Chapter 40
‘Morning, Katie.’
‘Morning, Miss McCarthy.’
‘As it’s such a beautiful day, I think I’ll take my breakfast outside.’
‘Of course, Miss McCarthy. The usual?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Helen picked up her post and sauntered through the French doors onto the small patio. She placed the letters on the table and sat on a wrought-iron garden chair. She closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun.
Thank God it was Saturday. And thank God that, at ten o’clock last night, the last box had been moved from Metropolitan’s old premises to its new home.
The building was going to be fantastic when everything was organised.
Helen thought of her big office on the top floor.
It had been decorated to her explicit taste with antique furniture, a thick green carpet, and heavy damask curtains draping the large window.
She’d even had a small en-suite bathroom installed for those times when it was impossible to get home before going out in the evening.
She reached forward and tore open the thick brown envelope on top of the pile of post. Enclosed were details of a large country house near Cobham in Surrey, complete with gym in the basement and indoor swimming pool. She read through the details.
It sounded promising, and somehow familiar.
Helen looked at the address again and realised it was the home of a well-known singer who’d fallen on hard times due to his continued drug abuse.
She’d attended a party there a couple of years ago.
The house was magnificent, and going cheap for what it was. The poor chap must be desperate.
Helen shook her head. She just could not understand the singular need for nefarious substances that seemed to hold the music business in its grip.
She rarely drank, and if she did, she usually limited it to a couple of glasses of champagne.
In truth, she despised the feeling of not being completely in control of her actions.
‘Here’s your breakfast, Miss McCarthy.’
Katie, the daily maid, put the tray of juice, tea and warm croissants on the table in front of her.
‘Thank you, Katie.’
Helen sipped the juice and decided the house in Cobham was probably worth seeing. She folded the details neatly back into their envelope and cut open a croissant.
Having eaten it, Helen sat back in the chair to enjoy another few minutes in the sun. She’d not slept at all well last night, her brain buzzing with thoughts of the new building, but also the revelation that Con was having an affair with Lulu Bradley.
She’d spent the night thinking how she could stop things before either Sorcha or Todd found out about it.
With the problems the band had been having so far in the studio, this would be the final straw.
It could signal the demise of The Fishermen altogether.
That meant she’d be losing her most valuable business asset at a time when the company’s worth was of utmost importance.
Helen had decided to float Metropolitan on the stock exchange as soon as possible. It would bring in a lot of money which could help expand the empire. With this plan in the pipeline, it was not the time for any rumours in the City of problems with the label’s biggest money-spinner.
Helen sighed. She could control things financially, but the private lives of her stars was something over which she had no power.
Helen thought how ironic it was that she’d once wished every bad thing on Con and Sorcha’s marriage and would have enjoyed watching it fail.
And now, here she was, praying they’d stay together.
Sorcha arrived home at ten o’clock on Monday evening feeling wretched.
She’d shivered during the flight to Dublin, then discovered there was to be a two-hour delay caused by the terrible weather.
Wearily, she unlocked the front door, dropped her suitcase in the hall and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
Without removing her clothes, she fell onto the bed and closed her eyes.
Dawn broke and light streamed into the un-curtained bedroom. Sorcha moaned but did not stir. Sweat dripped off her, staining the pillows.
The telephone rang, but the sound did not wake her.
The day passed, and dusk began to fall. Rumblings of thunder could be heard in the sky and bright flashes of lightning lit up the heath. Then the rain began, breaking the humidity.
Sorcha started to shiver uncontrollably. Her dreams were confused. She was in her bedroom at Ballymore. The door was opening, and in walked her father, his lips tinged with grey, wearing his best Sunday suit. He’s dead, he’s dead, a voice told her.
An ear-splitting scream scorched the air in the bedroom.
‘Sorcha, Sorcha! Whatever is it?’
Hands were gently shaking her . . . It was her father, trying to take her with him . . .
‘Sorcha, it’s Helen, wake up. You’re having a dream. It’s okay, really, it’s okay.’
She opened her eyes. The room was full of evening shadows. Helen McCarthy was standing over her. She tried to pull herself up onto her elbows, but failed and sank back onto the pillows with a groan.
Helen put a hand on her forehead. ‘Sorcha, you have a very bad fever. I think you’ve been delirious. I’m going to call the doctor, okay?’
