Monday Rides Again

CHAPTER ONE: London. March 1985

~~

A great deal can happen in twelve hours...

0000GMT: In London, Jack Monday uses an old policeman’s whistle to rescue a prostitute.

0200GMT: In Connecticut, Nina packs her suitcase knowing she’s going to lie to her lover.

0400GMT: At JFK airport, an industrialist steels himself over a pact with a Chinese Warlord.

0600GMT: Off the Kent coast, an Australian saboteur swims back to a waiting ship.

0800GMT: In New York, a TV star wakes from a nightmare and mourns her sister.

1000GMT: In Bangkok an American woman spies on a spy.

1200GMT: In London, Jack phones his girlfriend.

~~

We both built too much on too little, cried Nina, pacing across the farmhouse kitchen, the telephone clutched in her shaking hand.

What? Jack’s voice came down the trans-Atlantic line. Are you trying to say you never loved me?

Nina looked out through the window. Amidst the New England snows a figure, discernible only as a mound of overcoat, was trying to coax some life into a reluctant Oldsmobile. No. I’m not saying that. But you want the big happy ending, when all we had was a holiday romance.

Please don’t say that, Nina! It was amazing… What I shouldn’t have done was leave you in New York.

She felt her heart tighten. That was four months ago, Jack. You had to go. You’re a reporter. It was your job.

Then come over to London. You said you would. You could finish writing your novel here. I’ll help.

No. We’ve been through all this. She threw a guilty glance at the suitcases in the hallway. I’ve just mailed you a letter, Jack… After our quarrel last week I had to write and say what I felt.

And what do you feel, Nina?

She braced at the anguish in his voice. Just read it, Jack. It’s a good letter. That was a lie. He’d be wild. She heard the front door slam. I’ve got to go. Someone’s just come in.

Who?

I’ve got to go, Jack. I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. Bye Jack. Bye.

No. Wait!

She cut him off before he could say any more. She mustn’t be swayed and that was something Jack was too good at.

Ready to leave, sweet? called a voice from the hallway. I finally got the car started. Shall I take the cases?

Nina put down the phone, feeling her eyes brim with tears. Why had she done that? She should call Jack back? But to do what exactly? Instead she heard herself saying, Thanks darling… Yes, please. Take them. I’ll be right with you.

She glanced again at the telephone. No. She had to be sensible.

~~

Jack sat in his London flat listening to the dialling tone fill his head and then slowly set the receiver down. He’d had his fair share of women, some important and some forgotten, but he’d never been out of control before, never. Bugger! So much for calling to patch things up!

Pressing a thumb to his temple he slumped forward, elbows on desk. As if cued by that, his spaniel padded up and pushed a comforting muzzle into his lap.

Hi Errol. Jack patted his dog. The spaniel twisted his head, one large ear dropping floor-wards. Yes, I hear you. How the hell did I mess that up? He caught a breath. Damned if I know! But I’m going to get her back, Errol. Yes, but how?

Nina was in rural Connecticut determined to win a Pulitzer, while he was stuck kicking the kerbs around King’s Cross: trailing prostitutes on some money-laundering story. His boss, Ackroyd, was all right in a rootin’ shootin’ explosive kind of way, but was never going to let him zip off to America just like that. If he wanted to see Nina in a hurry, Jack knew he’d either have to think smart or quit his job. But he could never quit.

He glanced at the photo of himself shaking hands with President Mugabe of Zimbabwe. Some hero I am! He’d fought a war there and won awards for writing about it, but he wasn’t man-enough to give up his job. He’d been on his own before. He’d never do that again.

Jack pushed himself up from the desk, surveying his crowded flat: every nook crammed with half-finished projects, his bookshelves groaning and his LP collection scattered across the floor like huge hand of playing cards. From the walls, his silver-screen heroes looked on: Bogart, Stewart, Flynn. He could use their help right now. The big wall clock said half-past two. He reached for the TV remote.

Images of flames and smoke burst onto the screen: of men fleeing from the inferno, some jumping from the quayside and from the burning ships.

