by Russ Durbin
Chapter 10
LONDON
Although Saturday morning dawned brightly with no rain in the forecast, my mood was black. I resolved to try Mary Kate’s phone one more time. If there was no answer, I would book a flight from Cork to London. The BBC meeting wasn’t until Wednesday, but I could use a couple of days to shop; after all, Christmas was only a couple of weeks away.
I phoned the Cadogan Hotel on Sloane Street in London to make a reservation. It was one of those small British hotels with great personal service and gourmet dining. It was within walking distance to Harrods and a lot of exclusive shops in Knightsbridge. In my corporate days, a colleague from the Brussels office had put me onto this hotel, the one-time home of Lillie Langtry, the famed British actress.
After a late breakfast, I tried Mary Kate again with the same result, lots of ringing and then voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message this time. I sighed; it looked as if my efforts to find Maggie were at an end…at least for this trip.
An afternoon flight to Gatwick and an hour’s taxi ride got me to the hotel late afternoon.
“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Connor. Nice to have you back,” greeted the young woman at the front desk. “I see it has been quite a while since you last visited.”
“Thanks, yes it has been.”
“How long will you be with us this trip?”
“At least five nights. After that, I’m not sure.”
“Very good. Your room is ready. I’ll have the porter take up your luggage.”
After unpacking and settling into the room, I phoned Jamie in New York.
“When are you planning to arrive in London?” I asked. “I was hoping you could take a Monday night flight so we could have Tuesday here at the hotel to go over the contract again and set our strategy for the BBC meeting Wednesday.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m usually wiped out by these long flights so I need time to get over the jet lag and be on top of my game,” Jamie replied. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Cadogan on Sloane Street. I’ll make a reservation for you.”
“Great! My guess is that Ms. Reilly and her partners will want to meet before going to the BBC offices. They probably will want to get the contract with you signed and sealed before negotiating with the network. I’ll handle arrangements for the meeting with SR&O and let you know.”
Jamie paused, then continued, “You know, if your Irish love story is a hit over there and we get a good TV movie, it could be an opportunity for HH&H to capitalize on the book’s foreign success and re-issue the book here in connection with a U.S. broadcast of the show. Then, there could be all sorts of interviews, personal appearances and a book tour.”
“Whoa, you’re way ahead of me, Jamie. Let’s just get this deal done and hope for the best.” I thought Jamie was letting her imagination run wild, but who knows? Remembering Kathryn Reilly’s teasing question, I wasn’t sure I wanted to do personal interviews regarding the book.
Jamie and I met Malcolm Sheehy and Kathryn Reilly at the Dorchester. They had reserved a small meeting room for us to work on the contract prior to dinner. He explained that the RTE producer would meet us at BBC the next day.
It was a profitable two hours spent going over the contract in detail, discussing issues and possibilities, making changes here and there and occasionally compromising on sticking points. The work session ended with me signing the contract, agreeing to a fair percentage of any profits but agreeing to share some risk should the joint venture tank. To celebrate, Malcolm withdrew from his ample case a bottle of the Armagnac we had sampled in Dublin.
Jamie rolled her eyes and said, “How about a beer? You don’t have a cold one in that case of yours, do you?”
Malcolm laughed. “No, sorry, but we can get room service to bring one up.” So while Jamie had her beer the rest of us toasted our success with the aged brandy.
Then Malcolm surprised all of us. He somehow had managed to obtain dinner reservations for us at Alain Ducasse; normally it takes weeks to get in that exclusive French restaurant. Our celebration continued through the long evening.
The next morning, however, we were all fresh, crisp, and business-like as we entered the British Broadcasting Corporation offices on Marylebone High Street. Awaiting us in the outer offices was the RTE producer.
Negotiations went better than I had expected, mainly because I had already signed the contract with Sheehy, Reilly, and O’Connell. BBC, it turned out, already had a script writer in mind to do the adaptation of the book. The only real sticking point was my insistence that I be involved in the entire process from start to finish.
“Mr. O’Connor, you are not a professional script writer. We simply cannot risk financially putting this project in the hands of …forgive me but…an amateur which it comes to screenplays.”
“I appreciate your point of view, and, if I were in the same position as you, I would feel the same way,” I said. “I am not suggesting that I write the script; I just want to make sure that the finished script and the movie are consistent with my intent in writing the book in the first place. BBC usually does a superb job with its features, but I also have seen TV movies that barely resembled the books on which they were based. I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen to my story.”
In the end, we compromised on what level of involvement I would have. I would review the finished script and offer my suggestions. BBC and RTE would have the final say before any casting or shooting began. I would then have the opportunity to visit the set during shooting and provide the producers with any thoughts or suggestions. They would not be bound to accept them if they felt they would in some way harm the final show.
We left with the suits at BBC and RTE working out the details of their roles and financing arrangements for the project and the lawyers to write up the agreements for everyone’s reviews and approvals. Kathryn Reilly was enthusiastic and Malcolm was positively beaming when we left the offices.
We parted with handshakes all around and Kathryn reminding me of her earlier offer to visit her estate in Dublin.
