Private Lives

‘Oh darling,’ she cooed. ‘You’ve just caught me on my way out. Where were you?’

‘I’ve been to see Matt at work,’ he muttered, still smarting about the argument he’d had with his son.

‘Really?’ she said, her face betraying a hint of worry. ‘What about?’

‘It was Jonas’s birthday on Saturday. I took him a present.’

‘That would be a first.’

She didn’t say it maliciously, but the words hurt him. Angrily he flung the keys on to the hall cabinet.

‘I’m trying, okay? Yes, I’ve been a shit in my time, but I’m trying to be a good husband, a good father, even a decent grandfather. Is that so wrong?’

She held up her dainty hands.

‘All right, all right,’ she said soothingly. ‘Let’s not get worked up; remember what Dr Strong said about your blood pressure.’

She was right, of course, and he could feel his heart thumping uncomfortably, but some things just had to be said.

‘I hear Matt and Jonas came round on Saturday. Why didn’t you tell me?’ He’d made light of Matt’s revelation in the pub, but the fact that Loralee had kept their visit from him had been needling him all the way back to Chelsea.

‘You were resting, darling,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to have visitors just then.’

‘Why the hell not? I was only watching TV.’

‘How am I supposed to know when you’re asleep, reading, or watching telly? You’re recuperating. If you’re in the bedroom or the den, I’m going to assume you don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘But this was my grandson, Loralee. It was his birthday.’

‘Yes, you said,’ she snapped. ‘And I told you I thought you were asleep.’

Her expression softened almost immediately. She put her clutch bag under her arm and came over to give him a warm kiss on the lips.

‘Let’s not fight, baby,’ she breathed seductively. ‘It was only a misunderstanding, after all.’ She trailed her fingertips down his chest and kissed his neck. She smelled of honeysuckle and the cosmetic waxiness of lipstick, and he instantly felt a stirring in his groin.

‘Perhaps,’ he murmured, sliding his hand up her leg.

‘Let’s save that until later,’ she whispered, removing his hand.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Danielle is having a little supper,’ she said, straightening herself up.

‘I thought Danielle was in Sardinia.’

‘Back yesterday,’ she said, then turned and held out her hand. ‘Did you want to come, baby?’

He shook his head. ‘You go. I’m tired.’ In reality, he couldn’t think of anything worse than spending the evening with one of Loralee’s gym friends. They were all so vacuous – and they brought out the worst in his wife. Last time Loralee had dragged him to Danielle’s place, he had been forced to sit and listen as they discussed colonic irrigation – and that included the men.

As the front door slammed shut, Larry walked slowly to his study, standing in the doorway. He felt restless and unsettled. It wasn’t just the confrontation with Matthew, when things had seemed to be going so well between them. He even felt vulnerable being home alone, wondering if another heart attack, like some seismic aftershock, could strike at any minute. It was the sort of discomfort he knew alcohol could settle. Back in the pub, the sight of Matt’s bitter had made him almost drool, but however good it would have tasted, it wouldn’t have been worth the inevitable lecture. He’d had enough of those when he was in hospital. The doctors had seemed to draw some sort of sick pleasure from reeling off the endless list of things he had to avoid. Cigarettes, gone. Cigars, banished. Whisky, vodka, gin, all off the menu. No wonder he was feeling so irritable these days. The only patch of blue in this blanket of grey sky was when his consultant had let slip that some studies had shown that an occasional glass of red wine might actually decrease the chances of a recurrent attack. Larry had seized on the idea with both hands.

A little of what you fancy . . . he thought as he opened the door to the wine cellar and descended the stone steps. The chill of the cellar felt good after the too-warm summer’s day, and he smiled at the rows of sleeping bottles as if they were old friends. There were thousands of bottles down here. Over the last twenty years Larry had invested in art and in wine, and both had yielded impressive returns. Some of the oldest, dustiest bottles were worth upwards of ten thousand pounds.

As he ran his fingers along the racks, Larry thought of Matthew and felt a stab of pride. He knew his son was a better man than he would ever be, a fact that he had, disappointingly, very little to do with. He liked to kid himself that he had had a hand in Matt’s accomplishments, but the truth was, Larry had spent more money tucking crisp fifty-pound notes into lap dancers’ g-strings than he had on his son’s education. He’d offered, of course, but Katherine had turned him down flat.

‘We’ve managed very well without you so far. Why don’t you spend it on your tarts?’ had been her response, if he remembered correctly. She’d been a fiery one, his Kathy, he thought with a smile. In the end, Matty had gone to a good state-funded grammar and from there on to Trinity College, Cambridge. He’d done well, but then he had always been his mother’s son; an idealist, and that was exactly the sort of lawyer he had become. A smart, nimble-minded one who used his considerable brain to work within the law. But Larry had meant what he said in the pub. Sometimes the law just wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been his knowledge of the law that had made Donovan Sr one of the best solicitors in London. It was his understanding of power, and how it was the only thing that mattered in any negotiation. And wasn’t that all a divorce was? A negotiation on how to divide up the assets?

Feeling suddenly better, he carried the dusty bottle upstairs and decanted £400 worth of claret into a crystal goblet. Swilling it around the glass, letting it breathe, enjoying the ritual and the anticipation of pleasure deferred, he opened up his laptop. Matt wasn’t his stooge. From the feedback Larry had heard within the firm, his son was shaping up to be a popular and competent managing partner. Still, everybody could use a little helping hand . . .