Firemen... began the voice-over, continue their desperate battle to contain the blaze at the Medway Coast oil refinery. No explanation has yet been given as to the cause of the fire that started following several large explosions at around six o’clock this morning. A spokesman for Kent police said that sabotage has not been ruled out... Now to Westminster… and Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher said today…

Jesus! Medway? Jack killed the sound. The scenes were horrific... Those poor blokes. And yet… He closed his eyes. Horror it might be, but… Yes! It was story… and it might just be a way… a way to get Nina back. Or at least, a place to start trying.

Jack took the tube to Chancery Lane. It was hot and stinky, despite the outside cold, and full of office cleaners gaggling like geese heading home. They were an odd bunch – curlers, two-tone hair, flowery nylon overalls – full of endless talk of the latest soap opera shocks: Ken Barlow’s latest marriage and this years ‘who shot J.R.’.

In Fleet Street, he grabbed the lift to the vast strip-lit twilight zone of the main newsroom. Hectic and somnolent in one, it was a day-night, night-day world, unaffected by sunrise, sunset or seasons. Only when the papers were put to bed did people run. He loved it. A couple of colleagues hailed him from across the room. He waved back. The girls at the photocopier giggled and blew kisses. He laughed. As a war correspondent and now as a feature writer he’d never been an office regular, which always made visiting feel even more like coming home. It was his only family.

Down the corridor, towards his editor’s office, he checked out the magazine covers lining the walls. One was of a tough looking middle-aged man with shocking red hair and the headline: Miles O’Rourke – Benevolent Tycoon or Corporate Megalomaniac? It had been one of Jack’s best pieces.

He’d often interviewed the Irish-American industrialist and liked him. O’Rourke was an innovator and gambler who went after what he wanted and didn’t bullshit. His latest side-line, away from his mainstay of shipping and munitions, was a motion picture called Opium War. It was to be shot in Thailand with his daughter, Tara, star of a recent American Civil War TV saga, in the leading role. Jack grinned. This was beginning to sound like one of the soap operas he’d just heard re-told on the underground.

About bloody time! cried Ackroyd, over ringing telephones and clattering telex machines, I’ve been phoning you for the last bloody hour!

I thought you might have been, Jack said, stepping into the office and logging everything from the battered half-drawn Venetians to the brimming wastebaskets. There was even a sleepy news-hack in the corner. Ackroyd sat in a swivel chair, a dumpy figure with spiky grey hair. On the desk lay an open packet of indigestion tablets next to the smelly remains of last night’s Chicken Madras. What surprised most people about Ackroyd, was that she was a woman.

He smiled. So what’s cooking, Deb?

The Medway Oil Refinery – that’s what, and a couple of oil tankers too. The bell’s ringing down at Lloyds. Haven’t you seen the TV?

That’s why I’m here. He let his fingers trace the edge of her desk. I know that Miles O’Rourke owns the refinery.

And both the tankers. We’re not sure yet whether he’s in line for a massive insurance pay-out or a huge loss...

A loss, he said. O’Rourke Corp was much too big to be paying insurance premiums.

Either way, we need an interview and pronto, said Ackroyd. I’ve already had RM’s secretary on the blower giving me flak. You’re the only one who knows O’Rourke well enough to get immediate access to him. Take Phil here… She indicated the red-eyed individual crumpled on the far sofa. He’s got the morning’s fire story. Whip up something to keep us going. Clyde’s fixing you an appointment with O’Rourke – ASAP. That’s if we can find him!

I think finding him is going to be an issue. Jack dropped into a nearby armchair, throwing a salute to his colleague. Phil Wiley was a pugnacious little chap with the deceptively huggable look of a bloodhound, but he was a good newsman.

You haven’t time to sit down! exclaimed Ackroyd.

Jack screwed up his face. Are you always this irascible, Deb? He loved to taunt her.

Before she could answer, her secretary poked his head around the corner of the door. Debbie darling…

Clyde! Will stop calling me darling? Ackroyd thrust herself out of her chair. So what have you got?

Clyde sauntered into the office. Something’s up, sweet. I’ve contacted O’Rourke Corp. Seems he took the 19.30 last night to New York.

Oh, Holy Christ! Ackroyd threw up her hands.

That’s what I was about to tell you, said Jack. If you want an interview with O’Rourke, you’re going to have to send me to the States. Behind his back he had his fingers crossed. This ploy to see Nina had to work.

But won’t the Medway fire bring O’Rourke back here? said Wiley, stifling a yawn.