Sorcha nodded. Her eyes hurt if she held them open, so she closed them and promptly fell asleep.
She was awoken by a hand on her forehead.
‘It’s only Doctor Deane, Sorcha. I’m just going to check you over.’
‘Ow, my eyes sting,’ she remarked feebly.
‘Can you open your mouth wide?’
Sorcha did so, then lay there as the doctor inspected her throat, checked her neck, listened to her heartbeat and finally stuck a thermometer under her tongue.
‘Well now.’ Doctor Deane packed his instruments away in his medical bag. ‘You seem to have a nasty case of the flu. Aspirin and bed rest are my prescription.’
Sorcha was beginning to come to. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something important. She suddenly remembered what it was.
‘What time is it?’ Her throat was so sore it hurt to talk.
‘Half past seven in the evening.’
‘What . . . day is it?’
‘Tuesday, the nineteenth of August. You’re at home, in your bed in Hampstead,’ said the doctor.
‘Oh no, oh no!’ Sorcha wailed, struggling to sit up. ‘I was meant to be on a plane this morning, flying to New York! Con! I—’
‘Don’t panic,’ said Helen, appearing behind Doctor Deane.
‘Con called Metropolitan when he couldn’t contact you last night.
He’d rung your mother in Ballymore and she’d said you’d caught the plane back to London as arranged.
When you didn’t check in at Heathrow this morning, I came round to find out if you were okay.
It’s a good job I did by the looks of things.
What did you do to yourself while you were away? ’
‘It rained a lot. I must have got a chill. Helen, can you book me on a flight tomorrow morning? I must get to New York. I—’
‘Don’t be absurd, my dear,’ said Doctor Deane.
‘You are no more capable of getting on a plane tomorrow than you are of sprouting wings and flying there yourself. You are sick, Sorcha, and have to stay put until you’re better.
Doctor’s orders. Now, have you a friend or a relative that could come and stay for a few days, fetch and carry and keep an eye on you? ’
‘I . . .’ Sorcha bit her lip as tears appeared in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll sort something out,’ said Helen.
‘All right, but I’m imploring you, no silly antics unless you want to end up in hospital with pneumonia.’ The doctor stood up.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Helen said.
‘Thank you. Cheerio, Sorcha. Behave yourself.’
Sorcha lay feeling horribly sorry for herself. She was stuck in bed, with Con in New York, and, to top it all off . . . Helen McCarthy for a nurse.
Helen came back up the stairs, a fizzing glass of aspirin in her hand.
‘Right, drink this.’
She helped Sorcha upright and sat on the end of the bed, watching as she grimaced upon reaching the bottom of the glass.
‘Good. Now, I’m going to stay with you until you’re better.
Tomorrow I can use Jenny’s office and have urgent calls rerouted here from Metropolitan.
Talking of telephones, I must call your mum.
She was imagining all sorts of terrible things, apparently.
Then I can phone Con. He won’t be in the hotel at the moment, but I can at least leave him a message to let him know you’re okay. ’
‘Use that phone.’ Sorcha pointed weakly to the instrument by the bed.
‘Will do.’
Helen picked up the receiver. ‘Maybe you could have a word with your mum as she probably won’t believe you’re okay until she speaks to you herself. Right, give me the number.’
Once Sorcha had uttered a few reassuring words to Mary, and Con’s hotel in New York had been called, Helen stood up. ‘I’m going to make myself some soup. I saw some tins in the cupboard. Do you think you could manage some yourself?’
Sorcha shook her head.
‘All right, but tomorrow you have to start eating.’
‘I will, I promise.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No. Thanks, Helen.’
‘Okay.’
Helen left the room and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.
She opened a can of soup, poured the contents into a saucepan and placed it on the hob to warm.
When she’d finished her dinner, she went into the sitting room to watch the news.
A little later, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom and pushed open the door.
Sorcha was asleep. Helen checked her forehead and found she was much cooler.
She took a shower, and after looking in on Sorcha one last time, Helen climbed into bed in the guest room, propped herself up on her pillows and opened her briefcase. The documents prepared by the City accountants handling the share flotation had arrived this morning.
Columns of figures lay unread on her lap as she stared into space, her usual flawless concentration deserting her.