He padded barefoot downstairs. A few wrong turns and he was out on the terrace, walking down the decking ramp to the beach just as Connor was carrying his board up from the sea.
‘How was it?’ he called.
Connor looked at him, then glanced towards the house. He saw he had no option but to reply.
‘Water’s still pretty cool this time of year. But it’s OK. Quiet.’ He propped the board against the walkway’s rail and unzipped his suit. ‘What are you doing up so early?’
‘Couldn’t sleep, I guess.’
Neither of them said anything for a few moments.
‘Look, I wanted to reiterate what I said last night. About Jen and Casa D’Or.’
Connor shrugged. ‘Sure. Do what you’ve gotta do. Just know that Jennifer’s a good person, she’d never make you feel bad, and that shit with the house . . . it’s upset her, that’s all. Stirred up things she’d rather forget. We’d all rather forget.’
‘I understand. And I’m sorry.’
Connor let out a long breath, glancing at Jim.
‘And I should apologise too. Shouldn’t have gone so crazy at you,’ he said begrudgingly. ‘You know what parties are like. Stressful.’
Jim was surprised to hear any sort of apology.
‘Jen said the condo development is all a bit high-maintenance at the moment.’
‘Did she?’ Connor said disapprovingly.
‘I tell you, I’ve been there a dozen times. Japanese knotweed almost brought one development we were working on to its knees.’
Connor looked at him for a moment, as if he were weighing things up.
‘It’s just a liquidity thing. I need to do a bit of refinancing. It will be fine.’
‘Will it?’ He wanted to push him for an answer. He knew men like Connor would sooner be admitted to the asylum than own up to failure or weakness, but Connor’s fortunes affected Jennifer’s life too. He remembered his own teenage years. When royalties from his father’s book had dried up, the estate agents came round to value the house, and he was pulled out of his fee-paying school to go to the comprehensive down the road.
‘What is your point, Jim?’
‘No point,’ he replied. ‘I’m just wondering if there is anything I can do to help.’
Connor gave a loud sarcastic bellow. ‘Ha. I bet you’re loving this. First buying Casa D’Or, and now you’re offering to open the Omari contacts book.’
‘I wouldn’t wish cash-flow problems on any developer,’ Jim said honestly.
‘Right.’
‘What is it you need?’
A look of anger crossed Connor’s face. Jim sensed he had overstepped the mark. The great Connor Gilbert didn’t need to go cap in hand to some hotel employee.
‘Try a few dozen more billionaires in Manhattan within the next eighteen months.’
‘How many have you sold?’
‘Some,’ he said cautiously.
‘But not enough,’ said Jim, filling in the gaps.
‘Sales have plateaued. There are bigger, shinier developments in the city. I thought Manhattan had the highest number of billionaires per capita in any city in the world. Apparently that’s not enough to sustain the number of high-net-worth developments.’
‘Anything I can do? I mean, if it’s bridging finance you need . . .’
‘What are you doing, Johnson? Your girlfriend’s dirty work? Looking for a scoop for the business pages of that trivia site she works for?’
‘Believe me when I say that anything I can offer is purely to help an old friend.’
Connor hesitated, then sat down on the walkway.
‘My finance team are calling it a cash-flow crisis, but I guess you know what that means.’
Jim nodded and sat down next to him. It was a polite way of saying the money had run out and the banks were refusing to lend any more, or worse, calling in the debt. He’d seen it so many times in rival companies: an entire resort development in Dubai had once gone belly-up because there was a sudden inexplicable shortage of sand. Sand was everywhere, of course, but not the right kind, the kind required for making flexible levelling compound. There just wasn’t any in the country at the time they needed it, so the building stalled, causing a domino effect that cost the investors millions and meant that the project still stood windowless and empty, the desert slowly blowing in.
‘How far in are you?’ asked Jim as gently as he could.