Don’t piss on my parade. No! said Jack sitting forward. If O’Rourke’s taking a loss he’ll need New York’s financial clout to sort it out. His core business is there. Also, he told me on the phone last week he’d a raft of board meetings lined up. That’s how I knew he’d already left the country.

You don’t suppose he could have run off knowing the fire was about to happen, mused Ackroyd, the gleam of a scoop in her eyes.

Just what I was thinking, said Wiley. At Medway this morning, there were loads of blokes nicely barbecued. It’s certain to be sabotage, so whoever did it is up for the works, including murder. Unless, of course, they’ve already skipped the country.

If you mean O’Rourke, forget it. Jack waved a dismissing hand. I know he can be ruthless, show me a billionaire who isn’t? But he’s not a bad guy. There’s no way he’d torch his own place.

Whatever his reason, buggering off to New York is damned inconsiderate, said Ackroyd. Her phone rang and she grabbed at it. What? She stiffened. Yes, of course… If he thinks so… Fraud? Naturally I’ll look into it. Yes. But it’ll be difficult… Because he’s gone to America... I could get the boys over there… Well…if you’d rather. Yes, if that’s what you want. She put down the receiver.

Jack grinned; he knew how much she hated the boss. Orders from the big stick?

That was RM’s secretary. Looks like there’s more to this than we thought: some fraud angle with the Inland Revenue. RM wants us to send our own man, so we’re going to have to re-jig this somehow. Ackroyd took a turn about the room, roughing up her hair as if that helped her think. Right! Jack: I still want you and Phil to give me something tasty on O’Rourke and Medway, but now I want it in thirty minutes. Then get yourself home and pack a bag. You’re on the plane for New York tonight. Move it!

Yes! Jack wanted to punch the air. It couldn’t have fallen better. America, a great story, and Nina! He held his breath. Shit! He had to ask. What about the King’s Cross money laundering investigation?

Oh damn it! Her face flushed and she messed her hair again. It’ll just have to wait. It has to be you in New York.

Hallelujah! His heart leapt. With luck he’d be seeing Nina tonight.

You don’t think it might be dangerous for Jack, chasing O’Rourke across the Atlantic? Wiley was on his feet. If Medway’s been sabotaged then O’Rourke’s got to be the prime suspect. He could turn nasty.

Ackroyd reached for her pills. It’s a risk, but after all the war zones Jack’s survived I’m sure he can handle himself.

Hope so, said Jack. The threat was there, but he’d give O’Rourke the benefit of the doubt.

Better take the AK 47 you brought back from the Cambodian war, Wiley joked, Just in case.

Don’t think that’ll help… Jack felt a familiar unpleasant twitch in his temple. And anyway, me and guns are a no-go these days.

When you two have quite finished! snapped Ackroyd. I need good mileage out of this, Jack. I’ve budgets to maintain. I want you to get as much on O’Rourke as you can. And there’s that daughter of his, the TV star…

Tara?

Yes. Brian from Arts was on at me. After her TV series here she’s huge, so you know what we want.

No problem. Jack chuckled. Under these Clark Kent clothes I’m already wearing the spandex.

Very funny! And you, Clyde, said Ackroyd, swinging away towards her secretary. You can stop sniggering. Get on to Ralph Bellamy in New York and ask him to fix it for Jack to see both O’Rourke and his daughter. And make sure it’s no later than tomorrow. Then phone reservations…

I can guess the rest, Clyde interrupted. I take it you’ll want Jack to see Simon as well?

Simon?

About the fraud. Clyde cocked his head smugly.

Yes, right away. Then she turned back. Are you two boys still here?

CHAPTER TWO: Rye, New York State. Tuesday morning

~~

Her father dragged her kicking and screaming from the tennis court and up to the house. Actually, that was a lie. All he’d done was ring the court phone and politely say, I need you to entertain a visitor for me, but it amounted to the same thing. She could say no, of course, and Tara knew he wouldn’t do anything other than be chillingly civil. Yet, somehow, her no would always end up being a yes! It was one of the many irritating things about her father.

She caught up with him in the hall – a giant on the move, his arms full of documents – and followed him into the library, her favourite room. It was shelved in bright American oak, then darkened by ten thousand volumes but cheered again by an enormous bow window with a glorious vista of lawn and New England trees. The furniture was all Frank Lloyd Wright, but it was the smell of the books she really loved.

