Joseph O'Neill - This is the Life

I said nothing to this, I just dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.

‘You know why?’ Mr Donovan said in that rhetorical, American way. ‘You know why I see trouble? Because Michael is taking charge of the whole action. He’s calling all the shots. And if I know my son, which I do, it’ll be his foot he’ll be shooting.’ He paused in satisfaction. The waiter made a timely arrival and served the pamplemousse. I had not ordered a starter. I was watching my weight.

‘You seem to have forgotten, Mr Donovan, that when it comes to legal matters, Michael is peerless. He’s more than capable of looking after his own interests.’

Mr Donovan stopped segmenting his pamplemousse and stared at me in disbelief. ‘You really think that?’ he said. ‘Is that really what you think?’

I smiled at Donovan’s father. He obviously had no idea how skilful a lawyer his son was. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And besides, I don’t think it’s quite right to say that Michael is calling all the shots, as you put it. I am there to advise him, and I can assure you that I am not without experience in the field of matrimonial law. There’s really no need to worry, Mr Donovan,’ I said.

‘Jim, you’ll forgive me if I say this,’ Mr Donovan said, ‘but you’re exactly the push-over he said you were.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He’s got you eating out of his hand,’ Mr Donovan said excitedly, ‘like this!’ He demonstrated with a piece of his grapefruit, popping a piece into his mouth with his fingers. ‘Look at you: you’ve allowed his big-shot reputation to intimidate you!’

I stiffened. There is a limit to how much abuse one can take.

Mr Donovan said, ‘Don’t get upset, Jim, I’m sorry I said that. I take that back.’ He looked apologetic and pushed aside his fruit. ‘I’ve got a big mouth,’ he admitted. ‘But it does strike me that you’re allowing Michael to dictate to you what the plan of action is. How do I know? Because I’ve spoken to Michael. And you know what he says about you?’

Something rolled inside my belly. Across the table, Mr Donovan was scrutinizing my face. ‘I’m not sure how that matters, Mr Donovan,’ I said.

‘He says you can be relied on to carry out his instructions.’

More food arrived. Mr Donovan decisively helped himself to a blade of butter and inserted it into the two steaming crevasses that criss-crossed his baked potato. He began tucking into his food, swallowing and chewing with great relish. His eating habits were strikingly neat and tidy, and he forked and knifed and manipulated his food with an infectious precision. He made his potato seem delicious.

‘This may surprise you, Mr Donovan,’ I said, in what I hoped was a cutting tone of voice, ‘but the function of a solicitor is to carry out his client’s instructions. Reliably. It is not my role to decide for Michael where his interests lie.’

‘I haven’t come here to knock reliability. It’s a great quality to have, especially in a solicitor, Jim. But this situation calls for more than reliability. It calls for something extra — leadership.’ Mr Donovan put down his cutlery. ‘You see Jim, what Mikey knows-about women you could write on a postage stamp. This divorce — it’s not about law, it’s about feelings, human feelings. Now Mikey doesn’t have a clue about what to do with his feelings. He’s always been that way, ever since he was a snot-nose. When it comes to emotions, I’m telling you he couldn’t find his ass with two hands.’

Mr Donovan started eating again. ‘A few days ago I spoke to Arabella’s solicitors.’ He noticed my interest and said, ‘Yes, that’s right, Jim, Arabella, my son’s wife — soon to be my son’s ex-wife unless you people — unless something is done. They told me that you are refusing to talk to them. Is that right?’ He looked at me accusingly. ‘You’re not talking to them?’

‘That’s not quite accurate, Mr Donovan,’ I said defensively. ‘I have been in regular communication with Mrs Donovan’s solicitors. Moreover —’

He interrupted me. ‘Regular communication? Is that what you call it? You’ve been stonewalling every time her solicitor — what’s his name, Hughes — speaks to you! What’s going on, Jim? Maybe I’m stupid, Jim, maybe I’m just a dummy. That’s a distinct possibility, I’ll grant you that.’ Mr Donovan made a gesture of concession with his hands. ‘But as far as I can tell, if you were trying to smash the marriage for good, you couldn’t be going about it a better way!’

Mr Donovan took a swallow of water and started speaking in a calmer voice. The thing is, Jim, that if Michael took some time to talk to Arabella, I’m sure this whole thing could be resolved. These silences must stop. We’ve got to start opening up the communication channels. Talking, I’m a great believer in talking.’

‘Yes,’ I said. Then, in my iciest voice, I explained that the only thing we refused to talk about with Philip Hughes was divorce. We were more than ready to talk about reconciliation.

Mr Donovan said, ‘OK, but is that smart? Believe me, Jim, it’s time to shake things up. This is serious. I promised myself I’d get over here and light a fire under your ass, so you’ll forgive me if I’ve come across a little strong. But what you’ve got to realize, Jim, is that we can’t leave this matter in my son’s hands. He’s bound to screw up, the headstrong gobshite.’

I made a discreet gesture of impatience with my eyes. The meeting was becoming most irregular.

Mr Donovan kept talking. ‘What am I driving at? I’ll tell you. Number one: be careful about following my son’s instructions. Take them’ — Mr Donovan searched around the table and then picked up the salt cellar — ‘with a pinch of this stuff. Ask him what he wants. Watch him like a hawk, he’s more deceptive than he looks. Number two: keep me informed about what’s going on. Number three: stop the divorce. Whatever you do, Jim, stop the divorce. Whatever it takes, get Arabella back. That means start reconciliations. Now. Tell Mick to say he’s sorry. Let’s have none of this standing on his honour crap, tell him to go to her on bended knee. This is no time for pride or pettiness. Jim, I can’t stress what a disaster it would be if she left my son. He would fall to pieces.’

I scratched my eyebrow sceptically. Number two, especially, was most unsatisfactory.

‘Enough said about all of that,’ Mr Donovan said. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it. You’re smart, you’ll make your own mind up about what I’ve just said.’

I said nothing. I did not want to give Mr Donovan the slightest sign of encouragement.

‘I’ll be here for some time yet,’ Mr Donovan continued. ‘If anything comes up, be sure to call me.’ He chortled. ‘Now, what about some dessert, Jim? That trout can’t have filled you up. Mind you,’ he said, eyeing me, ‘by the looks of you you’d take some filling up.’

‘No thank you, I’m fine,’ I said coldly. If I were in better company I would certainly have considered a small pudding. Instead, I lit a cigarette.

‘Exercise. I find exercise is the key to health. Look at me, I’m seventy-three years of age. Are you going to make it to seventy-three, Jim? Ask yourself that question. And if you’re not going to make it to seventy-three, what are you going to make it to? Fifty-five? Sixty? Then ask yourself this question: how many years does that leave you with? Let’s face it, it doesn’t add up to a lot of time, does it Jim?’ He eyeballed me again, up and down, as if I were a specimen of horseflesh. ‘How old are you? Thirty-fivish? I’d say you’re well past the half-way mark.’

My neck felt tight in my collar. ‘That may well be so, Mr Donovan, but I cannot see how that has any bearing on your son’s case.’ I glanced ostentatiously at my wristwatch.