This morning, though, as he stops to lean against a corner pocket and catch his breath, it feels a bit more like the Stations of the Cross – so he decides to give it a rest. After a moment, he opens the double doors and goes through into the living room.
When Norton left things with Fitz last night and went home, the first thing he did was to take two more Narolet tablets, but instead of knocking him out they kept him awake. He had a glass of Power’s and went to bed, but he couldn’t sleep, so he lay there staring up at the ceiling. At one point, he even thought about leaning over to Miriam’s night table to get her bottle of sleeping pills, but…
No.
He sinks into an armchair now and turns on the TV. He watches Sky News for a while – then some Dr Phil, then an episode of Cheers, whatever is on, his thumb working the remote control, the rest of him, every other muscle in his body, freeze-frame still.
Miriam comes in shortly after nine, already dressed and with her make-up on. She asks him what he’s doing.
He looks up. ‘I’m watching TV.’
His mouth feels dry.
‘Sweetheart,’ she says, walking over to him, ‘you know I don’t like the TV on in the mornings.’ She gently extracts the remote control from his hand and points it at the huge plasma screen on the wall above the fireplace. ‘It’s unhealthy.’
The screen goes blank. She throws the remote control onto a sofa opposite Norton, out of his reach.
A tall woman, elegant and self-possessed, Miriam is wearing a Paul Costello suit and a string of pearls Norton gave her for their last wedding anniversary. ‘I’m going into town for most of the day,’ she says. ‘Then I have that fund-raiser at six.’
It is only then that Miriam seems to notice the dishevelled, exhausted state her husband is in.
‘Darling. Are you all right? You look dreadful.’
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. Really.’
‘Oh, Paddy, honestly.’
What does this mean? He isn’t sure. Her tone is dismissive, but indulgent at the same time. He can’t wait for her to leave.
‘I’m going upstairs now to have a shower,’ he says, but he doesn’t move.
Miriam leans down and pecks him on the forehead. As she withdraws, he thinks he sees her wrinkling her nose.
‘The sooner the better,’ she says, and quickly adds, ‘OK, I’ll see you later.’
She turns and walks out of the room.
Norton doesn’t move. He looks over at the remote control. The obvious thing to do would be to get up, walk across to the sofa and retrieve it, but somehow initiating this simple sequence of physical manoeuvres proves beyond him.
When he eventually does stand up, over forty minutes later, Norton ignores the remote and walks out of the room. He stands in the hallway for a moment, hesitating. Then he wanders across the hallway and into the kitchen, where he puts on the coffeemaker – because that’s what he needs to kick-start his day, surely, a good strong dose of coffee.
He sits at the huge rectangular breakfast table and waits. Miriam had the kitchen redone recently and it’s a cold, industrial look, all chrome and brushed steel, a bit like a restaurant kitchen – which of course was maybe what she had in mind, seeing as how they do so much entertaining.
He looks up at the clock. It’s nearly ten.
He goes back to the coffeemaker and pours himself a cup. Then he reaches over to the transistor radio beside the toaster and flicks it on to get the news headlines.
He resisted doing this earlier. No one has phoned yet, so he isn’t really expecting anything, but he figures he might as well check. The first story is yet another worrying ESRI report on the economy. Then comes the announcement of a new investment in the Waterford area by the electronics giant Paloma. Then the stalled CAP reform talks in Brussels. Then the bit he already knows about, the shooting dead last night of a young man in the beer garden of a Dublin pub. This is followed by a drugs seizure story, a car bomb in Baghdad and a row in London over a security breach at Clarence House.
But that’s it.
Norton turns off the radio and takes a sip from his coffee. What was he expecting? Who knows? He remembers another occasion like this – also in a kitchen, and a much more modest one, if memory serves. The kitchen in the house on Griffith Avenue. He’d been up all night, waiting for a phone call, which never came.
Norton drinks the rest of his coffee quickly and then refills his cup.
He can hear the Hoover going upstairs. Mrs Burke has begun her daily round. He’ll wait until she has finished the bedrooms before going up. He doesn’t want to give her a fright.
As he is pouring a third cup of coffee, his mobile rings. It’s in the pocket of his dressing gown. He fishes it out and looks at the display. There is no number, which means that it isn’t Fitz and it isn’t the office. He quickly moves back to the table with his coffee and sits down.
‘Hello.’
‘Paddy. Ray Sullivan.’
‘Ray.’ Norton stands up. He glances over at the clock.
‘Ray, it’s 10.15 – what is it, 5.15 there? Jesus, I thought I was bad.’
‘I can’t sleep, Paddy. Never could. I do my best work at 5 a.m. This new business cycle we have these days? With all the twenty-four-hour non-stop global bullshit? It’s only just catching up with me. But listen, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, Ray, I’m fine.’
Norton sits down again. He takes a quick sip from his coffee. Ray Sullivan is the CEO of Amcan, a company Norton is hoping to secure as the anchor tenant for Richmond Plaza. But several thorny issues – installation specs and naming rights among them – remain unresolved, and negotiations have been dragging on for months.
‘Good. Now. Listen to me.’
Sullivan has a particular style, and you don’t have much choice but to go along with it.
‘I’m listening, Ray.’
‘OK. I had lunch with our friends yesterday, like I told you, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what do you know, they’d like to meet with Larry when he’s over next week.’
Norton tightens his fist and gives it a little shake. ‘Excellent, Ray. I’ll set it up.’
‘Good. Good.’ He pauses. ‘But I want to keep a firm lid on this, agreed?’
‘Of course.’
Sullivan clears his throat. ‘Because let me make something clear to you, Paddy. These are very private people. They like their privacy.’ He pauses. ‘And they go to great lengths to protect it.’
‘I understand that, Ray.’
In addition to being the CEO of Amcan, Sullivan also sits on the board of the Oberon Capital Group, a private-equity firm that has extensive business interests in more than a hundred countries worldwide.
‘They just want to meet him, have a talk, get the measure of the man. No press releases or publicity or anything.’ He pauses again. ‘So we’re on the same page here?’
‘Absolutely.’
Ray Sullivan leaves that hanging for a moment. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK. We’ll talk again. Say hi to the lovely Miriam for me.’
‘And to the lovely Caroline.’
This way of finishing their telephone conversations has become something of a routine.