I don’t want to meet your reporter guy, said Tara, dumping herself on the sofa and pulling her feet up to hug her knees. She’d considered journalists blight on the landscape even before TV fame had brought her paparazzi interest. Yet her father was being unusually insistent.

I know Jack Monday well, said O’Rourke, striding to the desk to deposit his papers. It was probably a mistake, but I left word he could always see me. It just can’t be today. He swept a big hand through his loud hair. You’ll like Monday. He’s a real man.

What? John Wayne?

Her father didn’t rise to the bait. More Jimmy Stewart – tough but sensitive.

Not like you then?

Make cheap shots at me if you want. He opened a desk drawer. I thought, these days, women went for that sort of new-age man?

Gee! I can hardly contain my excitement.

Try for my sake. I have to meet the Chinese from Koh Islands and the Shanghai banks and with what’s happening at Medway, I need them. But I don’t need details of our meeting reaching the press. Not yet anyway. O’Rourke began filling his briefcase. Come on. You’ve been complaining how bored you are. Here’s a chance to entertain. Ask Jack Monday to lunch. I’ll probably be free to see him by mid-afternoon.

Even at the best of times her father exasperated her, and this was far from the best of times. Have you forgotten I’m leaving to do the movie in Thailand in a few days? Do you even care?

Of course, sweetheart. I’ve said already. Once we’re in Bangkok, we’ll be able to have some quality time together.

Sure, between corporate meetings, international takeovers, and you bonking your ever-so-grateful Jamriang.

That’ll do! said her father sharply. I don’t interfere with the men you sleep with – too many for any young girl in my opinion – so don’t preach to me about my sleeping habits.

Maybe you should be interfering.

Oh, I see… I don’t care enough. When are you going to stop playing that old record? Or should I say CD now?

Very clever.

Yes, and you take after me. So be thankful. He closed the drawer, turning the lock and extracting the key. Why don’t you slip into one of your favourite playacting roles and keep Monday busy for me? The cowgirl’s good…

My Jean Harlow’s better. She thought she looked like Harlow.

Whatever. He came around the desk.

Ohhhhhh! She drum-rolled her feet on the sofa, still holding her knees. Just at the moment she didn’t want to do anything for him. They’d been having a running battle all week, mainly over the same old chestnut: paternal love needed but not given. He was right about one thing though: she was bored. Maybe this Monday guy could lift her spirits. She ought to be excited about going overseas and starring in her first movie, but for some reason it just wasn’t cutting it for her. Her life was crowded and yet felt like its least important player. You always get your own way with me.

I know, sweet. He caught her unyielding chin and bent to kiss her forehead. And although you’d never believe it, I do appreciate it.

I’m sure!

Jack Monday will be here within the hour. O’Rourke made for the door. I’ll see you this afternoon.

Promises, promises!

As her father strode out, her secretary Tabatha stepped in, all billowy black clothes with spiky jet hair, lots of silver rings and a studded choker around her neck.

I’ve been phoning you at the tennis court, Tabatha began. There’s an urgent request from LC Publications. A Jack Monday wants to interview you. Seems he’s also coming to see your father. So I said yes. He’ll be here…

…Within the hour. I’ve heard. Tara grudgingly released her knees and put her feet on the floor. Looks like I’m fated. Anything else, Tab?

Leo Mankeiwitz called. Said, as you’ve only a few days before Thailand, you might like to ‘do the town’ for some photo opportunities.

As long as I don’t have to do it with him. He’s a sleaze. As her image maker Mankeiwitz was a genius, but she couldn’t forget that he’d once tried to bounce her on his knee ‘like a good little girl.’

Call him, Tab, and arrange it. You know if I organise anything, it drives everyone crazy.

Your mother phoned from Dublin. Said she’d be able to meet you in Thailand after all.

Fantastic! Mumsie always made her feel like dancing.

And there’s also… Tabatha paused, seemingly lost for a moment.

What? Tara lifted her brows. Tabatha was normally a rock.

I’ve ordered what you wanted for the cemetery… For Jennifer’s birthday.

Tara hung her head. The fairest flower in all the field. She’d been thinking of her sister Jennifer all night. She jumped up, fleeing the sadness and headed for the door. I’d better get changed. Got to see this Monday character. Monday! What sort of name is that?

