The Eleventh Commandment

‘Do drive carefully, won’t you?’

‘Mother, I’ve been driving for nine years without even a ticket, which is more than can be said for you or Dad. Now, will you stop worrying and tell me what you’re doing this evening?’

‘I’m going to hear Placido Domingo in La Boheme. I decided to wait until your father was out of town before I went, because I know he’d fall asleep before the first act was over.’

Are you going on your own?’

‘Yes.’

Well, be careful, Mother, and make sure you don’t sit in the first six rows.’

Why not?’ asked Maggie innocently.

‘Because some rich, handsome man might leap out of one of the boxes and ravish you.’

Maggie laughed. ‘I consider myself properly chastised.’

Why don’t you ask Joan to go with you? Then you can both talk about Dad all night.’

‘I called her at the office, but the number seems to be out of order. I’ll try her at home later.’

&

nbsp; ‘Bye, Mom, talk to you tomorrow,’ said Tara. She knew her mother would call every day while Connor was away.

Whenever Connor travelled abroad or took an evening off to partner Father Graham at the bridge club, Maggie would catch up with some of her university activities. Anything from GULP, the Georgetown University Litter Patrol, of which she was a founder member, to the Alive Women’s Poetry Society and the Irish dance class, where she gave lessons. The sight of the young students dancing, their backs straight, their feet tapping away, brought back memories of Declan O’Casey. He was now a distinguished professor, with a chair at the University of Chicago. He had never married, and still sent her a card every Christmas, and an unsigned one on Valentine’s Day. The old typewriter with the crooked ‘e’ always gave away his identity.

She picked up the phone again and dialled Joan’s home number, but there was no reply. She fixed herself a light salad, which she ate alone in the kitchen. After she had put the plate in the dishwasher she rang Joan again. There was still no answer, so she set off for the Kennedy Center. A single ticket was always easy to come by, however celebrated the guest tenor happened to be.

Maggie was transfixed by the first act of La Bohe`me, and only wished she had someone with whom to share the experience. When the curtain came down, she joined the throng heading for the foyer. As she approached the crowded bar, Maggie thought she caught a glimpse of Elizabeth Thompson. She remembered that she had invited her for coffee, but had never followed it up. She had been surprised, because the offer had sounded so genuine at the time.

When Ben Thompson turned and caught her eye, Maggie smiled and walked over to join them.

‘How nice to see you, Ben,’ she said.

‘And you too, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ he replied, but not in the warm voice she remembered from dinner a fortnight before. And why hadn’t he called her Maggie?

Undaunted, she ploughed on. ‘Domingo is magnificent, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, and we were extremely lucky to lure Leonard Slatkin from St Louis,’ said Ben Thompson. Maggie was surprised that he didn’t offer to buy her a drink, and when she finally ordered an orange juice, she was even more puzzled when he made no attempt to pay for it.

‘Connor is so looking forward to joining you all at Washington Provident,’ she said, taking a sip of her juice. Elizabeth Thompson appeared surprised, but didn’t comment.

‘He’s particularly grateful to you, Ben, for allowing him to put it off for a month so he could complete that unfinished contract for his old firm.’

Elizabeth was just about to say something when the three-minute bell sounded.

Well, we’d better get back to our seats,’ said Ben Thompson, although his wife had only half-finished her drink. ‘Nice to have seen you again, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He took his wife firmly by the arm and guided her towards the auditorium. ‘I hope you enjoy the second act.’

Maggie didn’t enjoy the second act. She couldn’t concentrate, as the conversation that had just taken place in the foyer kept running through her mind. But however many times she went over it, she couldn’t reconcile his attitude with what had taken place at the Thompsons’ only a fortnight before. If she had known how to get in touch with Connor, she would have broken the rule of a lifetime and phoned him. So she did the next best thing. The moment she arrived home, she called Joan Bennett again.

The phone rang and rang.

The following morning Connor rose early. He had settled his bill in cash, hailed a taxi and was on his way to Heathrow before the duty porter even realised he’d left. At seven forty he boarded Swissair Flight 839 to Geneva. The flight took just under two hours, and he readjusted his watch to ten thirty as the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground.

During the stopover he took advantage of Swissair’s offer to take a shower. He entered the ‘exclusive facility’ - the description in their in-flight magazine - as Theodore Lilystrand, an investment banker from Stockholm, and emerged forty minutes later as Piet de Villiers, a reporter with the Johannesburg Mercury.

Even though he still had over an hour to kill, Connor did not browse in any of the duty-free shops, buying only a croissant and a cup of coffee from one of the most expensive restaurants in the world.