a chilled Sauvignon Blanc into the sparkling Waterford crystal glasses.

  ‘She’s young, she’ll adapt.’ Colette repeated her mantra, trying to hide her irritation.

  ‘And what about her nanny? Will you bring Elisabetta with you?’ her mother enquired.

  ‘We haven’t really discussed it yet,’ Des shrugged.

  ‘At least Jasmine would have some continuity and some sense of security if you did. I’ll never forget how devastated you were when Denise Boyle left us so unexpectedly and with no notice. I was very put out about that,’ Jacqueline observed, remembering the upset her thoughtless nanny’s abrupt departure caused the family all those years ago. ‘You were very fond of her. It took you a long time to get over her going. You were obnoxious to the next girl who came. She didn’t stay very long as I remember. You were a little minx then,’ Jacqueline remarked.

  Colette’s face darkened at the memory. She had adored Denise and her going had had a lasting impact on her.

  ‘Maybe I was a little minx because I had reason to be,’ she said irately, shooting a look at her father who could have come to her defence but was keeping out of the discussion. ‘And don’t forget you and Dad were never at home. You were too busy with the Firm! I couldn’t compete with that,’ she added tartly.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Colette. You know we always gave you the best of everything. How ungracious of you,’ reproved her mother coldly.

  ‘The best of everything except your time. So stop getting on to me about Jazzy. I spend more time with her than you did with me.’

  ‘You know, Colette, sometimes you just have to let things go. It’s the same thing over and over with you,’ Jacqueline said wearily. ‘Who else do you know got a car for their eighteenth birthday, and a year off, with a generous allowance to travel around Europe, and then had their fees paid for an expensive London college? Certainly not Hilary, or Rowena, or any of your other friends. That all came from our hard work. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Your father and I started off with nothing . . . nothing! And when we go you will be a millionairess, so build a bridge and get over it, Colette. I’m heartily sick of this “poor little me, I was neglected growing up” emotional blackmail nonsense you go on with! It’s utterly offensive and unwarranted,’ Jacqueline exploded, pushed to her limit.

  Colette stared at her mother whose face had a blotchy crimson hue. Jacqueline never lost control of her temper. One of the reasons she was a superb barrister in the courts. She could never be goaded.

  Des kept his eyes on his plate, annoyed at the way the conversation was going. He must remind his wife to tone it down a bit. She didn’t want her inheritance left to charity, which could very well happen if she pushed her mother far enough. Des had great plans for Colette’s inheritance.

  ‘When do you start working on Wall Street, Des?’ Frank changed the fraught topic of conversation with practised ease, warily noting his daughter’s dour expression.

  ‘I’ve to fly over on Tuesday for a few days. I’ll know more then.’ Des shucked an oyster into his mouth. ‘Superb quality,’ he remarked smoothly, glad the fracas was over.

  ‘Fresh off the boat,’ Frank replied with faux joviality, thinking how dare that pushy social-climbing upstart imply that Frank and Jacqueline would not serve anything but the best. It was far from oysters for lunch that Des Williams was reared.

  ‘I’m looking forward to bringing Colette to taste the best clam chowder ever in Harbor Square in Nantucket. The Tavern, I think it was called. The seafood on the East Coast is excellent quality, of course. I was at a clambake in the Hamptons two years ago – never tasted anything like them. So succulent. Have you ever been to that neck of the woods?’ Des eyeballed Frank. Mr Know-It-All was not going to get the better of him.

  ‘Er no. New York, Chicago and New Orleans are our haunts. But I tell you the jambalaya and filé gumbo and crawfish pie down in New Orleans are sensational! Have you ever tried them?’ his father-in-law batted back.

  ‘I wouldn’t be a fan of pastry with fish. It takes from the delicate flavour, I find. The same with filé.’ Des speared a prawn and dipped it into the Marie Rose sauce. ‘I would be more of a purist.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Frank. ‘I would find that the Marie Rose sauce quite overpowers the prawns but clearly that’s not the case with you. I find prawns so delicate that even a soupçon of Tabasco or garlic can overwhelm the taste. I—’

  ‘Well we hope to take a summer rental in the Hamptons, or Nantucket or Cape Cod, so you’ll have to come for a week or two,’ Colette int
erjected hastily, wishing her father and husband would stop trying to outdo each other. It was always the same. They were decidedly childish, she thought crossly, glaring at her husband who was scowling at Frank’s masterly put-down. He glared back at her.

