Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

“And me?” Tamsin squealed.

Jo looked on, beaming. Had it really worked? Certainly it was time to forget that crooked smile.

“God, but it’s hot out there.” Jayme, Richard Connors’ secretary, delicately patted perspiration from her neck as she came into the office; she had nipped out for a sandwich between newscasts. “Even without the sun I bet you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. And it’s only June. What do you reckon it’s going to be like come August?”

“Worse than Florida,” Richard commented. He was trying to concentrate on the various weather reports, which were certainly interesting, but was finding himself instead thinking about Jo Donnelly. He wondered if anything might come of her suggestion that he do a series on hurricanes. It was something he’d love to tackle, supposing Kiley would go for it. Although, he supposed, the real decision would come from that snapping turtle on the top floor.

But he wondered even more if she had suggested the idea — with its implication that they would work together — from a purely professional point of view, or if she might have had an ulterior motive? But how could she, happily married as she was and with kids. Maybe if he and Pam had had kids… but that had been yet another thing on which they had differed.

Jayme leaned over him. “Anything interesting on the way?”

“More of the same for us, I’m afraid. But the first storm of the season is down there. Just came in.”

“Where? Let me see.”

He prodded the map, as she rested one breast on his shoulder; she was already half in love with him. “There, in the middle of the Caribbean. They’ve just up-rated him into a Tropical Storm; winds around the center are sustaining 45 knots. So he has a name: Anthony.”

“And is Anthony going to become a hurricane?”

“Could be. The water temperature down there is certainly high enough. But he’s not going to interest us; starting where he is, he’ll almost certainly head off into the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Now there’s a shame,” Jayme remarked. “If he’d come up here, maybe we’d get some rain to cool things off. You know what, Richard? I’ll bet you ten bucks we’re on water rationing before another month is out. Can’t you conjure up a storm for us?”

Richard was studying the charts, plotting the course of the jet stream. “I don’t think I’m going to have to do that,” he said. “I think one may come along of its own accord.”

The Four Seasons restaurant hummed with muted conversation around the vast shrubbery where prospective diners sipped aperitifs and greeted friends and guests. It was a constant source of interest to Jo Donnelly, as an Englishwoman, to observe the variety and general informality of clothes American women wore to dinner in one of New York’s leading establishments. In London it was not unusual to see long gowns and black ties — certainly most women would be in smart summer dresses, at least, but here no one seemed to bother; skirts and blouses, suits, slacks, even jeans, were apparently acceptable. A pity, she thought, so to downgrade a special evening.

Michael smiled at his wife, and was aware how lovely she looked tonight; the neck of her white dress was cut wide and low, revealing the deep tan on which a two-carat solitaire diamond pendant gleamed, matching the sparkle of her ear-studs as she moved her head. She wasn’t beautiful in the modern film star style, yet she outshone any other woman in the room. The angle of her head, her sleekness and dignity, had always attracted him, always would… if only — what? If only she’d let him lead his own life? Stop nagging? Give up her damned journalism? Stick to the role of wife and mother? But if she did, could, would she still be the lively, dynamic personality with whom he had fallen in love?

“Penny for your thoughts.” Jo squeezed his hand. He told her. After all, they had come here to round off their wonderful weekend together — and to discuss where they went from here.

It was the opening they needed.

“Can you understand that I am just not that sort of person?” Jo gazed into his face, pleading for his understanding.

“Can you understand that I need excitement and stimulation — like yacht racing? That’s the sort of person I am.”

“Yes, of course. And if it’s not yacht racing it must be something else. I see that.” She took his hand from the cocktail table and held it between both of hers, on her lap. “But as I see it, yachting as such is not the problem. Time is the point at issue. Time to be with your wife and family. Surely modern marriage isn’t just a quick fuck and a wave of the hand in passing, as one flits from job to amusement and back? No,” she shook her head as he tried to speak. “Don’t get me wrong. You and I have the same problems — I just think I schedule my life better than you, so as to do justice to each of my roles. And I’ve cut out of my life all other interests until Owen Michael and Tamsin are much older.”

“What other interests?”

“Sport. When I left England I was in the top division of the squash league, remember? And I was also a county class tennis player.”

“If you would only give up your…”

“Don’t say it, please. I sacrificed sport for a career and that’s that. Look at it this way; I spend an average of six hours a day, thirty hours a week, on journalism, and eight hours a day, plus all weekends, say sixty-five hours a week, on home and family. And I spend all vacations with Owen Michael and Tamsin.”

Michael frowned. “Eight hours a day? How do you work that out?” “Seven till nine in the mornings; half twelve till two lunch time; and six till half ten evenings.”

“Well, I do almost that.”

“True. But it’s the weekends and holidays which are causing the problem.” She held up her hand again as he opened his mouth. “I am going to make you an offer. I’ll promise to cut down my journalism by an average of one hour a day, if you’ll promise to spend alternate weekends with the kids and me, and take two weeks’ vacation with us every summer, plus the winter skiing. And alternate public holidays.”

The headwaiter appeared at that moment to lead them to their table, so Michael had several minutes to consider his reply. “Well, put that way, I suppose it sounds fair,” he admitted, as an under-waiter spread a napkin across his lap. “I hadn’t analyzed the situation down to hours, as you seem to have done, and I’d gotten the idea that I was spending that much time with you anyway. It’s just a pity the Bermuda Race this year is sailed at roughly the same time Dad and Babs always go down to Eleuthera, and you know how disappointed they’d be if they didn’t have the kids with them every summer. But what with the preparations and all that… you do realize the Bermuda Race is the big one?”

“I know. It will be an enormous sacrifice to miss it…” Jo started.

“Miss it? You mean…” He paused to study her expression. “Oh, God, yes, I see you do.”

He was miserable, torn both ways, and she watched his torment with pity… but what was the alternative? “It won’t be forever,” she said gently. “In five years the thought of a holiday with us old folks will bore the kids silly. You’ll be able to do what you like, then.”

“Does this mean you want me to sell my share of Esmeralda?” Michael asked over his avocado and prawns.

“Good Lord, no! Can’t you just cut down the amount of time you spend on her?” She didn’t want to be unreasonable.