As Jamie and I took a taxi back to the Cadogan, Jamie asked, “So, what are your plans, Pat? Are you heading straight back to the states with me or are you going to take Ms. Reilly up on her offer?” Jamie looked at me out of the corner of her eye.
“I’ll take a rain check on Ms. Reilly’s offer. But I think I will go back to Ireland. I’m trying to locate an old friend.”
“Um-m.” Jamie absorbed that information. Whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself. “Well, it’s too late to catch a plane today. I’ll book the earliest flight I can get tomorrow. Give me a call when you are back. We have a lot of work to do. Oh, and by the way, did you get your overdue installment of The Marshal to Tom Caldwell yet?”
“Jamie, stop worrying. Yes, he not only has the ‘overdue’ section, he has the entire novel. I finished and Fed-Xed it to him before I left. Do you know when it will hit the lists?”
“Should hit the spring list, barring some production problem.”
“Great! I actually think this novel is my best yet.”
“I hope you’re right, buddy boy. I surely do.” She gave me a pat on the back and left me standing in the hotel lobby.
Chapter 11
CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS
I stood there uncertainly, not sure what I wanted to do. My best option for tracking Maggie down was to contact Mary Kate. Of course, two decades is a long time and Mary Kate and Maggie might no longer be friends or have remained in touch. Still, if I were a betting man (and I am not a gambler), I would put my money on both remaining fast friends. Mary Kate was my best bet.
“Edmund,” I said, addressing the long time and long suffering concierge. “Could you please book a flight to Cork tomorrow morning and arrange for a rental car at the airport?”
“Certainly, Mr. O’Connor. Consider it done. I’ll send the itinerary up to your room.”
“Thanks. I think I’ll walk over to Harrods and do a l
ittle Christmas shopping.”
“Very good, Sir. Oh, and you may be interested to know that Burberry’s is having its annual suit sale this week.”
“Thanks, I’ll consider it,” I said as I headed for the door. Harrods was full of shoppers getting into the Christmas shopping season. I joined the throng, found a few gifts I thought my children would like, and arranged to have Harrods ship them to Jon and his wife, Adriana, and to Beth. No long-term boyfriend to consider in Elizabeth’s case. She was enjoying playing the field. I smiled at that thought; they were still little kids to me. I also wanted to pick up a couple of special gifts for them at the Waterford glass plant in Ireland before I went back to the states.
That thought started me thinking about where I wanted to spend the Christmas holidays. Jon and his wife were spending the holidays in Naples, Florida with her parents. Beth was flying off to Cancun with a group of her friends. So there was no particular pressure to return home to Philadelphia. Our traditional Christmas meals as a family ended with the divorce.
Maybe I would spend a few more days in London and take in a few shows. The Phantom of the Opera was still playing, and a new show, Fame the Musical, had opened at the Cambridge Theatre earlier in the year.
I might also go back to Ireland and spend Christmas there. I could pursue my search for Maggie, spend a little time with Mary Kate, and, perhaps, even drop in on the delectable Ms. Reilly in Dublin if all else failed.
Uh oh, I thought, as I entered the Cadogan, better have Edmund change the flight to Cork and see if he can get the theatre tickets I wanted. Regardless of what he thought, Edmund took the change of plans with the weariness of one to whom the request was not unique. Guess I had better give Edmund an extra special tip before I leave. After all, it was almost Christmas and he bore my flip flopping with good grace and a smile.
My days in London went quickly. Between the stage shows, I walked the streets, and visited neighborhood pubs, absorbing a bit of the Dickensian Christmas feeling that still clings to the old city.
Chapter 12
SEARCH RESUMES
My flight to Cork left on time for a change. Although it was unusual for this time of year, there was no fog at the Cork airport. I picked up my bag and walked to the car hire counter to pick up my rental, another Ford Granada.
As I drove into Cork, I couldn’t resist going by Maggie’s house, if it still belonged to her. Tempted as I was to stop, race to the door and bang on it until someone answered, I resisted the urge and drove back to Jury’s Hotel.
In the lounge, I ordered a drink and a sandwich as I contemplated my next moves. As the bartender slid the pint across the bar, I asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know a woman named Maggie O’Callahan, would you? She used to come in her with her friends. She’s a red head and kinda short. She has a friend, Eddie Murphy, who used to be a desk manager at the Jury’s in Dublin.”
“Sorry, Sir, but I’m pretty new here. I don’t believe I know anyone by those names. I don’t think we have anyone by the name of Eddie Murphy in Dublin.”
“Thanks. It was just a shot in the dark.”
Back in the room, I pulled out the piece of paper with Mary Kate’s number on it. I rang but there was no answer. Of course there would be no answer, I reminded myself. She would be at work at the new M&S store, especially with Christmas so near. I dialed the store and asked for fine women’s clothing.
“May I help you?” The woman’s voice had a strong Kerry accent. Definitely not Mary Kate.
“May I speak to Ms. Mary Kathleen O’Hanlan?”
“I’ll see if she is available to take your call. One moment, please.”
After a considerable pause, a woman’s voice said, “Yes, this is Ms. O’Hanlan. How may I help you?’’