  ‘Of course we’ll come visit. I believe it’s a very picturesque part of the States.’ Frank topped up Colette’s glass and went to top up his son-in-law’s.

  ‘Not for me, thank you, Frank. I have a lot of work to do when I get home. I try not to drink too much at weekends.’ Des placed his palm over the glass. ‘But you go right ahead.’

  Frank’s nostrils flared at the implied insult.

  ‘Will you rent out the flat?’ Jacqueline made an effort to be polite after her outburst.

  ‘We haven’t discussed that yet, either,’ Colette said snootily.

  ‘You’d get top dollar. It’s a prime location. And within walking distance of Kensington Palace – the Princess Di factor will bump up the rent. Go to one of those high-end letting agencies,’ Frank said authoritatively.

  As if we wouldn’t think of that ourselves, thought Des derisively. Prat!

  ‘If we rent it out we won’t have a base in London,’ Colette pointed out.

  ‘Stay in a hotel.’ Her father helped himself to some smoked salmon.

  ‘We’ll see.’ She would make up her own mind about what she wanted to do with her home without her parents sticking their oar in. Frank had been put out when she had inherited the flat from his sister. He had planned to make a very fine profit from the sale of it, if Beatrice predeceased him, which he was sure she would because she was ten years older than him and in poor health. She had married a very wealthy English stockbroker, and thereafter had considered her family in Ireland way out of her social league. She and Frank had not been close. Beatrice had seen something of herself in Colette, and, being childless and lonely, had been glad of her niece’s company when Colette had come to live with her to get over her romantic setback.

  It galled Frank that Des Williams had waltzed in and ingratiated himself with his sister and ended up living in that magnificent flat, while half of what was left of Beatrice’s estate had gone to various charities. He had ended up getting far less than he had anticipated. There was no love lost between him and his son-in-law, and it gave him no small sense of satisfaction that Colette had kept her own name after marriage because she preferred it to her husband’s surname.

  Des was a wide boy, in Frank’s estimation, and not the man he would have chosen for his daughter to marry. He had made damn sure to ring-fence his own estate into a trust for his daughter and granddaughter and that devious little shit wouldn’t be getting his greedy mitts on any of it when the time came.

  ‘Will you buy a place or rent in New York?’ Jacqueline laid down her knife and fork. She wasn’t feeling very hungry any more and she was annoyed with herself for losing her temper with her daughter. This damn menopause was knocking her for six. She was too young for it. It was a shock to realize that she was, if not wholly menopausal, very much peri. These mood swings and short-tempered outbursts that she was prone to lately were unexpected and unnerving. Time to go on the HRT, she thought gloomily.

  ‘We’ll rent for a while until we get settled in and then we can start scouting for somewhere we’d like to live. Or perhaps we’ll just rent in New York and buy somewhere along the coast.’ Colette thawed a little.

  ‘Greenwich Village is lovely.’ Jacqueline offered a placatory smile. ‘Or Chelsea.’

  ‘I’d like a view of the Park,’ Colette admitted.

  ‘You’ll pay for that,’ Frank scoffed.

  ‘It’s something to aspire to.’ Des glanced at his watch. ‘We need to keep an eye on the time. The car will be here in twenty minutes.’

  ‘I would have given you a lift to the airport,’ Frank protested.

  ‘Not at all, Frank. I have a driver and car 24/7 when I’m here on business.’ Des couldn’t hide a note of self-importance. ‘I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get in a round of golf. I played a damn good eagle in Foxrock yesterday. I heard on the grapevine that there was a bit of a ruckus between a consultant and a doctor in your clubhouse recently, and it’s being called “the kickboxing club” by the Southsiders.’

  Frank’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘Is that so? I never listen to idle gossip.’

  ‘Amusing though.’ Des wiped his mouth with his linen napkin.

  ‘Do have a cup of coffee while you’re waiting for the car,’ Jacqueline urged, getting up from the table to bring the coffee percolator from the kitchen. This brunch had been a disaster from start to finish. If they couldn’t even have brunch without sniping at each other how would they manage a week together in the Hamptons or wherever? ‘We will get to see Jasmine before you go, won’t we?’ she asked when the gleaming black car pulled into the circular drive.

  ‘Yes, Mum. How about I bring her over for Rowena’s wedding and we’ll stay with you,’ Colette suggested, ready to make amends.

  ‘Oh darling, that would be wonderful. I’m sorry I er . . . lost my temper. I’m a little stressed lately. Time of life business, I think. Very inconvenient,’ she murmured when Des had excused himself to use the bathroom.