~~

The morning train was on time. Stepping onto the platform at Rye station, Jack went in search of a taxi. A welcoming woody scent filled the air and a warm winter sun sat in the clear blue sky, yet he walked with some trepidation. He liked O’Rourke, but meeting him was never less than confronting and as Phil Wiley had pointed out, there were now new risks.

First time in America? asked the cabbie as they sped towards the big houses along the coast.

No, responded Jack from the back seat, watching the moving reflections of the trees on the window glass.

Work visit? persisted the cabby. He wore a Yankees baseball cap and had an unlit half-smoked cheroot in the corner of his mouth. Or maybe you got a girlfriend over here?

Maybe, said Jack with a pang. So far it hadn’t panned out that way.

~~

When Jack had checked into the Algonquin on New York’s West 44th the previous evening – a hotel he always stayed at for its pre-war literary heritage – he’d bypassed his usual first stop, the congenial Blue Bar, and headed straight to his room to ring Nina. He’d already tried to call her from his London flat when he’d returned home to pack a bag and to see to Errol, and then again from Heathrow airport, but there’d been no answer.

In his heart he was confident the current hiccup in their romance was mainly to do with Nina stressing over her novel. It had been bold of her to give up her New York magazine job and move to the country to write full time, but so far the sacrifice hadn’t paid off. He’d tried to be supportive, but a four-month separation was challenging, especially when they’d only ever had eight weeks together. As for Nina claiming theirs had just been a holiday romance; that was nonsense. Almost from the moment they’d met they’d been inseparable. It’d been…magic.

His call to Nina from the Algonquin had rung until it disconnected. Even the answer machine hadn’t clicked in. Then he realised it hadn’t clicked in on any of his previous calls either. Strange. Nina was a creature of habit. She never switched off her machine. Never. A twinge of worry poked his temple.

Biting back his disappointment, he’d phoned Ralph Bellamy’s office in the News Building. Ralph was both his contact man in New York and one of his closest friends. They’d clocked up more than a few wild miles together chasing corporate thieves down Wall Street’s back corridors. As expected, Ralph wasn’t there, but he’d left Jack a message. He’d arranged for him to meet O’Rourke and daughter, Tara, at their home in Rye the following morning.

Jack had tried Nina a second time but again it had rung out. On weekday evenings Nina always worked on her novel till late, and with Nina, always meant always. Another twinge. Something was seriously wrong.

~~

OK Bud, we’re here! yelled the cabbie, bursting into Jack’s thoughts.

The taxi slewed around a corner and shot through a stone-pillared gateway into a sea of manicured lawns, fringed by groves of beech and oak and cedar. The driveway curved up past a small lake and ran on towards a magnificent Neo-Georgian house. Jack whistled. So, this was O’Rourke’s mansion!

~~

Tara licked her super-glossed lips, her tongue lingering. We live here in Rye because Daddy likes to be near Wall Street.

Jack’s understanding of the geography made him cast her a doubtful look.

It might be miles away, but from the summer house you can see right across Long Island Sound to the Twin Towers. She looked up from under painted lashes. Daddy likes to know his empire’s safe.

She was unbelievable! Before he’d arrived at O’Rourke’s all he’d known about Tara was a basic bio, ending with her starring TV role as a Civil War femme fatale. Then this strawberry blonde screen goddess had appeared: compact, curvaceous and dangerous looking, with a suggestion of Monroe but descending the oak staircase into the cavernous main hall with all the pomp of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.

She’d led him to the conservatory, firing a string of one-liners that would have made Lenny Bruce wince. Now, already one drink down, she was trying to intimidate him with the opulence of the family home while flirting like a Follies showgirl.

Got a cigarette? she asked, putting her face right in his.

He didn’t retreat. I only smoke when things get really bad.

That can be arranged. Tara stared. He stared back. She blinked first. Shall I show you the Manhattan view or would you like another drink?

I’ll take Manhattan and the drink, he said. She wasn’t going to faze him. He’d had run-ins with beautiful wealthy women before. They were just people like everyone else. If she wanted to play games, fine. Tara wasn’t the O’Rourke he was worried about.

Deb Ackroyd had rung that morning to tell him the British authorities had confirmed the Medway fire as sabotage and that they were issuing a warrant for Miles O’Rourke’s arrest.