“Mary Kate, this is Pat O’Connor.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, Patrick, I got your message on my answering system at home, and I tried to ring you at the hotel but you had checked out. The hotel didn’t know how to reach you.”
“Yes, I had to go to London for a few days on business. I just returned.”
There was a pause, and then she spoke, “It’s been a very long time. Are you well?”
“Yes, Mary Kate, I am well. And you?” I was beside myself, impatient to hear about Maggie.
“I am fine,” she said, then laughed. “Oh, Pat, this all sounds so formal and polite. She’s fine. That’s really what you wanted to know, isn’t it?”
After a long sigh, I said, “Yes, Mary Kate. That is exactly what I wanted to know.”
“Pat, I’m sorry, but I am in a terrible hurry and don’t have time to talk now. I have an important customer in the salon and I need to get back to her. Could we meet for a drink after I get off work?
“I’d love to. In fact, I was going to suggest that we have dinner. How about here at Jury’s?”
“That’s fine.”
“Mary Kate, before you go just one question; I looked for Maggie’s name in the phone directory, but it wasn’t there. Has she moved?’
“The reason you couldn’t find her is that her name was changed. She married a man named Sean Boyle. See you later. Bye.”
I sat stunned, the phone buzzing in my hand. Finally, I hung up and slowly turned the information over in my mind. My beloved Maggie married! I felt cold and empty inside.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all it had been 20 years since we parted. It was only logical that if given the opportunity Maggie would marry, since we had agreed never to see or talk to each other.
Why would I think that she would still be waiting for me? I guess that somewhere in the back of my mind I had thought we might have a life together after all since I was no longer married. My mind was having trouble adjusting to the fact that Maggie was no longer “mine.” She belonged to some other man. More than likely, she had a family as well. There was no way I could see her. My quest was at an end. My search could go no further.
Lying on the bed, I let fresh tears flow for my lost love. Some time later, I awakened to the dark room and thought it was appropriate to match my mood. Still, I would see Mary Kate soon. At least I could learn about Maggie and her life after I left. Being with Mary was as close as I could get to my Maggie.
A quick shower and a change of clothes and I was ready to face Mary Kate. As I waited in the hotel lobby, the porter brought a note to me.
“Dear Pat, so sorry I cannot see you tonight. Marks & Spencer executives from London arrived unexpectedly, and requested all department heads to meet with them. Can we meet tomorrow? Ring me at home and leave a message. M.K.”
I crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can nearby. Pulling out my pocket notepad, I found Mary Kate’s number.
“Where is the nearest phone I can use for an outside call?” I inquired of a passing waiter.
“Over there, Sir, in the corner. Is the call local?”
“Yes.”
I dialed and left a message, saying I would pick up at her home at half-six the next evening. Then I headed back to the lounge to drink my dinner. My disappointment was overwhelming. Nothing seemed to be going right.
The next day, I woke up wondering what lorry had hit me. I remembered someone saying “That Yank is sure knocking ‘em down.” It seemed in my hazy recollection that some people were taking bets as to when I would fall off the bar stool. I don’t know who won the bet. The next thing I remembered was my head splitting open when I opened my eyes. Blasted curtains didn’t keep that infernal sun from blazing into the room. I managed to crawl to the bathroom where I tried to empty an already empty stomach.
Fumbling in my shaving kit, I found a tin of aspirin, took a handful and downed the lot with a glass of water. Back to bed! Whatever possessed me to do such a foolish thing? Totally unlike Patrick Eugene O’Connor. I hadn’t been that drunk since one college summer break at Ft. Lauderdale.
I wobbled back to the bed where I covered my head and hoped I would die. I didn’t.
In the late
afternoon, I arose to face what appeared to be a reasonable facsimile of Frankenstein’s monster in the mirror.
“This will never do,” I thought. “I have to be reasonably sober for Mary Kate tonight.” Staggering into the shower, I turned it on and felt the bracing shock of the cold water smacking my face. “God, that’s cold!” But I endured long minutes before switching to a hot shower. By the time I emerged, I was tolerably sober and beginning to believe I would live.
Chapter 13
MARY KATE
“Oh, Patrick, it is so good to see you!” Mary Kate came forward with arms outstretched, a warmer welcome than I had expected. I hoped my excesses of the night before didn’t show.
I hugged her and stood back, admiring the chic woman before me. “I am happy to see you, Mary Kate. You look wonderful. You’ve let your hair grow since I saw you.”
“Don’t look too closely or you’ll see the gray hair mixed with the blond.” We stood there gazing at each other. It had been so long and we both showed the evidence of passing time.
“Shall we go?”
“Yes, where?” was her question.
“It’s a surprise.”
She laughed, took my arm and said, “Lead on, my handsome Yank escort.”
We drove to Kinsale where I had dinner reservations at Man Friday. As we were seated at a corner table, we looked at each other across the small candle lamp and remembered another time long ago when there were three of us.
“Oh, Patrick, it is good to see you again. I have often thought of you and our wonderful day together in Kinsale. Also, my mother often asked about you.”
“Oh and how is your mother, Mary Kate?”
“She passed away almost 10 years ago.”
