“Gail,” he said.
“Do you think about her often?”
“No. Maybe it’s David’s death. I’ve been reflecting about a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Why I ever got involved with Gail. To be honest, I think I was more impressed by her successful father than by her.”
“Why?”
He wished he had not started the conversation. “Maybe because my own father was dead. I was not sure what to do with my life, and he gave me direction.”
“By marrying his daughter,” Christina said, yawning.
“Whatever. She was a mistake, but my friendship with her father wasn’t. He was a good man.”
She snuggled. “You hate talking about her.”
“I just don’t like wasting time thinking of her. She isn’t worth it. Hate has nothing to do with it. It was a mistake, and I got out as fast as I could.” He made no mention of divorcing Gail once her father had died, leaving him to run the business. It was also Gail’s father who had suggested that if he was selling property to top-level clients he might think about dropping the overly familiar Eddy. Raynor felt that Eddie Jersey wasn’t classy enough. But his son-in-law went one better, not only referring to himself as Edward but inserting the de. So it was that he became Edward de Jersey, and Gail’s father would never know the many other names his son-in-law would use by the end of his criminal career.
“What happened to her?” Christina asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. When the firm went bust I sold up and…” He was moving into dangerous territory now. It was after the company fell apart that he’d started planning his final robbery. “I never saw her again,” he said, leaning on his elbow and smiling. “I met this woman, well, she was just a young slip of a thing, and I saw her photograph in a magazine and…”
Christina giggled. She always loved hearing him tell how he had cut out her picture and traced her through the model agency. He had even traveled to Sweden to find her when she was already living in London.
“She who made up for all the tedious years I’d been with Gail. And she is now my wife, the mother of my daughters, and…” He kissed her, trying to prevent a return to the subject of his ex-wife and, more important, not wanting to approach the time in his life when he, Wilcox, and Driscoll had pulled off the robbery that had been the foundation of their wealthy lifestyles.
What troubled de Jersey was that when he met Christina he had been immensely rich and had used his wealth to court her obsessively. “Do you regret anything?” he asked stroking her cheek.
“No. Well, yes there is one thing,” she said softly.
“What’s that?” he asked, kissing her neck.
“I would like to have given you a son.”
After a moment he raised his arm and drew her close to him. “I do not have a second of regret, not one second,” he said. “We have two perfect daughters and”-he looked down into her face-“Royal Flush.”
“I know,” Christina said, “but it’s not the same.”
He gripped her tightly. “I don’t want anything to change.” His manner frightened her, but then he tucked the pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes, murmuring, “Good night, sweetheart.”
“Happy Christmas,” she whispered. She remained curled by his side, lying in the crook of his arm.
“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.” He would not allow anything to harm their idyllic life.
By the end of Christmas dinner, he had to undo the button on his trousers. The Driscolls were in a booth in the main restaurant. He had ordered Krug champagne, as had most of the other guests. He had drunk more than usual, but he felt stone cold sober.
“Do you like this color?” Liz paraded her pearly false nails.
“Yes, very nice.”
“Oyster pink shimmer,” she said. “It’s a perfect match for the dress I bought for New Year’s Eve. I was just testing the colors out. Do you remember the dress? From Chanel in Knightsbridge.” Driscoll recalled the floating chiffon with an embroidered vest top and ribbon straps. It looked like a nightdress, but he’d told her he loved it-he loved anything that made her happy. Suddenly he was overcome by emotion.
“Tone, what’s the matter?” she asked, alarmed.
Driscoll was crying now. How could he tell her he was broke? That he’d been a bloody idiot and lost his life savings. A few thousand here or there wasn’t going to keep this pretty little soul in the manner to which she was accustomed. “I’ve had too much to drink,” he muttered.
She reached for his hand. “Let’s go to the room. They’ve got the porno channel. We could order more champagne, get into the Jacuzzi, and have dirty sex.” She giggled.
Dear God, he thought, how am I going to keep this up until New Year’s Eve? All he wanted was to get back to London, meet de Jersey, and hear his plan. Just thinking about it, he got another erection. “Yes, darling,” he said. “Let’s go up to the suite.”
They didn’t make it into the Jacuzzi, and he didn’t need to watch any porno film. To Liz’s delight, Driscoll didn’t even take off his dinner jacket, he was so desperate. They screwed against the bathroom wall, in the bedroom on the carpet, and then in their bed until he passed out. She wished their sex life was always this good.
Wilcox had never been money-conscious. He lived life on the edge in Aspen, keeping his mind off his financial crisis with excessive amounts of cocaine. Rika worried about his recklessness. Wilcox had more innate class than de Jersey, but he lacked prudence. This man liked taking risks. Over and over again Rika tried to stop him going out late at night to ski, but she always backed down at the first hint of anger. Fury lay dormant in Wilcox, and she did not want to provoke it against herself. So when he left the house on Christmas night, she didn’t try to stop him.
The loss of his fortune had left Wilcox balancing on a precipice. When he got off the ski lift at the level for experienced skiers, he positioned himself, checked his skis, adjusted his goggles, then eased forward. In the five-minute descent, he made a near-perfect run. Upon reaching the lower slopes, however, he felt a tightening in his chest. He gasped for breath, and by the time he was at a standstill he was bending almost double. Lately these pains had been occurring more frequently. Added to chest pain, he’d been experiencing dizzy spells, and a couple of times during this holiday his nose had bled profusely. Even now, as he pulled off his goggles, there were spots of blood on the snow.
He removed gloves, then skis, which he carried to his truck. Once inside he leaned back until the dizziness subsided. Then he adjusted the rearview mirror; his nostrils were encrusted with dried blood. He took a tissue and wiped it away. When he got back to the chalet, every light was on. The kids would be listening to music, playing table tennis, or watching videos, and Rika was probably waiting to have another go at him for disappearing. He told himself he was too old to be indulging a serious drug habit-if he caught any of his kids using the same substance, he’d thrash them-but he could feel the itch starting. He dumped the skis on the ground by Rika’s car and hurried up the stairs.
He locked the bathroom door, unfolded the wrap, chopped three lines of cocaine, rolled a dollar bill, and snorted. He was rubbing the residue on his gums when the door handle turned. “James, are you all right?”
He unlocked the door, smiling. “I’m great. Just got caught short coming up the drive.”
“I vas vorried vhen I saw you just throw your skis inside the garage. You haven’t viped dem clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it later.”
“You do it now, James. You shout at the kids for doing just the same thing.”
“Get off my back, Rika.”
“I’m not on it.” She stormed out.
Wilcox locked the door, then sat on the toilet. One more hit, he thought, then he’d dry off his skis. He snorted two lines, then reached for the phone. He knew it was against the rules, but he couldn’t stop himself. A little later he went into the bedroom, packed a bag, and went downstairs to Rika. “I’ve got to go away for a day. I’ll be back tomorrow.”