Tara poured herself neat bourbon over ice and with a squirt of Tabasco and a squish of fresh lime, mixed him his second Bloody Mary of the morning. He took it without flinching. It wasn’t lunchtime yet but what the hell! This was closet-drinking America.

She smiled, an extremely pretty smile, if a little too artificially put-together for his earthy English tastes. A part of him (probably the part starting to enjoy the morning’s cocktails) wanted to mess up the carefully planned coiffure and wipe off the makeup. Surely, somewhere beneath the polish there had to be an ordinary kid trying to get out? Shame he hadn’t seen it yet.

Drink in hand he followed Tara into the pleasant but feeble sunshine. Is this where you grew up? They stepped out across the squelchy lawns; snow still lying in the shadows beneath the trees, the air crisp and lightly salted. Your father never talks family. He always gives the impression of being rootless.

That’s him. Rootless. Me too. Though I spent my early childhood here in Rye: over on Midland Avenue. It’s kind of spooky over there. Stephen King or Jack Updike country. You know… veranda doors banging in the night, tea with the Stepford Wives. Summertime though, it buzzes. Everyone flocks in from New York and Playland opens on the beach. All that’s missing is a shark fin on the horizon.

He smiled, recognising the reference. I see we both love old movies.

Oh yeah. Watching actresses like Vivien Leigh or directors like Frank Capra who can take you to another place, it’s.... She made it sound like great sex. It’s what I live for. What’s your excuse?

I’m a writer, he said. That seemed enough.

Oh? I thought you were only a newspaper reporter. Tara stopped walking to slug at her bourbon.

Jack curled his smile. Were you born bad-mannered or did you just grow into it?

They glared at each other for a moment and then she laughed. You play hardball. Not afraid to bad mouth a woman in her own home. I like that. She took his arm. Did you enjoy my TV series, The Blue and the Grey? Everyone at least mentions the bodice ripping scene in the stables....

Ah! Despite having everything, she still needed a pat on the head. He’d go for the jugular instead. So is your insecurity due mainly to your parents’ divorce or to something else?

What? Tara jerked back her arm, confusion rushing across her face. Then she got it. OK, I see. You thought I was fishing for a little praise for my TV show.

And weren’t you?

You’re a cool bastard asking me something like that.

I ask questions for a living.

Yeah, and I can see you’re pretty good at it.

Although she smacked out the words, Jack at last sensed something he liked behind her masquerade.

You going to write all this about me? she asked.

That’s why I’m here. O’Rourke could stall him all he wanted. In the meantime he was too good a journalist to waste the day by letting this opportunity slip. Tara was a scoop. You said you left Rye, when you were a kid. He walked her on.

Yeah. Mumsie and I left Daddy and went to Ireland. I was only seven. By then their marriage had disintegrated into one big row. Mumsie couldn’t cope with having a husband who lived in an airplane, usually parked on another continent.

You liked Ireland?

Tara grinned, her soap-opera image beginning to slip. Sure. I was the youngest in a big family and they were good to me. I belonged. We lived in this cute little house on the edge of a village with a big paddock out back. I had a pony. There were festivals and fêtes. You could feel the seasons passing like a heartbeat– the sowing and harvesting and the hard winters. And every morning I had a chauffeur drive me to school. That was very grand.

He could picture her: a little princess. You sound as if you were happy.

I was. Mumsie’s awesome. She taught me so much, her and the family. We were Protestants in a Catholic town, which can mean life or death in Ireland. All the voices in the night, the sense of conspiracy. We kept pretty close.

I understand that. I was a reporter in Ulster.

You were? Her expression seemed to fill with new respect. Was it bad?

Mindless, he said, memory calling him.

When I was little I only saw the mystery and wonderment of it. The IRA and the Orange Men and such, they were like the fairies and leprechauns at the bottom of the garden – good or evil – they were never quite seen, except maybe out of the corner of your eye.

And where was your father in all this?

Hah! The warmth fled from her. I was supposed to have summers with him, but that was only a theory.

He wasn’t always there for you? He saw himself as a child, his father driving away to the horizon.

He was hardly ever there. She shrugged. It was the usual cliché. Little girl cries herself to sleep… What can you do?

Jack nodded. Harsh voices from the veranda, a pillow wet with tears. He’d known that loneliness.

