‘Oh, sorry, Edward; we haven’t had any calls . . .’
She blinked; her boss hadn’t darkened the door for days. Wasn’t she supposed to sit here and be decorative?
‘First of all, you call me sir. I’m the boss.’
‘OK . . . sir.’
‘Second of all, get me some real-estate brokers. I want to see apartments – between one and two million. And mortgage brokers, too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get me a call sheet of all my mother’s financial advisers. I want to check something.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And lastly, get Cabot Associates on the phone.’
The older woman blinked. What had got into Edward Johnson?
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, nervously.
This was a good job, where she mostly did nothing. She didn’t want to lose it.
Edward went into his office and slammed the door, and Faustina picked up the phone. Better get dialling.
That shrink was right about one thing, Edward thought. He was angry. He was so angry, the rage was now cascading from his heart into a whirlpool of hate. His father. His friends. Dina Kane. His mother. He had rescued his mother, and now she treated him like this, moving him aside for some penniless Frenchman.
He hated her stupidity. He could hear them laughing on Park Avenue.
At first, Edward had been lazy . . . He’d only wanted the money and an easy life.
But now he wanted revenge. And it was going to require some work.
He thought about the girl, blubbering and moaning as he lashed her exposed buttocks, slammed into her unconscious, warm body. God, that felt good; the control felt good. It was a long time since Edward Johnson felt good.
He was going to take back what belonged to him – not his wastrel quitter of a father; not Philippe; not his treacherous mother, who valued a smooth tongue and a fake compliment over her own son – him. Edward. His mind drifted to his picture, his perfect-future picture. Edward Johnson on the lawn of his Hamptons beach house, kissing his wife goodbye as he headed off to a tennis tournament. He wore tennis whites and a Rolex. She was in cut slacks and a little cashmere sweater – a blonde in pearls. There was a dog and a maid. His friends were waiting for him. His company was back in the city. Everything was perfect. He was respected, admired . . .
Not like today.
They had forced him into this, forced him into the hookers, the drugs, the showdown with some French chancer. They’d taken away his position, everything he was. Time to put it back.
‘Yes, Mr Johnson, of course I can show you some wonderful properties. Even in that lower price range, there are gems out there.’
Edward swallowed his annoyance. ‘I want a perfect, single-bedroom apartment. With views.’
‘What a pity you didn’t come to us a week ago. I have a client who just sold her place overlooking the East River for one and a half. Real bachelor pad. She made a ton on it. She’s that girl who founded the Meadow cream; you heard of her?’
He started. ‘Dina Kane?’
‘Oh, you know her?’
‘I’ve just heard of the cream.’
‘That’s her. Great eye for real estate. She’s buying someplace else. Anyway, we’ll find you something.’
‘I want to live on the West Side.’ Close to his mother’s house. ‘Has the Kane property closed?’
‘Not yet, but it is in contract.’
‘I’d like to see it, just to take in her design ideas.’
‘Sure. We can set that up for you.’
He ate a sandwich at his desk while the calls continued.
‘I don’t really know if I should discuss this with you, Mr Johnson.’
‘Mr Traynor, you have to discuss it with me. My mother gave me power of attorney.’
‘There have been changes just recently. Your family holding company, Johnson Columbus, has made moves to dispose of some of its stock and invest in properties.’
Edward sat bolt upright, although he already knew the answer to his next question.
‘Properties? Where, exactly?’
‘Paris.’
‘Who authorised this?’
‘Mrs Johnson did, last week. It’s all quite proper. She came in with her fiancé, Monsieur Leclerc. Of course, you know he will be on the board of the company very shortly.’
Edward hesitated just a fraction. ‘Yes, of course, I realise that. It’s a family company, after all.’
When he hung up, he felt almost joyful. Good things were about to happen.
The last meeting of the afternoon came in at five p.m.
‘Faustina, you can go home.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Edward didn’t want anybody listening in to this one.
