Her Name Will Be Faith (5 page)

"Another week," Julian
Summers remarked, slumping into his chair, which
faced that of his new senior, Richard Connors, in
the weather
room. "Had a good
weekend?"

"I hung wallpaper,"
Richard told him, continuing to study the various
items on his desk. "Ever
heard of something called
Profiles?"

 
"It's a magazine."

"So I gather."

"Quite up-market,"
Julian told him. "It's a monthly, does in-depth
studies of prominent people. All
over the country, all over the world.
From
politicians to pop stars. Why?"

"They seem to want to do me."

"You? Great balls of fire. You'll be
famous."

Richard gave him an old-fashioned
look. "Some female named Don
nelly.
Seems she has an appointment for Thursday. Shit!"

"Don't you like females named Donnelly?"
Julian asked, innocently.

"I don't like females named
anything, right this minute," Richard told
him. "But Kiley says I have to see her. Says
it'll please JC. You seen
these,
Julian?"

Julian got up to lean over his
shoulder. "Water temperatures?"

"All Mark can get us."

"Say, is it legal, for him to feed you all that
data?"

Richard grinned. "Maybe it
isn't. We were at school together, then
college.
Heck, we played on the same team. So we're buddies."

"And so he keeps you one
jump ahead of the other guys. Those look
kind
of high for May."

"They are, goddamned high for
May. And look at the pattern. From
mid-Atlantic right across into the Caribbean and then up
into the
Bahamas and
the Gulf Stream. Twenty-fours and fives and sixes, and
out there, twenty-seven. But see that one?"

"Twenty-two."

"That's right. You know where that is?"

"Tell me."

"That was taken at the
Ambrose Lightship." He pointed. "Not thirty
miles east of New York Harbor."

"So it's gonna be one hot summer."

"Yeah," Richard said.
"You know what sea temperature is needed to
cause a hurricane?"

"Nope."

"26° Centigrade. So there's
probably one spawning in mid-Atlantic
right
this minute."

"So what's new? Tomorrow is
the first of June: the official beginning
of
the hurricane season."

"Sure. We've had hurricanes
on 1 June before," Richard agreed. "But
they have to have warm water, so
that this time of year they fizzle when
they get up here, or even off the Bahamas. But here we
are, at the
beginning
of June, and there's warm water everywhere. We could have
27° plus up here in another month
if the weather holds as it is. That
means
the whole goddamned ocean is going to be hurricane-ripe by July."

"So the guys in Florida are
going to be busy. Thank God it's nothing
to
do with us."

"You reckon? What about
Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Didn't she just
about
knock on your door, up here?"

"She was a freak," Julian pointed out. “And
she missed. Just."

"All hurricanes are freaks of
nature, Julian," Richard told him. "And
they all hit somewhere, some time."

Julian frowned. "You really
reckon a hurricane could hit New York?
Christ,
that'd be something."

"Yeah," Richard said.
"Yeah, it could happen. Just let's keep an eye
on those water temperatures."

Sunlight flooded the bedroom, and
Jo yawned and stretched, smiling as
she touched the sleeping form beside her. They had been
out to dinner
the
previous night, and he would probably sleep for a while yet. They
had had a lot of fun.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on
her dressing gown, cleaned her teeth
and
brushed her hair, and began to get the world moving. The apartment,
thirty-eight floors up, was light and airy, with a
plate-glass picture window
in the
lounge giving a panoramic view over the city and the East River.
Jo had worked hard at her ambition to create a
smart, modern home with
a cozy,
lived-in atmosphere; even the family room had style, despite the
haphazard piles of yachting books and journals,
children's games and
Nana's bean-bag
bed. Nana awoke as soon as her mistress came in, and for all her age and
rheumatism there was a bout of energetic tail wagging
before she grabbed Jo's hand, gently, and led her
into the kitchen to
stand, significantly, before a certain cupboard.

"You reckon it's milk bone
time, do you?" Jo laughed and took a
bone-shaped biscuit from its box. Nana accepted it
daintily, and carried
it away to her
beanbag.

Florence had already arrived, and
was making coffee, while Jo got the
children out of bed, to wash their faces and get dressed
for school.
Florence Bennett had worked
for Jo since Owen Michael's appearance was imminent. From being a nurse
full-time she had developed into a
nanny-cum-housekeeper
when the children started school. A large, red-faced woman of Scottish descent,
married to a fishmonger named Bert,
whom
she loved dearly but who was half her size, she was a total treasure.
J
o sometimes felt that Florence kept the entire
junior Donnelly household
sane.

This morning, as usual, Florence
would walk the children to school. Jo
had ideas about sending them to boarding school when they
were a little
older
– she even dreamed of Owen Michael going to an English public
school – but it was a touchy subject at the
moment, like so many.

The children sat down to
breakfast and she returned to her bedroom, to discover Michael sitting up and
scratching his head. "Shit," he remarked.
"That's exactly what I feel like. Must've been
the olives."

Jo mixed up a glass of Alka-Seltzer, handed it to him.

"Ugh." He sighed.
"Meet me at the Club at
11.30,
will you?"

"Eh?" About to step into the shower, she
turned in surprise.

