Chapter 6
6
I can’t believe it’s Christmas already. It feels like my feet have hardly touched the ground in the last six months. Although the publishing deal has gone quiet due to some restructuring at Bookisti, I was immediately reassigned onto another deal which has had me flitting back and forth to Paris. The transaction is starting to accelerate, so I’m desperately hoping Bookisti doesn’t resurface just yet, as two transactions running concurrently is every M to my amusement, not only did Janice buy all the gifts and wrap them, but she also provided me with a helpful crib sheet so I could talk knowledgeably enough about each one to complete the illusion that I’d bought them myself.
One thing I can be absolutely sure about, as I join the M25 heading for the Dartford crossing and Kent, is that Rollo’s mum will already have moved her car into the now vacant space outside my house. She seems to be curiously obsessed about it and, although things have calmed down a little lately, she’s made various attempts to stop me parking there over the months. I came home one Saturday to find it blocked off with those yellow cones that councils use to stop people parking when they want to do roadworks. I will admit to being taken in by that one for a moment, until I got suspicious about the fact that only one space was affected. A quick bit of investigation revealed that she’d whipped them from a site round the corner, so I moved them and stacked them neatly outside her front door before parking as usual. Her dirtiest trick, for which I grudgingly admire her ingenuity, was revealed when I came back from a three-week trip to New York to discover that she’d reported my car as abandoned. Obviously, the polite letter from the council informing me that there had been a complaint didn’t mention who had contacted them, but it was pretty obvious.
It sounds petty, but I couldn’t let that one go without a retaliatory strike. Not because I care particularly about the space; I just wanted to let her know that I knew what she’d done and I wouldn’t be pushed around. So, the following weekend, I’d deliberately moved my car round the corner about five minutes before I knew she and Rollo would return from his extra tuition. Sure enough, she swooped eagerly into the space with a look of triumph on her face as she hopped out of the car. Unluckily for her, her typically cavalier parking played straight into my hands, and a quick call to the council to inform them of a car parked on the kerb resulted in a clamp and the highly satisfactory sight of her howling with rage when she came to leave the next morning. I’m not proud, but she hasn’t tried anything since, so I reckon the end justifies the means.
‘Darling! Merry Christmas.’ My mother beams as she throws open the door of the house she and Phil have lived in since they married. She envelops me in a bosomy hug that takes me back to my childhood as I return the embrace.
‘Let me look at you,’ she continues after a moment, holding me by the shoulders and scrutinising me closely. ‘You’ve lost weight again, haven’t you? You look tired, are you eating properly?’
‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly.’
‘Hm. You’re very pale. Are you sure you can’t stay the night? Your room is all made up and you look like you could do with a bit of spoiling. Your uncle Ted’s coming over with Gina and the girls tomorrow. I’m sure they’d love to see you.’
‘Sorry, Mum. Boxing Day is a work day in France, so I’m on the early-morning Eurostar.’
‘Ah, well. If it can’t be helped then we’ll just have to make the most of you while we have you. Come on in. We’ve doled out the presents and it’s been a full-time job persuading Louis to wait for you to arrive before opening them.’
I follow her down the hall to the sitting room, where the rest of my family are gathered. Phil is ensconced in his usual spot, a squishy leather armchair in front of the TV, and my sister Saffy is on the sofa with her husband Tim and a very wriggly Louis.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, everyone,’ I tell them as Mum settles herself into the chair next to Phil’s.
‘No worries. Lovely to see you, Thea, and Merry Christmas. Would you like a glass of fizz?’ Phil heaves himself out of his chair and wanders over to the sideboard that serves as his bar. It’s one of those ones that opens up to reveal an illuminated mirror-lined interior, and is full of bottles of weird liqueurs he and Mum have picked up on various holidays over the years. If you wanted a template for someone solidly middle class, Phil is it. He likes his home, his creature comforts and he loves my mother to bits. He may not be exciting, but we love him like the father Dad never was.
‘Just half a glass, please, Phil,’ I tell him. ‘I need to pace myself.’
‘Is there a present in your bag for me?’ Louis asks hopefully.
‘There is indeed,’ I tell him. ‘Would you like me to give it to you?’
He nods excitedly, eyes wide as I fish out the box with his name on it and hand it to him, before handing round the rest of the presents to my family.
‘Can I open it, Mum? Can I?’
I can see Saffy looking at me warily, evidently concerned about a repeat of chemistry-set-gate.
She sighs. ‘Go on then.’
He tears eagerly into the paper and I find myself holding my breath.
‘Oh, wow! Look, Mum. Look what Auntie Thea bought me.’
Her mouth drops open. ‘A Spiderman hero figurine? Where the bloody hell did you get one of those? They’ve been sold out literally everywhere since forever.’
‘I, umm, got lucky,’ I tell her. ‘There was one store in London that had some, and I guess I was in the right place at the right time.’ I make a mental note to tell Janice that she’s an absolute star.
‘You are a very lucky boy, Louis. What do you say to Auntie Thea?’
‘Thank you,’ he says dutifully.
‘It’s my pleasure, Louis,’ I tell him, breathing a sigh of relief.
The rest of ‘my’ presents are equally well received, and I don’t do too badly as a recipient either. Saffy and Tim have given me a small bottle of the Dior perfume I like, and Mum and Phil have played it safe with M he sends out emails periodically either to announce promotions, share results or congratulate teams on successful transactions. I think they’re supposed to be motivational, but I generally skim read the subject line and delete them without reading the detail. The subject line of this mail is simply ‘John Curbishley’, which piques my interest sufficiently for me to open the mail and read the rest.
To all Partners and Associates,
It is with great sadness that I have to announce the death of our friend and senior partner, John Curbishley, after a short illness. He is survived by his wife, Alice, and his two sons, Richard and Stephen. I have offered sincere condolences to the family on behalf of everyone at Morton Lansdowne, and assured his wife that we will do everything in our power to support her during the difficult days ahead.
The funeral directors will be organising an electronic book of condolence, and I have asked Margaret to share the link with you all as soon as it is available. Obviously, things will take a little longer during the holiday season.
On a personal note, I’d just like to say how much I admired John, both as a friend and colleague, and I know many of you will feel the same. In light of that, we would ask all UK-based associates to make every effort to clear their diaries so they can attend his memorial service. Margaret will circulate the date as soon as we receive word from the family. It’s expected that there will be a service in the Temple church, followed by a reception at Skinners’ Hall, the home of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which John was an active member.
My first reaction is disbelief. Although I didn’t like John at all, he’s been a part of the furniture at Morton Lansdowne for the entire time I’ve been there, and I can’t imagine the eighth floor without his brooding, malevolent presence. I’m also a little disorientated by the mention of his family. I’ve never imagined John, or any of the other senior partners, having a life outside work. I wonder what the illness was. He seemed to be in his usual acerbic form when I met with him just over a week ago for one of our regular debriefs. I bring up a mental image of his office to try to see if I can remember there being any pictures of his family. I think there was a frame on his desk, but I never got to see what it contained.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the voice comes over the tannoy as the train begins to slow, ‘we will shortly be arriving at Paris Gare du Nord. On behalf of the train manager and all the crew, I’d like to thank you for choosing Eurostar for your journey today, and we wish you a pleasant stay in Paris. If Paris is not your final destination, please contact one of our station staff, who will be pleased to assist you with your connection. Thank you, and good morning.’
I snap my laptop shut and start gathering my stuff together, pushing all thoughts of John aside as I focus my mind in preparation for the day ahead.