The traffic in London this morning is heavy and the weather is unseasonably warm. Bolger feels a headache coming on.
When he gets to the hotel in Bloomsbury he takes a quick shower and then goes over some notes he made. The interview is at three o’clock. It’s in another hotel, somewhere in Knightsbridge.
Though really, interview.
It’s not quite how he sees it, not quite the word he’d use.
A process maybe, a getting-to-know-you type of thing.
Terms and conditions.
He’s never actually sat for a job interview before. Unless you count getting elected. Multiple times. The closest he’s probably ever come was that lunch in the Wilson, which -
Oh.
He sees it now. Another hotel. A certain symmetry.
The hand of Vaughan.
Well, whatever. He’ll do what he has to do. The jobs pool for ex-prime ministers isn’t that big. There also tends to be a window for these things and he hasn’t exactly been making the best use of his time. The manner in which he was forced to relinquish office didn’t help either, of course. And he’ll admit it now, he left in a huff. He withdrew from public life altogether, wouldn’t give interviews, didn’t take a staff with him. It wasn’t a good strategy. It wasn’t a strategy at all. The two things he did do were lobby for that IMF job and sign the contract to write his memoirs – but look how he got on with both of those.
So in a sense this is a reprieve – a second chance, maybe even a last chance – and he’s determined not to squander it. He’s still quite nervous, though. And with good reason. He might have dodged one bullet, from Vaughan, but there are others out there – that thing in the paper last week, the couple out walking their dog, and then the young journalist he shot his mouth off to. That was an extraordinary lapse of judgement. OK, he’d been drinking, but when was that ever a valid excuse? Anyway, he’s heard nothing about it since, and can only suppose that Dave Conway has taken the matter in hand.
Bolger has a light lunch in the hotel restaurant. Then he freshens up – shaves, changes – and gets ready to go.
As the porter is hailing him a cab, a text message arrives from Mary, wishing him luck. In the cab he sends her one back, saying that he doesn’t need luck, he has her. Bolger doesn’t often get sentimental, but he’s not a fool either, he appreciates what he’s got in Mary, the love, the attentiveness, the unquestioning support. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to function. Without it, his career would have gone belly-up years ago.
The hotel in Knightsbridge is called the Marlow and is a boutique establishment owned – Bolger is assuming – by the Oberon Capital Group. It’s a medium-sized modern building sandwiched in between two ugly redbrick residential piles typical of this part of London.
He enters the lobby, which is spacious and very chic, a swirl of design elements he couldn’t possibly absorb at a single glance. He approaches the desk and is greeted by the receptionist, an attractive young woman in a discreet uniform. She is blonde and has bright blue eyes.
And blood-red lipstick.
‘Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the Marlow.’
And a slightly haughty English accent of the kind that Bolger, as an Irishman of a certain age, still finds it impossible, somewhere deep inside himself, not to be intimidated by.
‘Good afternoon.’ He clears his throat. ‘Er… for Mr Lund. I’m Mr Bolger.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Bolger, of course. Would you care to take a seat?’ She indicates an area next to a decorative reflection pond in the centre of the lobby. ‘Mr Lund will be with you shortly.’
‘Thank you.’
He turns away from the desk and glances around. Then he walks over towards the reflection pond.
When he was Taoiseach, Bolger would never have found himself alone at a location like this. There would always have been staff, civil servants, advisors, not to mention a security detail.
You wouldn’t get a former British PM wandering around alone. It’s a difference in scale, he supposes, between the two countries. Or a question of resources. Until recently, the Irish state provided round-the-clock security outside the homes of its former leaders. Then, for whatever reason, they decided to pull the plug.
He’s lucky he still has the state car.
‘Excuse me.’
Bolger turns around. Standing there with his hand extended is a pale young man in his late twenties.
‘Mr Bolger? I am Bernard Lund.’
‘Mr Lund.’
They shake. Lund is certainly young but he seems terribly serious. He’s wearing a grey suit and a blue tie. He’s got rimless glasses on and is practically bald. He’s also wearing a tiny wireless ear-piece.
‘Would you come this way, please?’
Bolger follows. They head towards the elevators.
They wait in silence. An elevator door opens, some people come out, Bolger and Lund step in.
Lund presses eight.
‘So, Mr Lund,’ Bolger says, ‘what is the procedure here this afternoon?’
Lund turns slightly. ‘A senior representative from Adelphi Solutions will see you in our executive suite. Any questions you have, you may address to him.’
Very clipped. Definitely South African.
The elevator hums open and they step out into a long, empty corridor. Lund leads the way.
They stop at a room near the end of the corridor. Lund swipes a card and they go in.
Unlike that time at the Wilson, the room is empty, not a senator or a Nobel laureate in sight. Bolger looks around. They are in a contemporary living area, with a modern brushed-steel fireplace in front of which there is a glass coffee table and some black leather armchairs.
Lund indicates for Bolger to sit down.
‘Our representative will be with you shortly.’
Bolger sighs at hearing this, and sits down.
Shortly? Who are these people? He looks at his watch and wonders what the chances are of getting a cup of tea.
He turns to see Bernard Lund over by the door, mobile at his ear.
Bolger takes out his own mobile and switches it to silent.
When he looks back, Lund has gone.
Bolger sits there for a while, in the stillness and the silence. Five minutes pass, ten minutes. He eventually stands up, walks around, stretches his legs.
Every now and again he glances over at the door.
Thinking, this is ridiculous.
When it reaches the thirty-minute mark, he decides he’s had enough. He won’t be taken for a fool.
Because what is this? Some kind of a joke on Vaughan’s part?
He heads for the door.
Jimmy has no difficulty finding the address. It’s in Via Grimaldi, a dark, narrow street behind Piazza Erbe. A lot of the city centre is pedestrianised, but not this street. The footpath is barely wide enough to accommodate a single pedestrian and as you walk along there’s a constant stream of cars rushing past. It’s not a stretch you’d want to find yourself on after a few drinks.
The entrance to the apartment building where the Bonaccis live is a high, arched wooden doorway. He presses their buzzer and is let in. The contrast between the street outside and the courtyard in here is quite striking. There are colonnades, hanging flower baskets and, in the centre, what looks like an old stone well.
There is a stairway to the left and Jimmy goes up two flights. Here, at an open door, he is greeted by a slim, studious-looking teenage girl in jeans and a black T-shirt.
‘Francesca?’
‘Hello.’ She nods, extends her hand. ‘Jimmy.’
They shake, and she leads him into a small entrance hall.
‘May I present my mother,’ Francesca says, as an elegant woman in her mid-forties appears from behind her.