Maeve Binchy - Quentins

"I can't sell this from over your heads . .. you and Patrick have made it what it is," Quentin protested.

"We'll get employed, our name is good ..."

"But it's like your baby, you said."

"There are other babies, Quentin."

"But Blouse and Signora and everyone ..."

"Will also survive."

"Isn't there enough in the business to do both .. . keep this place going and the other?"

"Of course there could be, do you ever read those accountants" reports? They are always saying you should expand ... but you will want money for medication, for clinics, for whatever .. ."

"No, no, I will go back to the house where Katar and I lived, that is best." And his face looked much more peaceful as they talked about practical things. Blouse brought them dates, honey and nuts. Figures were written down on paper.

"And this film documentary, do you not want to be any part of it?" Brenda asked.

He shook his head gently. He wanted nothing at all to do with it but was happy if it went ahead.

Now he wanted her to listen carefully.

Quentin Barry was selling his enterprise to Brenda and Patrick

Brennan, who would pay him a small, once-only payment, and then a share of their profits would be paid every year to a company called The Kindness of Katar. They would cook gourmet food for those who were terminally ill.

"We'll need a lawyer," he said. I don't want my father's stuffy old friends."

"I know the very girl. Maggie Nolan. She was partly the cause of our coming here. It would be a nice way of rounding it off."

He loved the story of Maggie's eager family and wiped his eyes. "Katar said I cried very easily. If he could see me now," he said.

At the end of the week, Maggie and her colleagues had been in and out of the private dining booth several times and everything was signed.

Quentin Barry had bought his mother an elegant hat and told her that she had the finest cheekbones in Dublin. He had taken his father for a long walk out by the sea and commented on the elegant boats and the good state of the Irish economy. He held their hands a little longer than usual when he said goodbye, but not so much longer that they might get suspicious.

And when he left the restaurant, he hugged Brenda and Patrick as if he never wanted to get into the taxi. If anyone was close enough, they would have heard him say that he too had a baby and that he was leaving it in good hands.

PART IV

Chapter Twelve.

Tim and Barbara Brady had soup and toast for a late lunch, as they did most days. "She didn't go to bed at all?" Barbara asked.

"Apparently not. She made a few calls on her mobile. Then she went out."

"And did you talk about anything . . . you know?"

"No, Barbara, I said nothing about anything that was in a private letter for her, one which we were never meant to have read."

"I'm not sure, it was open . .."

"Anyway, we didn't discuss anything, nor, as I told you, will I bring the matter up. And she called back to ask us to go to a brunch at Deirdre's on Sunday, so that we can meet the millionaire."

"Good, that's something," Barbara said.

"I don't know," Tim Brady said gloomily. I've had it up to here with millionaires, if you must know." "Apparently, your friend Ella was in America, and it didn't take her long to pick up a sugar daddy there," Frank said to his wife Nuala.

I don't know what you're talking about."

"And you sure don't know much about your so-called friends. They were spotted getting off the New York flight and into a limo this morning. So can you get on to her sharpish?"

"I can't, Frank."

"Why not? You're always bleating on about what friends the two of you are."

"Not since you said I shouldn't be friends with her any more. She didn't take well to that."

"Call her sometime today, Nuala," Frank said firmly.

"He's dead, what does it matter now?"

"Today, Nuala." Ella was early for their meeting, but Derry was there already waiting for her in the bar. It had only been ten hours, yet it seemed much longer since they had been together.

"I had an odd, restless day, how about you?"

"Odd and restless. That covers it," he agreed.

"Did you sleep?"

"Not a bit. And you?"

"Not a wink. So I don't think we should go to Quentins tonight. We're both so jet-lagged we might fall asleep the moment we got in the door."

"So what would you suggest?" He was agreeable to whatever she came up with.

But she felt at a loss. If she still had her own flat, she could have made him supper. "Do you know, Derry, I haven't any idea," she said honestly.

"Great pair of movie-makers we are," he laughed. "We spent day and night in New York talking about this city of Dublin and how to tell its story, and now that we're here, we don't even know where to begin."

They both began to laugh with a slightly hysterical tinge to the laughter. They agreed to go to the restaurant in the hotel. But just as they got up to move, a man approached them. : "Ella Brady? I'm Mike Martin. Remember we talked before about the late Don Richardson . . ."

"Yes, I was very sorry to hear of his death." She kept moving but the man moved with them and Derry steered her to the lift.

The man positioned himself between them and the door, and spoke again. "I know he tried to get in touch with you before he died."

I must go now." She looked at Derry for help.

Very quickly Derry put his large, square frame between them.

Mike Martin reached around behind Derry. "Please, Ella ... it was important to him."

"Excuse me," she said, and made for the lift.

Derry was behind her. He turned around to the man who was still trying to catch Ella's arm. "I think you heard the lady," he said.

"Don't you obstruct me!" Mike Martin began.

Derry King was very swift. He was into the lift before her and then pulled Ella in with him. She was shaking and he put his arms around her to calm her down as he pressed the number of his floor. It was a bear hug, a brotherly gesture. The kind of hug he could have given to anyone who had been through a shock. It only lasted a few seconds. Then the lift stopped.

In the suite he opened a miniature brandy. "Medicinal. I'll split it with you," he said.

She swallowed and stopped trembling.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"A henchman," she said.

"What a great word! What does it mean?"

"You know," she said.

"Well, I imagine that it means a timeserver, a sidekick, a supporter. But what's a hench exactly?"

"It's okay, Derry. No need to fuss over me. I'm fine now." She managed a watery smile.

"No, I'm interested. I'll go look it up."

"You may find a Gideon's Bible, but I don't think they run to dictionaries," Ella said.

"I never travel without one." Derry went to a table where he had unpacked some books and papers. She watched, amazed, as he looked it up.

"Apparently it comes from some Old English word and some Old German word meaning a horse! Horseman! Isn't that absurd?" He was shaking his head with annoyance.

"It's not a very big dictionary," Ella said.

"No, but it's a very good one. I look up ten "words every day, always have."

"Why on earth?"

"If you leave school at fifteen, it gives you a complex," he said.

I don't buy that. You went back to school, for heaven's sake!"

"Yes, but they never catch up on what you should have been learning earlier."

"This isn't a real conversation," she said suddenly.

"No, but it will do until we get over that guy downstairs." Ella agreed easily. Tm sorry for involving you," she said in a low voice.

"You didn't," Derry said.

"He's nothing. He's not important. It's not serious."

"You know that's not true."

"Why do you say that, Derry?"

"Because he pushed right up to you in a public space, talking about private things which he's not meant to know about in front of the whole of Dublin. He's come out of hiding, Ella, and he doesn't care who knows it. He shoved me. He was going to grab at you. It's very damn serious and you know it."