He turns back. They go into the big reception room at the front.
Over to the window.
Conway looks out at the darkness, which is tinged now with the merest hint of blue. The tall trees beyond the lawn are swaying in the wind.
He can hear Jack breathing, a tiny whistle, back to sleep already.
So.
Where was he? Larry Bolger. Don Ribcoff. Susie Monaghan.
Fuck.
Couple out walking their dog.
Fuck.
Black Vine people on Monday, and a big part of what they want to talk about, apparently, is the First Continental deal.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It’s all going round in circles.
And he can’t make it stop.
He turns, wanders over to the sofa.
The jumping in his stomach won’t stop either. Which means he’s not going to get any sleep. A drink would smother it, but only for a while. Then he’d have to have another. And another.
It wouldn’t work.
Besides, it’s too late. Too close to morning.
In a way, he’d prefer to have a headache, because with a headache, you can’t think straight. It drowns everything out, blurs everything. With this, it’s different. What you’re thinking is what you’re feeling – in an objective correlative sort of way, each stabbing sensation a specific reminder of some awful fact or memory.
He sits down in the semi-darkness, settles Jack in his arms.
Swallows.
Earlier Ruth asked, in passing, why it was so long since they’d been to Guilbaud’s.
Conway laughed at her.
Doesn’t she get it?
The house here? The stables? This little bastard? His inheritance? Any sense of entitlement he might be expected to feel growing up? Let alone one more dinner at Guilbaud’s for Mum and Dad?
It’s all gone. It’s over.
Effectively.
Not that he said that to her, or anything like it, but maybe he should have. From the perspective of 4 a.m. it seems self-evident, undeniable.
It’s not her perspective, though. It’s his, and is based on stuff only he knows. It’s also a perspective he resolves not to carry with him through the weekend, resolves not to impose on Ruth, on the kids. This is partly because he’s aware he’d more than likely crack under the pressure. Which wouldn’t be pleasant, or edifying, for anyone.
And partly because he has to believe there’s still a chance.
Jimmy spends Saturday morning trawling websites for references to Gianni Bonacci and builds up quite a collection of articles and quotes, none of which he understands a word of. In the afternoon he goes and knocks on the door of the students’ apartment across the hall. The engineering one answers, looking tired and not a little bleary.
‘How’s it going?’ Rubbing his eyes. ‘Jimmy, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Not bad, thanks. Er, I can’t remember your -’
‘Matt.’
‘Right. Is Finbarr around?’
The modern languages one.
‘Yeah, come on in.’
The place is in semi-darkness, windows closed, curtains drawn. The air is dense, toxic.
‘Sit down,’ Matt says, turning. ‘And, er, ’scuse the…’ He waves a hand around to indicate the entire apartment. ‘I’ll get Finbarr.’
Jimmy doesn’t sit. He looks down at a low table in front of the sofa – coffee mugs, sticky spoons, ashtrays, controllers, remotes, crushed cans, crisp packets, socks.
Last time he was in here was months ago, and it was late at night, and he was drunk.
He’s not drunk now and would very much like to leave.
‘Ciao, bello.’
He turns around to see Finbarr emerging from a bedroom. Sweats and a T-shirt, glasses, stubble, thick curly black hair.
Jimmy was going to ask Finbarr to translate a few things for him but now he decides against it.
Let Francesca do all the explaining.
‘Hi, Finbarr.’
‘What can I do you for at this ungodly hour?’ There’s a beat. ‘What time is it anyway?’
‘It’s three o’clock,’ Jimmy says. Another beat. ‘In the afternoon.’
A loud groan.
‘Miss something?’
Finbarr looks at him. ‘No, just… where does all the time go, you know?’
‘Tell me about it. Listen, I’m going to Italy on Monday morning and I was wondering if you’d keep an eye on the place for me.’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks. Let me give you my mobile number.’
He takes a page from his notebook and writes it down.
Finbarr looks at it. ‘Where are you headed? What part?’
‘Verona. Flying to Treviso.’
‘Cool.’
‘Ever been there?’
‘Once. Day trip from Venice.’ He scratches his belly. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
They move towards the door.
‘So,’ Finbarr stifling a yawn, ‘what’s the scoop?’
Jimmy steps out into the corridor, turns around, looks at Finbarr. ‘The scoop? I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.’ He clicks his tongue. ‘Remains to be seen.’
At Mass on Sunday morning, during the homily – that Zen space between the Gospel and the Eucharist – Bolger goes over the situation one more time in his head. He thinks he’s got it figured out. James Vaughan has capitulated, but very much on his own terms. Which is typical of the man. He’s not folding outright, he’s playing a little hardball first, saying fine, you want a job that bad, here’s a job.
Now, it may not be what Bolger had in mind, he may even have to jump through a few hoops to get it, but – and this would seem to be Vaughan’s point – given Bolger’s behaviour of late, his recalcitrance, to put it mildly, isn’t running an international regulatory agency about as much as he can reasonably expect?
No real argument from Bolger there, and he can decipher the code, as well – do this right for a couple of years, behave, and who knows? Besides, it’s often performance at these quiet, under-the-radar jobs that really counts when it comes to choosing candidates for the bigger, more high-profile jobs later on.
Not to get ahead of himself or anything.
He glances around, at the congregation, up at the priest.
It still surprises Bolger that his own little bit of hardball actually paid off. It wasn’t so much a high-risk strategy, being honest about it, as sheer recklessness on his part. Still, Vaughan seems to have responded to it, and who knows, maybe even on some level respects him for it.
He’s trying to be low-key with Mary about the whole thing, to play it cool, but it’s not easy. After Mass, they’re having lunch in town with Lisa, and he won’t be able to resist telling her.
Of course, Bolger has no details yet, no idea of what the job will entail. Or of where they’ll be based.
Brussels, maybe, or Strasbourg.
Or London – given that that’s where the interview is taking place. In fact, he wouldn’t mind London at all, and is looking forward to his trip there tomorrow.
The priest wraps up his homily, turns from the lectern and walks back to the altar.
Bolger shuffles forward and kneels.
He isn’t superstitious, but he’s almost reluctant to admit it – this is the most excited, the most energised, he has felt in a long time.
Conway has been doing well all weekend, compartmentalising like fuck, spending some time with his family, and some with his legal team, but never enough with either, or with anyone else, to lose perspective. Until late on Sunday evening, that is, when the doorbell rings and he opens it to find Phil Sweeney standing there, looking – is Conway imagining it? – slightly the worse for wear.
‘Phil. This is a surprise.’