"I'm taking an out-of-towner to lunch, and he's
got his wife with him. So I reckon it'd be good to make up a foursome; he's
quite well heeled.
I've booked a table at the
Four Seasons, but we'll have a drink at the
Club first."

"I'm sorry." Jo shook her head. "I
can't."

"Eh?" It was his turn to be surprised.

"I can't meet you at eleven. I have an
appointment at 11.15."

"Cancel it."

"Now you know I can't do that, Michael. It's an
interview. You should have told me sooner."

"I didn't goddam well know until yesterday."

"And you never thought to
tell me last night. I'm sorry, but this
interview
was set up by the magazine. Tell you what, though: I might be able to join you
at the restaurant at about one..."

"Fucking hell," he said. "What's the
good of that? Do you think I want these people to know my wife works for a
living?"

Jo sighed. Her going back to work had always been one
of the several
bones of contention between
them; Michael felt she should just sit at
home being a mother and twiddle her thumbs until he required her for
some
purpose or other.

"Okay," she said. "Then I won't come to
the restaurant."

She stood beneath the shower, allowing the water to
bounce off her flesh, and opened her eyes as the stall door was jerked wide.
One look at his face told her that he was in one of his moods. He had them from
time to time, fits of depression when his mind descended into some private
black hell, and when he would seize on any controversial aspect of their
relationship as a reason to quarrel. Often enough it was their different
religions. Michael was not a serious Catholic
– none of the Donnellys
were, although they went to confession and
attended mass from time to
time – and
although she, as an Anglican, had had to agree that the
children would
be brought up in the Roman faith, the point was never
belabored – when he was in a good mood. But too often, when he lost
his temper, criticism of the way she was educating Owen Michael and
Tamsin would be hurled at her. Thus usually she preferred it when he
carried on about her job – but this morning
there was an added bite to
his aggression.

"You are one hell of a wife," he declared.
"Talk about supporting your husband. Listen. I am your husband, right? You
are my wife, right? And a selfish bitch who just wants to do her own thing. Now
I want you to
come to the Club and then out
to lunch, and you are goddamned well
going to do it, right?"

He was shouting, and she prayed the children couldn't
hear, because suddenly she was angry too, and wanted to shout back. She had
made sufficient allowance for his tantrums in the past, knowing all the time
that they were caused by little things, little
failures, little blows to the
ego. Just as this one, she knew, was a
residue of his unfortunate first race of the season. He had been waiting for an
opportunity to sound off, let himself go – with her, as usual, as the
target.

She exploded as she pushed him
aside and reached for her towel. "You
dare!"
she snapped. "Selfish? You bloody bastard. You have the right to take off
on your fucking plastic bathtub every goddamned weekend and you accuse me of
being selfish for trying to do a job of work?"

"You..."

"No, you!" She jabbed a
forefinger at his chest. "You are the most
selfish, irresponsible, self-opinionated bastard who was ever born. You
never wanted a wife and children; you just wanted ornaments to show off
when the occasion arose, and someone to organize
your home – for in
case you ever need to use it." She paused,
gasping for breath.

"Have you finished?" Michael asked, eyes
narrowed, his face flushed with anger. "Well, then, this is the only
possible answer to that sewage," and he swung his arm, the flat of his
hand hitting the side of her face and sending her reeling across the bathroom
to cannon into the wall.

The stinging blow brought
moisture to her eyes – but she wasn't
crying: she was too angry. She had fallen on to the toilet
seat. Now she
got up, wrapped herself in
her dressing gown. "The usual answer from a brainless fool." She went
into the bedroom and began to dress. "Not the first time you've hit me, is
it, Michael? But I promise you it will be the
last."
She tucked her blouse into her skirt, brushed her hair, and picked
up
her purse; make-up could wait until she was in the car. "I am going
straight to my attorney."

"Now, Jo..."

"I have nothing more to say, at the moment. My
next communication
with you will be through
Tom Wilson's office." She left him standing
there, open-mouthed, and closed the door quietly behind her. "I'll
drop
the children off today, Florence," she said.

All three of them gazed at her,
apprehensively. They had heard the
raised
voices, and her cheek was still red from the blow. But not a word
was said, even on the drive to school. She kissed
them both. "See you
this afternoon," she said. "We'll do
something together, shall we?"

Was she already preparing for a
love tug over the kids? She couldn't
be
sure.

Tom Wilson was not in his office; he was in court.
"Would you like to
make an appointment,
Mrs Donnelly?" the receptionist asked.
Jo had been in two minds whether actually to come and see him or
not.
The anger in which she had made her threat to Michael had cooled sufficiently
for her to wonder what she was going to tell Tom. He was an old friend. He and
his wife dined with Michael and herself from time to
time, and the previous January they had all gone skiing in Vermont. Was
she going to tell him she wanted to split with
Michael? No, that was
stupid; she
didn't want to break up her marriage – she still hoped to make
it work. But she did want to frighten Michael,
make him realize that she wasn't taking any more of his impossible behavior.
Just telling him had
got her nowhere.

The woman behind the desk was
looking at her, probably knowing
damned well what was in her mind, having seen innumerable
other
women standing there,
vacillating...