Olivia Broadwell sat before him, rake thin, her hair mouse-brown and natural. She had clear skin and light eyes; no make-up of any kind. She sat there in her Burberry mackintosh, not bothering to take it off, like she had somewhere else to be, and Edward knew he’d found his salvation.
‘What’s the job?’ she said.
‘Dina Kane. I want to know everything about her. Where she lives; who she’s fucking; what she earns; the content of her bank account; the car she drives; her friends – if she has any; family – their addresses. Any vulnerabilities, business and personal. Medical conditions.’
‘We work within the law,’ she said, with a face that implied the opposite. ‘We provide data. We never reveal to clients how we obtained that data.’
‘I understand. I don’t want the firm having any record of this transaction. Declare the income, but I prefer to pay cash.’
‘Fine by us.’ The rat-like girl smiled, flashing white teeth. Cabot operated on the very edge of the law. They weren’t like any of the other white-collar spy firms. They were highly effective, very dirty. Not many lawsuits, either. Rumour was they had files on cops and judges in the city – files three inches thick.
Mostly, targets never knew they were investigated. He heard some bad bastards worked for Cabot. And that’s exactly who he wanted to hire.
‘How fast can you get me what I need?’ Johnson said.
‘Fee is three hundred k. Is she a cop? Military or intelligence?’
‘She’s a fucking beautician,’ Johnson said, laughing. ‘A girl.’
‘Then you can get everything in a week’s time. And I do mean everything.’
He smiled a rich, deep, smile, the warmth running through him like he’d just stepped into a hot tub.
‘How would you like the money?’ Edward asked. ‘Hundred-dollar bills?’
He stopped off at a florist’s before he went home. Roses and lilies: his mother’s favourites.
‘Oh, Mr Edward,’ said one of the maids. ‘She’s waiting for you in the garden, sir.’
Penelope was indeed out there, wrapped in one of her silver fox coats – one that his father had given her. A fresh burst of pain wrapped itself around Edward’s heart. Once his father and mother had been here together, and that vicious little bitch, Dina Kane, had destroyed them. Whatever happened now, it was Kane’s fault.
‘Oh, Edward! I’m so glad you came.’
He offered her the flowers, kissing her on both cheeks. The acrid scent of cheap aftershave hung about her. Edward’s fingers curled into a fist.
‘I’ve got some wonderful news, darling. Philippe proposed! He said he can’t live without me.’
She turned to him and extended her left hand. On it, in the place of his father’s giant emerald-cut diamond, was a small ruby, surrounded by seed pearls.
‘It was his mother’s. They love coloured stones in Europe . . . Oh, darling, I’m so happy. Philippe said he doesn’t care about money; he just wants us to be together. We’re going to honeymoon in Paris . . . Paris!’
‘Mother . . . you hardly know Philippe. If he really loved you, he wouldn’t ask you yet . . .’
‘Edward, no.’ She clutched the flowers, furiously. ‘I’ve been dating Philippe quietly ever since I stopped drinking. You
don’t know everything about my life, darling. Now I must insist you don’t spoil today for me, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
Edward swallowed the bile in his throat. He was angry at himself for even trying. Didn’t he know better?
‘Of course. You understand it’s my role to protect you, Mother. Philippe might be just the man for you.’ He forced a smile. ‘I do think Paris is a wonderful idea. You can get away for the spring . . .’
‘Oh, yes. I can’t wait to leave New York.’ She clung to Edward’s sleeve, almost desperately. ‘And you’ll give him a chance?’
He’s had his chance.
‘Absolutely, I will.’
‘We’re going to buy a place together, in fact. Philippe thinks it’s a tremendous time to invest in Europe. You can trust bricks and mortar, whereas these stocks give us both a headache.’
‘Paris has some wonderful properties.’ Edward smiled. ‘I can see you both on the left bank.’
‘Darling, I’m so relieved you’re going to be reasonable. He wants to see you, you know. He’s waiting in the library . . .’ She dropped her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I think he’s going to ask your permission. He wants to do everything the right way, just to please me.’
