from now on. The world can be at its most dangerous when you’re feeling safe.
Martel was a French-style bistro plonked right on the line where Westport met Southport. When you walked through the etched-glass doors, you could imagine you were in Paris.
Marty, the larger-than-life owner, knew his patrons well.
Claire, Sasha, Julia and Paulina had been having lunch there most Saturdays since the doors opened, and always enjoyed being there.
Claire had showered quickly after her run and slipped into cream trousers and a cashmere sweater. A low-slung belt and a cropped leather jacket, the same turquoise colour as her eyes, completed the outfit. It was simple but striking.
‘Where were you last Saturday?’ Marty, the owner, greeted her like a lost love. She was his favourite.
‘I picked up a little bug, but I’m fine now. I missed you too, Marty.’ Her quick kiss on the cheek put the smile back on his face. ‘Am I the first to arrive?’
Marty gestured to the back room. ‘They’ve been back there for an hour with their heads together. Plotting the overthrow of the government is my guess.’
Claire hurried towards the back room and slid into her usual place next to Sasha in the big corner booth. The others were already halfway through a carafe of the special house wine, which Marty kept for his favourites. ‘Did you have breakfast here?’ she asked, air-kissing her three friends.
‘Having it now,’ Paulina said, pouring Claire a hefty glass.
‘Marty tells me you are up to something,’ Claire remarked.
‘We’re celebrating!’ Sasha answered.
Claire raised her glass. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘That you’re here, of course.’ Sasha said. ‘Last Saturday was deadly, right ladies?’ The three friends clinked glasses and toasted Claire. ‘Marty sulked. And without you we were so depressed we all ordered healthy meals.’
‘You didn’t!’ Claire felt that warm rush of happiness that always came over her when she was with these women. Friends, especially women friends, gave life something extra. She wondered if men knew what they were missing. ‘Don’t tell me you had salads!’
‘Worse!’ Paulina exclaimed. She had the body of a swimsuit model and the wit of Joan Rivers. She wore her jet-black hair short and spiky, and could be as funny as the writers of the comedy shows she oversaw for a television network. ‘We shared salads!’
‘It was hell! But you’re here now, and all’s right with the world.’ Julia lovingly cut a large slab of rich pâté, plopped it on a plate and pushed it towards Claire. Julia was the chef at Gumbo, the hotspot just off Park Avenue on 83rd Street in Manhattan. She and her partner, Alexa, had opened it five years ago. They specialised in food from Julia’s hometown of New Orleans.
Julia had an ongoing love affair with food. She had been raised in a city where eating was a religion, and not enjoying food was a sin. Gathering her flaming red hair into a ponytail, as though preparing for battle, she tore off a large chunk of bread for Claire and one for herself. ‘I think I’ll torture myself and just sit here and watch you eat that, Claire, and not gain an ounce! It’s very hard being the friend of someone who stays slim whatever she eats.’
Claire ate with gusto, and moaned with delight, ‘It’s perfection!’
Julia did the same. ‘See. I just put on a pound and you look just the same. One day soon I won’t be able to wear clothes, even those fabulous rags you pick out for me at Gilda. I’ll have to be upholstered, like a chair.’
‘Stop it,’ laughed Paulina. ‘You are beautiful, Julia.’
‘And don’t worry,’ Claire said, taking a sip of the wine. ‘Curves are back!’
‘In that case …’ Julia helped herself to another slice of the gourmet pâté.
Claire looked at Sasha who had been somewhat quiet. ‘You all right, Sash?’
‘Of course I am. Just speechless at all this pigging out.’ Sasha signalled for Marty, and continued, ‘We missed you on the train this week, Claire.’
Sasha reached over and gently squeezed Claire’s hand, just as Marty arrived at the table.
‘I see you’re all happy now the band is back together.’ The other women always insisted he had a crush on Claire, which was probably true. ‘Glad to have you back, pretty lady,’ he now murmured, looking at her.
‘Thanks, Marty. The place looks great!’
‘So, ladies, what’s your pleasure?’
Sasha topped up Claire’s wine glass. ‘You know what we like to eat, Marty. You choose. Just bring more wine, please.’
Lunch had lasted until three o’clock. Claire and Sasha lingered over their espressos after the other women had gone off for their usual Saturday activities. The good feelings Claire had felt on her run had begun to return, surrounded as she was by the warmth of her friends. But Sasha, usually the life of the party, had been quiet all through lunch. Claire studied her. ‘So what’s going on with you?’
‘I’m worried about you.’ Sasha added another cube of sugar to her coffee.
‘You didn’t say anything to the others?’
‘Claire, they’re not blind. We’ve all been friends for ever. I would expect that they know. Wouldn’t you know if something was going on with one of them?’
‘I suppose.’
‘They’re just nicer than I am, and keep their mouths shut. But they’re worried too.’ Another cube of sugar went into her cup. Sasha was nervous and trying not to show it. ‘Any word from Mark?’
‘Not a word. He usually calls every morning, whatever time zone he’s in.’ Claire forced a smile. ‘But I know he’s all right. If he so much as sneezed, the press corps would have it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.’
‘I’m not worried about Mark, and you know it.’
Claire leaned back, staring at her hands. All week she had tried to push Mark’s warning from her mind. ‘Don’t sleep too soundly,’ he had said. ‘This isn’t over.’
‘Do you have any idea what sets him off? Is it really just that he wants you to quit working?’ Sasha tried not to look at her friend’s wounded arm.
Claire took a sip of her coffee, remembering Mark’s questions about Deborah’s birth father. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘No idea.’
‘When is he back?’
‘Tonight, late. It’s okay. We’ll talk things through.’
Sasha was ready to cry out with frustration. ‘What is the matter with you, Claire? You need to see a lawyer. Get some sort of restraining order.’
‘You know I can’t do that! The newspapers—’
Sasha