  ‘Oh!’ Colette was surprised. It was almost inconceivable to think of her soigné, poised, imperturbable mother suffering the ignominy of the menopause.

  ‘I know you felt I had some shortcomings as a mother and perhaps you’re right. Don’t make the same mistake with Jasmine,’ Jacqueline said awkwardly as her son-in-law came back into the room.

  ‘Jasmine is well looked after,’ Colette said stiffly.

  ‘I know, and so were you, but not enough by me, it seems. I just don’t want her to be at loggerheads with you, like we are now, in years to come,’ Jacqueline said wryly, proffering her cheek for a kiss.

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Colette said firmly but she hugged her mother more affectionately that she normally did before turning to her father to kiss him goodbye.

  ‘That little jumped-up chancer. The bloody nerve of him to talk to me like that. Why she married him I will never know. She knew from the start I didn’t like him. She married him to spite me, and after all I gave her.’ Frank was fuming as he strode around the conservatory.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she want to spite you?’ Jacqueline said wearily, a hormone headache throbbing at her temples.

  ‘He didn’t even try to be civil,’ Frank raged. ‘With his smart comments. Did you hear him about the fracas at the club? Jeering he was. Sneering and jeering. But I got him good with the prawns. Smothered in sauce they were, the pretentious little spoofer. And he thinks he’s going to make enough to live Uptown NY. Ha! He has as much chance of that as I have. He’ll be out of his league with the big boys over there, the little braggart—’

  ‘Will you listen to yourself, for God’s sake. You’re a highly respected senior counsel and you’re acting like a ten-year-old. There’s a pair of you in it. Cover up what’s left of the food and put it in the fridge. I’m going to lie down. I’ve got a headache.’ Jacqueline had had enough. Why couldn’t a simple brunch go right? Why was there always such an edge when they were all together? Why could Colette not see how lucky she was rather than focusing on her imagined deprivations? Didn’t she realize they were the envy of many, and rightly so. And as for Des, what was his problem trying to outdo Frank all the time? They had much more in common than they both realized. Perhaps that was it. They were too alike.

  Colette had clearly resented her advice when they were saying goodbye. Wouldn’t even acknowledge the idea that she might be making the same mistakes with Jazzy that Jacqueline had with her.

  The family who had it all they certainly were not, she thought sourly, making her way upstairs to the sound of her husband clattering dishes into the dishwasher, in high dudgeon.

  ‘That was a damn ordeal! Your pater is a pain in the butt.’ Des was thoroughly cantankerous as the car sped to the airport.

  ‘Yo
u were as bad,’ his wife retorted.

  ‘I won’t miss them when we go to America,’ he growled.

  ‘And I’m sure they won’t miss you,’ Colette snapped. ‘Don’t forget, Des, my family’s money enables us to live where we live. Aunt Beatrice was more than generous to me, and Dad lost out. So give him a bit of leeway.’

  ‘You know something, Colette, you will have your view of the Park and he can stick his attitude because I’m going to make a damn fortune on Wall Street,’ Des vowed, turning away from her to stare out of the window.

  I married someone just like my father, Colette reflected, gazing at the runway lights lit up at right angles to them. An incoming flight flew over them with a roar that almost deafened her. And as far as Jazzy is concerned I’m turning into my mother. Jacqueline’s parting remarks had touched a nerve. Her daughter was left mostly in the care of her nanny, no matter that Colette was in denial about it. She was repeating the mistakes her mother had made with her. She would have to make more of an effort with Jasmine. Perhaps she too had inherited her mother’s lack of maternal instinct and that was difficult to acknowledge.

  Hilary was a very good mother, Colette conceded morosely. She gave her girls a lot of attention. She cooked proper dinners and baked for them and helped with their homework, just like Mrs Kinsella had done for her. Colette left all that sort of thing to Elisabetta, the Italian nanny.

  When she was a little girl being cared for by Sally, she’d been consumed with envy at the way Hilary’s mum always had scrumptious buns and tarts baked, awaiting their arrival home from school. Colette could still remember the aroma of freshly baked bread, and beef stew or roast chicken, wafting out from the kitchen to greet them. The Kinsella household had been a happy one. The fun they all had decorating at Halloween and Christmas, the excitement rising to fever pitch. Sally making sure that Colette was involved. Jasmine should have those sort of experiences. She hired a firm in to decorate the flat every Christmas, Colette thought guiltily.