They reached the heated summerhouse, a Crystal Palace in miniature. To Jack’s amazement Tara began to enthuse about Chusan Palms and the colour of the Glen Roof Crotons. He’d have never known one from the other. She made him smell the Chinese Jasmine and the vanilla scent of the creamy-white Clematis Armandii.

Nice, he said, impressed: a nameless tree in a tub and a sad rubber plant to his name. You sound a bit of an authority on flowers.

I wish! I like to pretend I’m looking after them. She chuckled, the joke clearly on herself. Mostly I’m not here, and of course, Daddy has a team of gardeners. A shrug.

She led him through the glasshouse to the rear where a stone jetty jutted into the sea with steps to a landing stage and motor-cruiser. Beyond was the promised panorama of Long Island Sound, the canyons of Manhattan on the skyline.

See, I didn’t lie. Pretty cute, huh?

Everything’s cute around here, Jack responded, keeping his tone deadpan.

Her head tilted. Are you trying to flirt with me?

I wouldn’t dare, he said, not certain what he was doing. She was gorgeous, with the kind of body language that made Italians look dumb and an attitude that could slice raw meat. But that was all much too in-his-face for his liking and yet, every time her mask slipped she was quietly drawing him in. Or was that just the Bloody Marys firing up his personal itch?

Tara glided down onto the nearby bench overlooking the sea. Do you ever talk about yourself, Mr Reporter-man?

Never when there’s a ‘Y’ in the day, he said, joining her on the seat.

The blue of her eyes was demanding. Where were you born? You must have had parents?

Yes, but they mislaid me. It was a joke he’d invented long ago to shield himself from the real story. His mother had taken the old car to Bulawayo, his father the Land Rover to hell.

Your parents lost you?

There was no way he was going to open up. Certainly not to her. I’m doing the interviewing, today. Right?

Her blues narrowed. For a moment she looked as if she was going to argue. OK. Today. But next time.

Sounds like a threat. Will there be a next time?

Oh, I’m sure. A little colour crept into her cheeks. I rather like you, Mr Jack Monday, she said, seeming to taste his name. You’re not quite…Jimmy Stewart, but you’ve got…something.

He grinned. Nothing contagious, I hope?

How about lunch? TV stars have to eat and they also like company.

Jack nodded. Why not. Journalists eat too and as I came four thousand miles to see you…

To see Daddy, really, she reproved. But I’m not impervious to flattery. She got up and went over to the phone on the summerhouse’s wall. Hi, Tabatha? Lunch for two please... Fifteen minutes... No, we’ll take it in the den. And do you know if Daddy’s free yet? Huh? OK. She hung up.

Tabatha says there’s some movement outside the library, so maybe Daddy will be out soon. Shall we stroll up to the house?

He took her gently by the elbow and they crossed back through the summerhouse to the garden. She was getting interesting. So, after Ireland, how did you go from there to UCLA?

Oh, you know about that? Daddy wanted me to enrol in an Ivy League school. He’s such a snob. He’s never lost his old Irish class-consciousness. Mumsie always wanted me to be an actress. She was on Broadway herself. That’s how she and Daddy got together. I guess the acting thing rubbed off. She was the one who insisted I studied in California – the centre of the business, she said. And she was right. It paid off. Tara paused, the memories obviously happy ones. So I went out to the West Coast, acted all day and…auditioned all night. She threw him a sideways glance and laughed. Have I shocked you?

No. He rolled his eyes

Do you like sex, Jack Monday?

Only when my team wins away from home.

So is she your Mrs? The one you’ve got stashed somewhere?

His mind automatically flashed to Nina and for a second he was adrift, long enough for Tara to sense it and disengage her arm.

She was that bad, huh? she said, a mix of sympathy and irritation in her voice.

No, he replied, recovering his composure. "Let’s just say I’m a romantic softie.

I took you for the hard hearted kind. Love ’em and leave ’em...

He forced a wry smile. Once upon a time perhaps, then I grew up.

Yeah, possibly. I’ve always gone for the more mature man. At UCLA there were plenty of Conan the Barbarian types trying to get into my pants, but I preferred the teachers. There was always so much more to them than the Frat boys.

Because you were looking for a father figure?

No way! I got The Blue and the Grey without Daddy’s help, so I don’t need any substitutes.