Christopher Nicole: Her Name Will Be Faith

“Another week,” Julian Summers remarked, slumping into his chair, which faced that of his new senior, Richard Connors, in the weather room. “Had a good weekend?”

“I hung wallpaper,” Richard told him, continuing to study the various items on his desk. “Ever heard of something called Profiles? ”

“It’s a magazine.”

“So I gather.”

“Quite up-market,” Julian told him. “It’s a monthly, does in-depth studies of prominent people. All over the country, all over the world. From politicians to pop stars. Why?”

“They seem to want to do me.”

“You? Great balls of fire. You’ll be famous.”

Richard gave him an old-fashioned look. “Some female named Donnelly. Seems she has an appointment for Thursday. Shit!”

“Don’t you like females named Donnelly?” Julian asked, innocently.

“I don’t like females named anything, right this minute,” Richard told him. “But Kiley says I have to see her. Says it’ll please JC. You seen these, Julian?”

Julian got up to lean over his shoulder. “Water temperatures?”

“All Mark can get us.”

“Say, is it legal, for him to feed you all that data?”

Richard grinned. “Maybe it isn’t. We were at school together, then college. Heck, we played on the same team. So we’re buddies.”

“And so he keeps you one jump ahead of the other guys. Those look kind of high for May.”

“They are, goddamned high for May. And look at the pattern. From mid-Atlantic right across into the Caribbean and then up into the Bahamas and the Gulf Stream. Twenty-fours and fives and sixes, and out there, twenty-seven. But see that one?”

“Twenty-two.”

“That’s right. You know where that is?”

“Tell me.”

“That was taken at the Ambrose Lightship.” He pointed. “Not thirty miles east of New York Harbor.”

“So it’s gonna be one hot summer.”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “You know what sea temperature is needed to cause a hurricane?”

“Nope.”

“26° Centigrade. So there’s probably one spawning in mid-Atlantic right this minute.”

“So what’s new? Tomorrow is the first of June: the official beginning of the hurricane season.”

“Sure. We’ve had hurricanes on 1 June before,” Richard agreed. “But they have to have warm water, so that this time of year they fizzle when they get up here, or even off the Bahamas. But here we are, at the beginning of June, and there’s warm water everywhere. We could have 27° plus up here in another month if the weather holds as it is. That means the whole goddamned ocean is going to be hurricane-ripe by July.”

“So the guys in Florida are going to be busy. Thank God it’s nothing to do with us.”

“You reckon? What about Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Didn’t she just about knock on your door, up here?”

“She was a freak,” Julian pointed out. “And she missed. Just.”

“All hurricanes are freaks of nature, Julian,” Richard told him. “And they all hit somewhere, some time.”

Julian frowned. “You really reckon a hurricane could hit New York? Christ, that’d be something.”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Yeah, it could happen. Just let’s keep an eye on those water temperatures.”

Sunlight flooded the bedroom, and Jo yawned and stretched, smiling as she touched the sleeping form beside her. They had been out to dinner the previous night, and he would probably sleep for a while yet. They had had a lot of fun.

She rolled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair, and began to get the world moving. The apartment, thirty-eight floors up, was light and airy, with a plate-glass picture window in the lounge giving a panoramic view over the city and the East River. Jo had worked hard at her ambition to create a smart, modern home with a cozy, lived-in atmosphere; even the family room had style, despite the haphazard piles of yachting books and journals, children’s games and Nana’s bean-bag bed. Nana awoke as soon as her mistress came in, and for all her age and rheumatism there was a bout of energetic tail wagging before she grabbed Jo’s hand, gently, and led her into the kitchen to stand, significantly, before a certain cupboard.

“You reckon it’s milk bone time, do you?” Jo laughed and took a bone-shaped biscuit from its box. Nana accepted it daintily, and carried it away to her beanbag.

Florence had already arrived, and was making coffee, while Jo got the children out of bed, to wash their faces and get dressed for school. Florence Bennett had worked for Jo since Owen Michael’s appearance was imminent. From being a nurse full-time she had developed into a nanny-cum-housekeeper when the children started school. A large, red-faced woman of Scottish descent, married to a fishmonger named Bert, whom she loved dearly but who was half her size, she was a total treasure. Jo sometimes felt that Florence kept the entire junior Donnelly household sane.

This morning, as usual, Florence would walk the children to school. Jo had ideas about sending them to boarding school when they were a little older — she even dreamed of Owen Michael going to an English public school — but it was a touchy subject at the moment, like so many.

The children sat down to breakfast and she returned to her bedroom, to discover Michael sitting up and scratching his head. “Shit,” he remarked. “That’s exactly what I feel like. Must’ve been the olives.”

Jo mixed up a glass of Alka-Seltzer, handed it to him.

“Ugh.” He sighed. “Meet me at the Club at 11.30, will you?”

“Eh?” About to step into the shower, she turned in surprise.

“I’m taking an out-of-towner to lunch, and he’s got his wife with him. So I reckon it’d be good to make up a foursome; he’s quite well heeled. I’ve booked a table at the Four Seasons, but we’ll have a drink at the Club first.”

“I’m sorry.” Jo shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Eh?” It was his turn to be surprised.

“I can’t meet you at eleven. I have an appointment at 11.15.”

“Cancel it.”

“Now you know I can’t do that, Michael. It’s an interview. You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn’t goddam well know until yesterday.”

“And you never thought to tell me last night. I’m sorry, but this interview was set up by the magazine. Tell you what, though: I might be able to join you at the restaurant at about one…”

“Fucking hell,” he said. “What’s the good of that? Do you think I want these people to know my wife works for a living?”

Jo sighed. Her going back to work had always been one of the several bones of contention between them; Michael felt she should just sit at home being a mother and twiddle her thumbs until he required her for some purpose or other.

“Okay,” she said. “Then I won’t come to the restaurant.”

She stood beneath the shower, allowing the water to bounce off her flesh, and opened her eyes as the stall door was jerked wide. One look at his face told her that he was in one of his moods. He had them from time to time, fits of depression when his mind descended into some private black hell, and when he would seize on any controversial aspect of their relationship as a reason to quarrel. Often enough it was their different religions. Michael was not a serious Catholic — none of the Donnellys were, although they went to confession and attended mass from time to time — and although she, as an Anglican, had had to agree that the children would be brought up in the Roman faith, the point was never belabored — when he was in a good mood. But too often, when he lost his temper, criticism of the way she was educating Owen Michael and Tamsin would be hurled at her. Thus usually she preferred it when he carried on about her job — but this morning there was an added bite to his aggression.