‘Well, so he should, Momma. Don’t worry, I’ll give him my blessing.’ He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
The servants had laid a fire in the library, the way his father used to do. It was maybe his single favourite thing about the house. A crackling log fire, old books: it gave the place that air of British refinement.
And now there was this bastard of a Frenchman standing in front of it, warming his ass. He saw Edward come in, and smiled warily.
‘Edouard! I take it you’ve heard the happy news?’
‘I have.’ He frowned a little. Roll over too fast and the little weasel would get suspicious. ‘Mother tells me you want my permission.’
‘Her father is dead, so . . .’ Philippe shrugged. ‘This is the old-fashioned way, and if it would make your mother happy I ask.’
‘Why don’t we sit down?’ Edward suggested.
Philippe settled into the old high-backed burgundy chair and Edward took the green leather armchair opposite it. The fire danced in the grate. How easy it would be to take up a poker and smash his head in, once, twice.
‘You know, Philippe, I need to be sure you have Mother’s interests at heart. It seems like a very early marriage, and she is a rich woman.’
‘Of course, I will take no offence.’ He smiled silkily. ‘Your mother is of an age where she is not twenty-one anymore. After divorce, many women know what they want. I love her, and she needs a companion; it is not healthy for a young man such as you to remain in the house.’
‘And a prenuptial agreement?’
His eyes widened innocently. ‘Ah, we do not accept those. If one is not committed to marriage, why marry? Penelope seems very firm. She tells me, when she married your father she was a girl; now she is a woman. We will share what we have.’
‘And you have . . . ?’
‘My talent; my creativity. A lifetime of devotion. I can give Penelope guidance. Also, she wants to have a little fun, and this is my gift . . . The gift of laughter.’
Laughter, all the way to the bank.
He smiled warmly. ‘She certainly deserves some laughter. Very good, you have my blessing, Philippe. Bring a smile back to my mother’s face.’
Edward reached across and offered a handshake. The Frenchman’s sweaty palm slipped into his, and he refrained from crushing it between his fingers.
The dinner was almost unendurable, but he endured it. It was good to see that Philippe liked to drink. Edward matched him, keeping his glass full, but taking only small sips, then calling for a different wine. But Philippe stopped at three glasses, looking sideways at his new fiancée, who stuck to water, gazing adoringly at him all the while.
‘But it’s so tremendous you get on so well,’ Penelope exclaimed when they got to dessert. ‘I couldn’t be happier.’ She pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘I may skip the coffee and petits fours, though; I have a headache.’
‘Come on, Mother, you should go upstairs to rest. I’ll send Philippe up soon, I promise.’ Edward winked jovially at his stepfather-to-be. ‘We’ll just head to the drawing room for some conversation, a small brandy . . .’
Philippe perked up immediately. ‘Well . . . if my chérie does not mind?’
‘Oh, no! That sounds lovely. I will . . . I will be upstairs.’ She pushed back her chair. Edward suspected a migraine, from the stress, which was fine by him. When those things came on, his mother could concentrate on nothing else.
‘Philippe, come on through.’ Edward nodded to the butler. ‘Bring me some brandy – a special bottle from the cellar. Try the Hine & Co. champagne cognac – the 1934.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘You know your wine,’ Philippe said, admiringly. ‘The 1934 is a masterpiece.’
Penelope walked slowly and painfully up the stairs, and Edward noted that Philippe did not so much as look back at her.
The drawing room was warm, the thick velvet drapes drawn against the cold. Edward poured himself a little brandy and swallowed and spluttered, pretending to have downed a great gulp. There was a fireplace here, too, and he passed Philippe a glass full of the amber liquid, enough of it to swim in. The warmth and the comfort was too much to resist.
‘I must go to your mother,’ the older man said, greedily eyeing the brandy. ‘She will expect me.’
‘No; I recognise the signs. She has a bad headache. She won’t expect more than a kiss on the cheek. It’s a special occasion; drink up.’
He took a deep sip. ‘Fantastic. What a cognac. Mon Dieu.’
‘We will have a better one served at the wedding. What do you think? A small affair, hosted here? Or something larger?’
