‘No!’ Paul slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘If it is irreversible, then there is nothing to discuss, John. Nothing. Forget it. Do you understand. And John, I forbid you to tell Clare, or discuss this with her at all. Is that completely clear? I absolutely forbid it. I will tell her myself when the right moment comes.’
He put the phone down and stood up. The bottle of Scotch in the drinks cupboard in the corner of the office was still unopened. Breaking the seal he unscrewed it, pouring himself half a tumbler and sipping it slowly, his mind mercifully blank as he walked over to the window and stared down into Coleman Street. The traffic was at a standstill, the pavements crowded.
He had been watching for several minutes when slowly his attention focussed on the far side of the road. A woman was standing there waiting to cross. She was holding a small boy by the hand. As they waited, the child began to jump up and down with excitement, looking up at her, and he saw the woman’s face as she smiled down at him. It held an expression of such tenderness that for a moment he found himself biting his lip.
With a groan he turned from the window and hurled the whisky glass across the room.
Emma Cassidy was in the bath when her brother rang. Wrapped in a dark green bath sheet she sat down on the edge of her bed.
‘Hi, Paul. How are things in the City?’
‘Much as usual.’ He sounded depressed. ‘Em, I want to talk to you about Clare.’
‘Oh?’ Emma was suspicious.
‘You know she’s got very involved with this yoga stuff. She’s taking it very seriously.’
‘That’s a good thing, surely.’ Emma threw herself back on the heaped pillows. Downstairs, her daughter Julia was sitting watching children’s TV. For five minutes the house was peaceful. ‘I’ve done some yoga myself. It did wonders for my figure.’
‘No doubt. But she is doing it because she is obsessed with this idea of having a baby.’ Paul’s voice was hard. ‘It’s crazy. She must stop thinking about it. I am sure now in my own mind that children would not be a good thing. Not for us. We manage fine without that encumbrance in our lives and we’ve got to find a way to put an end to this obsession of hers.’
There was a short silence, then Emma laughed uncertainly. ‘My God, Paul. I thought it was you who kept on about having a son all the time. It was you who was making poor Clare feel so bad about it.’
‘In which case I must disabuse her of the idea.’ Paul was abrupt. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
Emma sat up straight. She frowned. ‘Has something happened, Paul? What is it?’
‘I’m thinking of Clare. She’s been under a lot of strain.’ He sounded repressive. ‘And she is taking this yoga too far. I don’t like the sound of this man who has been teaching her, or the thought of him wandering around my house. He is beginning to get her involved in some weird practices.’
‘Really?’ Emma gave a breathless laugh. ‘You know, I think I like the sound of that. I wonder if they’d let me join in!’
‘I’m being serious, Emma. Something has to be done, before it gets out of hand. I want you to try and talk her out of this whole stupid business.’
‘Why me, Paul? Why can’t you do it?’ Emma was serious again.
‘Because she won’t listen to me. You know what she’s like. She can be so damn stubborn.’
Emma frowned. ‘I always thought you two could talk, Paul. Have you been quarrelling again?’
‘We have not.’ He was growing exasperated. ‘Just help me in this, Emma! You have always got on well with her. She’ll listen to you. I have to nip this thing in the bud. When did you last speak to her?’
‘I tried to ring her at Bucksters today, but your terrifying Mrs C. said she was out. I’ll try again when she comes up to town tomorrow. We’d vaguely arranged to meet on Friday anyway. But Paul, surely yoga isn’t bad? I don’t understand why you’re so worried about it.’
‘It’s not the yoga as such, it is what goes with it: it’s the meditation this man is teaching her, the mind bending, the attempts to conjure a child out of the air –’
‘Is that what she is doing?’ Emma was horrified. ‘Oh, Paul, that’s terrible. Tragic.’
‘Exactly. So will you help me?’
‘You know I will. Oh poor Clare, that’s ghastly.’
She looked up at Julia who, bored with television, had wandered into the room, chewing on an apple, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Rex Cummin was standing on the balcony of his penthouse flat in Eaton Square. It was eight in the morning and the air was still cold as he absently studied the trees while waiting for his car to arrive outside the front door four floors below.
‘Here’s the mail, honey.’ His wife stepped out next to him with a handful of letters. They were a good-looking couple in their mid-fifties, both immaculately and formally dressed for the day. ‘Do you want me to fetch you some breakfast before the car gets here? Louise is late again, I’m afraid.’
He looked up from thumbing through the pile of envelopes. ‘Don’t be too hard on that kid, Mary. She’s efficient enough, and she has a long way to come on the bus. Toch!’ He gave an exclamation of disgust and handed the post back to her. ‘Still nothing from that Scotch solicitor! Dammit, Mary, when is that woman going to answer him?’
‘You only instructed him to make an offer for the estate last week, honey.’ She did not have to be told what he was talking about. ‘It could take months for them to get round to discussing it.’
She noticed with a worried frown that he had clenched his fists and that the vein in his temple was beginning to throb again.
‘Months is no good!’ he shouted. ‘Sigma has got to have that land all signed and sealed before any breath of suspicion about the secret seismological surveys leaks out. Hell, Mary, what we’ve been doing is strictly against the law in this country. You can’t go round doing surveys on other people’s property without permission. We’ve got to cover ourselves. That’s why this place is so perfect. We make Mrs Royland a good offer for that hotel – which must be losing her thousands a year. OK, so everyone realises why we did it later, but by then it will be too late. My God, even Bob Vogel in Houston isn’t on to the implications of those surveys yet.’ He slapped his fist into his palm. ‘And we have to wait for some goddam British solicitor to ass about –’ He winced suddenly, his hand going to his diaphragm.
His wife’s practised eyes missed nothing. ‘I’ll get you some Maalox, honey, it’ll line your stomach.’ She turned back towards the windows. Then she hesitated. ‘Did you make offers on any of the rest of the properties in that area?’ It was a seemingly innocent question.
He shook his head. ‘There are going to be problems with the rest. Most of it is owned by the National Trust for Scotland and people like that. We’ll put in bids later if the British government gives