Connor barked out a hollow laugh. ‘That’s the irony; it’s seventy-five per cent done.’ He turned to Jim, the weariness apparent on his face. ‘I’ll level with you. We overplayed our hand, told everyone it was under control when it wasn’t, missed one too many payment deadlines, I guess. Now when I tell the banks it’s ready to go, they don’t believe us and I can’t really blame them. But – man, you should see it. When it’s finished, it will be one of the finest places to live in the city.’
‘What do you need?’
He named a figure. Jim didn’t blanch. He knew the business well enough to have worked it out.
‘Could you not sell some assets?’
‘Like our family home?’
‘No, I wasn’t suggesting that.’
‘Yes you were. You’ve seen this place, must know how much it’s worth.’
‘It would liquidate some cash . . .’
‘It would kill Jennifer to sell this place.’
‘Do you think Jen is that interested in money, in the trappings of it all?’
‘Is that what she told you?’ Connor said, flashing him a fiery look. Then his expression softened and he looked genuinely upset. ‘Our city house belongs to a family trust. I could never get rid of this place. Jen loves it. It’s the one place where she’s happy. By the water. I just don’t want her to have to go through leaving another family home that she cares about.’
‘I know,’ said Jim quietly, silently acknowledging that for once, he and Connor were in complete agreement.
‘How interested do you think Simon would be in investing?’ Connor’s expression was stoic, proud, but the hint of desperation was obvious. Jim didn’t like to point out that he had been belittling Simon Desai just the night before, hinting at his financial problems. But he could only imagine how difficult it was for Connor to have this conversation. And he had been telling the truth when he said he didn’t want to point-score.
‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘He’s avoided ultra-luxe residential investments in New York in the past. Thinks the market’s saturated. But I can ask him.’
He watched Connor’s shoulders slump. He didn’t like the man, but it was impossible not to feel sympathy for everything he was going through.
‘I have two hotels,’ Connor said finally. ‘Through a separate investment vehicle. I don’t want to sell either of them, but if I don’t raise the capital to salvage the condo project, then I’m in danger of losing everything.’
‘Where are they?’
‘One is in New York. The other is in the Caribbean. Would you be interested in having a look?’
‘Tell me about the Caribbean resort.’
Connor puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s on the island of Baruda. Do you know it?’
It was Jim’s job to know the industry inside out, the best resorts, the hot spots with buzz. But there were so many thousands of hotels in the world, it was hard to keep abreast of everything. The Caribbean in particular had a raft of hotels with ever-changing names and ownership.
‘It’s called The RedReef Club. I bought it three years ago. It’s not as deluxe as any Omari resort, but it’s a wonderful spot, private beach access, fifteen minutes by seaplane to the international airport on Turks and Caicos. You could do something interesting with it.’
‘Do you have a sales prospectus?’
‘Until five minutes ago, it wasn’t even for sale.’
‘Well send me something,’ Jim said, and for the first time in twenty years, he and Connor looked at each other with something approaching solidarity.
‘Here. Just pull over here.’ Jim leaned forward and stuffed a twenty through the Plexiglas screen behind the driver. The cab slid to a halt next to the elderly couple standing at the kerb. His parents, he realised with a sudden shock.
He sighed to himself as he jumped out of the taxi. He had planned to get there early – punctuality was one of Bryn’s personal bugbears – but it seemed they had second-guessed him.
‘Hey there,’ he said, closing the door and embracing them both awkwardly. ‘I did say one, didn’t I?’
‘Your father likes to be on time, you know that,’ said Elizabeth briskly. She was wearing a bright blue trench coat, tightly knotted at the waist, and had clearly taken advantage of one of New York’s many blow-dry bars.
‘Saul used to bring me here,’ said Bryn with a scowl, nodding at the door of 21. ‘Thought we could have gone somewhere different.’
Jim smiled politely. ‘I didn’t know. Besides, I thought you’d like it. It’s a New York institution.’
He ushered them inside, wondering what his mother would have to say about the restaurant’s quirky interior – hundreds of model aeroplanes, trucks and other ephemera hanging from the roof beams – but she didn’t have a chance to comment as Gerry, the maître d’, swept forward and greeted Bryn like an old friend.
