To Cut a Long Story Short

Three months later, after both sides of solicitors had agreed on the value of Ruth Ethel Bennett’s estate, Max Donald Bennett received a cheque for PS6,270,000 in full and final settlement.

Whenever Ruth looked back on the past three years - and she often did - she came to the conclusion that Max must have planned everything right down to the last detail. Yes, even before they had bumped into each other.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT*

ANDREW WAS running late, and would have grabbed a taxi if it hadn’t been the rush hour. He entered the crowded Metro and dodged in and out of the hordes of commuters as they headed down the escalator on their way home.

Andrew wasn’t on his way home. After only four stops he would re-emerge from the bowels of the earth to keep an appointment with Ely Bloom, the Chief Executive of Chase Manhattan in Paris. Although Andrew had never met Bloom, like all his colleagues at the bank, he was well aware of his reputation. He didn’t ‘take a meeting’ with anyone unless there was a good reason.

Andrew had spent the forty-eight hours since Bloom’s secretary had called to make the appointment trying to work out what that good reason could possibly be. A simple switch from Credit Suisse to Chase seemed the obvious answer - but it was unlikely to be that simple if Bloom was involved. Was he about to make Andrew an offer he couldn’t refuse? Would he expect him to return to New York after he had spent less than two years in Paris? So many questions floated through his mind. He knew he should stop speculating, as they would all be answered at six o’clock. He would have run down the escalator, but it was too crowded.

Andrew knew he had a few chips stacked on his side of the table - he had headed up the foreign exchange desk at Credit Suisse for almost two years, and it was common knowledge that he was outperforming all of his rivals. The French bankers had simply shrugged their shoulders when they were told of Andrew’s success, while his American rivals just tried to persuade him to leave his present position and join them. Whatever Bloom might offer him, Andrew was confident Credit Suisse would match it. Whenever he had received other approaches during the past twelve months he had dismissed them with the same polite, boyish grin - but he knew that this time would be different. Bloom wasn’t a man who could be bought off with a polite, boyish grin.

Andrew didn’t want to move banks, as he was well satisfied with the package Credit Suisse had given him - and at his age, what young man wouldn’t enjoy working in Paris? However, it was that time of the year when annual bonuses were being considered, so he was happy to be seen ‘taking a meeting’ with Ely Bloom in the American Bar at the Georges V. It would be only a matter of hours before someone reported the sighting to his superiors.

When Andrew stepped onto the platform of the Metro, it was so crowded that he wondered if he would be able to get on the first train that pulled into the station. He checked his watch: 5.37. He should still be well in time for the meeting, but as he had no intention of being late for Mr Bloom, he began to slip through any tiny opening or gap that appeared until he found himself at the front of the melee, well placed to climb on board the next train. Even if he didn’t reach an agreement with Mr Bloom, the man was going to be an important figure in the banking world for years to come, so there was no point in turning up late and making a bad impression.

Andrew waited impatiently for the next train to emerge from the tunnel. He stared across the track at the opposite platform, and tried to concentrate on what questions Bloom might ask.

What is your present salary?

Can you break your contract?

Are you o

n a bonus scheme?

Are you willing to return to New York?

The southbound platform was just as crowded as the one he was standing on, and Andrew’s concentration was broken when his eyes settled on a young woman who was glancing at her watch. Perhaps she also had an appointment she couldn’t afford to be late for.

When she raised her head, he immediately forgot Ely Bloom. He just stared into those deep brown eyes. She remained unaware of her admirer. She must have been about five foot eight, with the most perfect oval face, olive skin that would never require make-up, and a mop of curly black hair that no hairdresser could possibly have permed. I’m on the wrong side of the track, he told himself, and it’s too late to do anything about it.

She wore a beige-coloured raincoat, the tied belt leaving no question as to how slim and graceful her figure was, and her legs - or as much as he could see of them - completed a perfect package. Better than any Mr Bloom could offer.

She checked her watch again and then looked up, suddenly aware that he was staring at her.

He smiled. She blushed and lowered her head just as two trains glided into the station from opposite ends of the platform. Everyone standing behind Andrew pushed forward to claim a place on the waiting train.

When it pulled out of the station, Andrew was the only person left on the platform. He stared across at the train on the other side, and watched it slowly accelerate out of the station. When it had disappeared into the tunnel, Andrew smiled again. Only one person remained on the opposite platform, and this time she returned his smile.

You may ask how I know this story to be true. The answer is simple. I was told it at Andrew and Claire’s tenth wedding anniversary earlier this year.

BOTH SIDES AGAINST THE MIDDLE*

‘There’s one problem I haven’t touched on,’ said Billy Gibson. ‘But first, let me refill your glass.’

For the past hour the two men had sat quietly in the corner of the King William Arms discussing the problems of running a police station on the border of Northern Ireland and Eire. Billy Gibson was retiring after thirty years in the force, the past six of them as Chief of Police. His successor, Jim Hogan, had been brought in from Belfast, and the talk was that if he made a good fist of it, his next stop would be as Chief Constable.

Billy took a long draught, and settled back before he began his story.

‘No one can be quite sure of the truth about the house that straddles the border, but, as with all good Irish stories, there are always several half-truths circulating at any one time. I need to tell you a little of the house’s history before I come to the problem I’m having with its present owners. To do that I must mention, if only in passing, one Patrick O’Dowd, who worked in the planning department of Belfast City Council.’

‘A nest of vipers at the best of times,’ chipped in the new Chief.

‘And those were not the best of times,’ said the retiring Chief, before taking another sip of Guinness. His thirst quenched, he continued his story.

‘No one has ever understood why O’Dowd granted planning permission for a house to be built on the border in the first place. It was not until it had been completed that someone in the rates department in Dublin got hold of an Ordnance Survey map, and pointed out to the authorities in Belfast that the border ran right through the middle of the sitting room. Old lags in the village say the local builder misread the plans, but others assure me that he knew exactly what he was doing.