‘We want it done as soon as possible; we will head down to City Hall. Just on our own. Your mother doesn’t want any fuss.’
And you don’t want any delay, Edward thought.
‘Oh, I agree, soon – but you must enjoy the moment. A few select friends. A society columnist, perhaps. Your entrée, Philippe, into major society. Come, you don’t want to stand there in a dingy room with a strip light.’ He packed scorn into his voice. ‘We can have a judge marry you, here, in a couple of weeks. First, you can fly Mother to Paris, see the apartment you’re buying together . . .’
‘There would be press coverage?’
‘Lots of it,’ Edward promised.
‘I would like to see the apartment.’
‘Make sure you’re choosing the right one. You and Mother need to spend your money wisely when you invest together. And she would like a break. Paris has some marvellous couturiers for a second marriage; an elegant brocade coat, perhaps. I can organise the wedding here. The Johnsons do things the right way; I’m sure the Leclercs do, as well.’
‘Absolutely. Yes.’ He took another deep drink of the brandy. ‘This stuff is merveilleux. I must stop, though, Edouard, or I will have a terrible hangover tomorrow.’
‘No, no.’ Edward suppressed his excitement. It was all going so well; it was easy. ‘Take five or six of these.’ He pulled out of his pocket a bottle of baby aspirin. ‘Drink some water, and you will be absolutely fine.’
‘Merci.’ Philippe chucked them down like candy, and Edward poured him a large glass of water from the jug on the table, ice cubes clinking delicately. Then he took the brandy away.
‘It’s settled then. I will tell Mother and make the arrangements: a society wedding in two weeks. Oh, and I will have moved out of the house by the time you return – I’m buying a place of my own.’
‘Fantastic!’ Philippe said. ‘You will be very happy in your own place.’
‘I’m sure I will. Goodnight, Philippe.’
Edward worked steadily, and it was a thrill. He contacted gossip writers; he booked a judge, set a date. Invitations went out in the post, just a few trusted fr
iends, enough to make a wedding. His mother was ecstatic; he went to the house for dinner every other night.
Enough to get Philippe a little drunk, to pass him the aspirins, to settle into a pattern.
‘Darling, this is so kind of you,’ Penelope said. ‘I don’t feel up to organising a wedding, but you’re taking care of us so well.’
‘Momma, you and Philippe need a proper sendoff.’
She would sit with them nights when Edward organised the digestifs, watch him hand over the headache pills, make small talk about the apartment search. He called the family travel agent, booked first-class tickets for them to Charles de Gaulle, praised the nineteenth-century penthouse Philippe was buying on the Rive Gauche. He even invited some reliable friends of his mother’s around, so they could gossip over his wedding plans together.
‘What do you think of these?’
Philippe sat in his father’s armchair, lording it over proceedings, nursing his vintage brandy. Matthew and Jane Elliott, and Lourdes and Spencer McCain, two of their old crowd of couples, had been dragooned in, reluctantly, but Edward had persuaded them.
‘Edward – I did a lot of business with your father,’ Matthew said. ‘And this French guy . . . I gotta be honest with you . . . not our kind of thing.’
‘Matt, Dad’s gone. He’s finding himself. Mom needs to see Jane. You know she’s gotten over substance abuse. The wedding means a lot to her. Just show up once, please.’
Sigh. ‘OK, son, since you insist.’
‘I don’t think your mother should marry this man,’ Lourdes McCain told him. ‘Please don’t be angry at me, Edward.’
‘It’s not our decision, though – and she’s dead set. Look, I just want her to be happy. You can help. One dinner.’
And they showed.
Edward took no chances. He booked the airline tickets and paid for them in full. He found a small apartment, right on Central Park West, a block from his mother’s. It was overpriced and tiny, but that location always sold. To the world, he was totally involved with the wedding, backing it to the hilt.
There were no whores, no girls to hit, no S&M clubs. Edward had grown up. He was focused now. There would be time for all that later. The thought of Philippe, taking his mother’s hand, changing her name, stealing his money, peacocking in his father’s place . . . It was enough; it was everything.
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