‘And this must be Mrs Johnson, a great pleasure.’
‘This is our son James,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He lives here now.’
‘Really?’ said Gerry. ‘I hope we’ll be seeing you regularly.’
Jim smiled, biting back the observation that he had been to 21 for dinner twice in the last two months and no one had got terribly excited.
Gerry escorted the group to a curved booth, Jim and Bryn on the ends, Elizabeth in the middle.
‘So, happy birthday,’ smiled Elizabeth.
‘It’s not until Sunday.’
‘I know, but we’re here to celebrate.’
‘I really appreciate you coming over. Shame you can’t stay until the big day.’
‘You don’t want your parents hanging around your fortieth birthday party.’
‘I’m not having a party,’ he laughed. ‘Not when I’ve got a hotel to get opened by November.’
‘Melissa would have planned a party for you,’ said Elizabeth, raising a brow.
‘I’m not sure a fortieth birthday is anything to celebrate. I’m just going to have a quiet dinner. Maybe go to the cinema. See if there are any reruns of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel anywhere.’
His mother smiled cynically and began to tell him about all the things they had done since they had arrived in New York the evening before: dinner with friends, then cocktails at their hotel.
‘Salman picked us up from the airport,’ said Bryn pointedly.
Jim knew there was no point reminding them that he had offered to collect them but had been told they were going straight out for dinner.
‘Have you seen Saul yet?’
Saul Black, his father’s New York agent, was long retired. Bryn would never have admitted it, but Saul was responsible for his change in fortune. Their stay in Savannah resulted in Bryn’s biggest hit – the multi-million-selling novel College, which was conceived and part-written at the Lake House.
‘We’ve only been in the country twenty-four hours,’ said Bryn, back on his short fuse.
‘You should go and see him, Jim,’ said Elizabeth softly. ‘He’d love to see you. Do you remember the superhero pen he gave you when he came to London one time?’
‘The pen is mightier than the sword. I think that was what he told me when I tried to hit him with a plastic light sabre.’
Elizabeth fished about in her small handbag, drew out an address book and began copying something on to a piece of paper.
‘I’m not going to tell him you’ll pop round if you won’t, if you’re too busy. But it would be lovely if you could go and see him.’
‘I’m not completely chained to my desk, you know.’
‘Try,’ she pressed as the waiter came to take their order.
‘So your father has something to announce,’ said Elizabeth, evidently tiring of the subject.
‘Announce?’ Bryn harrumphed, glowering at Elizabeth, but Jim could detect a smile under the frown. ‘You make it sound like I’m abdicating or something,’ he grumbled. ‘Just some nonsense in the honours list.’
‘It is not nonsense,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s about bloody time, if you ask me.’
Jim looked from one parent to the other. ‘Well?’ he prompted.
‘CBE,’ said Bryn bluntly.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ trilled Elizabeth, beaming. Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his mother smile that widely.
‘That’s amazing, Dad,’ he said, leaning across and clutching Bryn’s hand. ‘Seriously, it’s really well deserved. I’m proud of you.’
Bryn met his eyes for a long moment, then glanced away. ‘Lot of rubbish really,’ he said. Jim saw that his mother was about to object, so he jumped in first.
‘So do you have to go to the palace? Is there a presentation?’
‘Not a presentation, an investiture,’ said Elizabeth, with evident pride. ‘It’s very formal. They’ve sent a list of acceptable attire and a guide to the etiquette on the day.’
‘Wow, part of the establishment now, Dad?’
‘I’d turn it down if I thought it’d make a blind bit of difference,’ Bryn snorted.
‘Why should you turn it down?’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’re a pioneer, you’ve changed the face of English literature . . .’
‘I’m really thrilled for you. It’s brilliant. We should have a party,’ suggested Jim. ‘I’m due a visit back to London. Maybe we can hire out Wheeler’s or Wiltons.’ They were two of his father’s favourite restaurants.
‘Actually, we thought we’d have a party here.’
‘In New York?’ frowned Jim.
His mother leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.
‘Your father’s had a very exciting opportunity come his way.’
‘I don’t know about exciting,’ he blustered. ‘But it’s an opportunity and it’s good to try different things.’
‘What opportunity?’
‘I’ve been offered a visiting fellowship at Columbia. Just for a semester, although we’ll see how it goes.’
‘Teaching?’
‘I like to think of it as inspiring. You know, Martin Amis did it for a little while at Manchester University. The job can be so solitary sometimes.’
‘So we’re moving over,’ added Elizabeth.
‘Fantastic,’ said Jim, not entirely sure how he really felt about it. He had spent a lifetime living in Bryn Johnson’s shadow. Growing up, he’d lost track of the number of times he’d simply been introduced as ‘Jim, Bryn Johnson’s son’, as if he didn’t actually exist in his own right. Even when he had moved into the corporate field, his father’s reputation still preceded him: the bankers and politicians he met, who all liked to consider themselves well read and literary, seemed to take him that little bit more seriously when they connected his surname to the great prize-winning writer. But in New York, he didn’t have that baggage. No one cared where you came from, only where you were going.
‘We can keep an eye on you,’ added Bryn.
‘Right,’ he said, taking a large gulp of his gin and tonic.
‘You know your mother and I lived here for a while before you were born?’
‘Really? I didn’t.’
‘Yes, carefree times,’ Bryn said, a smile creeping on to his face. ‘It was just a few weeks. We were real beatniks, living in a cold-water flat off Washington Square. Everyone was a poet or an artist, everyone playing bongos, all the girls wearing smocks. It was glorious.’
‘And we went out to Sagaponack to stay with your editor friend,’ Elizabeth added. ‘It was just the most beautiful place on earth.’
‘Back when the right sort of people lived in the Hamptons . .
. These days I hear it’s all financiers and businessmen. All bought with ill-gotten gains from exploiting the peasants.’
‘So who are you going for dinner with on your birthday?’ asked his mother, changing the subject.
‘Just a few friends.’
‘That’s nice, I’m glad you’re managing to meet people. It’s not easy at your age.’ She didn’t say it unkindly, but it still irked him.
‘Is Simon going?’ asked Bryn, tasting the wine that the sommelier had brought over.
‘Don’t be daft, Dad.’
‘Well, you can invite him to my investiture party. Or did we decide it was going to be another seventieth birthday party?’
‘Both,’ said Elizabeth, turning to Jim. ‘We should be able to get a contribution from your father’s publishers, so if you’ve got any suggestions about venues, somewhere nice, then let me know.’
‘We don’t need Jim’s help on that. We can have it at the club . . . So how’s work?’ his father asked.
‘Good. Busy.’
‘How often are you in Savannah?’
‘Once every couple of weeks.’
‘Is it still the same?’
‘It’s much buzzier. Lots of chic shops on Broughton Street.’
‘What about Casa D’Or?’
‘It’s beginning to look a lot like its old self. It was very run down when we bought it. The Lake House has been sold too. The Sittenfields both died. A young family has it now. Anyway, we’re having a party too. A launch party. I should be able to swing an invite for Mr and Mrs Bryn Johnson CBE.’
‘Have you seen her?’
His mother’s expression had cooled. Jim watched her flash a look of disapproval to his father and he knew what they both were thinking. Under the circumstances, he thought it best just to say no.
Chapter Seventeen
Circling down from a cloudless sky, it looked like a child’s drawing of a desert island. Lush green strips of palm, ringed by ivory beaches and lapped by azure sea. All clichés had to begin with a truth somewhere, thought Jim, shifting in his seat to peer further out of the Gulfstream’s window, so perhaps the Turks and Caicos islands had been the inspiration for those countless images of paradise: endless white sand, coconut trees, maybe even a girl called Friday.
The House on Sunset Lake Page 14
