The family business was a small woollen mill, in a small Yorkshire town. After Newcastle, Sam had intended to spread his wings, perhaps get a job abroad, but with his mother gone, he hadn’t the heart to abandon his father, and, with a degree in engineering under his belt, he went home to Yorkshire, to Radley Hill, and the mill. For a few years, father and son boxed along happily together, and business boomed. But then, recession hit, and the mill, which specialized in fine worsteds and lightweight tweeds, came up against sophisticated competition from Europe, an influx of imports, and a cash flow problem. At the end of the day, Sturrock and Swinfield, the huge textile conglomerate, based in London, moved in. The little mill was taken over. Sam was given a job under the new umbrella, but his father, too old a dog to learn new tricks, took early retirement. But digging his garden and playing the odd game of golf was not enough to fend off the stress of loneliness, boredom, and enforced inactivity, and he died twelve months later of a massive heart attack.
Radley Hill was left to Sam. After some heart-searching, he put it on the market. It seemed the only sensible thing to do, for he was now London-based, still working for Sturrock and Swinfield, and wise to all the ups and downs of fluctuating markets and the business of woollen brokering. With the money he got for Radley Hill, he was able to buy his first property, a garden flat in Eel Park Common, so close to the tube station that at night he could hear the rattling of the trains. But it had a scrap of garden that caught the evening sun, and once he had furnished it with some of the smaller stuff from the old house in Yorkshire, it felt familiar and homely. He had been happy there, living a carefree bachelor life, and in memory it was always sunlit and filled with friends. Countless impromptu parties, when the rooms overflowed and guests ended up sitting on the tiny terrace. Crowded winter weekends, when old colleagues from the North came down for rugger matches at Twickenham. And, of course, a number of poignant love affairs.
He was in the throes of one of these when, out of the blue, came a summons from Sir David Swinfield. There, in the prestigious high-rise office, far above the maze of the City of London, Sam was told that he was being transferred to the United States, to New York. The head of the New York office, Mike Passano, had particularly asked for him. It was promotion, responsibility, a rise in salary.
“No reason not to go, Sam?”
New York. He said, “No, sir,” which was true. No family ties, no wife, no children. Nothing that could not be abandoned.
“No reason.” It was the opportunity that he had subconsciously yearned for ever since University. A new job, a new city, a new country. A new life.
He took the current love affair out to dinner and tried to explain, and she cried a bit and said that if he wanted, she’d come to New York with him. But he knew that wasn’t what he wanted. Feeling a heel, he told her this, and she cried some more, and when it was time to go he found a taxi for her and watched her drive away. He never saw her again.
He was equally ruthless about material possessions. A chunk of his life was over, and he had no idea when, if ever, he would return to London. Accordingly, he sold his car and his flat, putting only a few favorite pieces of furniture, pictures, and books into store. At the office, he cleared his desk. Someone threw a leaving party, and he was able to say goodbye to all his friends.
“Don’t stay too long,” they told him.
“Come back soon.”
But New York waited, and once arrived, he was seduced by all he found. He took to the place like a duck to water, relishing every aspect of the stimulating, cosmopolitan melting pot that made up the city. Home, there, was a walk-up in Greenwich Village, but after he married Deborah, she persuaded him to move and they ended up in a fancy duplex on East Seventieth Street. He had always enjoyed the challenge of a new home, new surroundings. Doing a bit of painting, shunting furniture around, and hanging pictures. But Deborah didn’t much want any of the old Greenwich Village stuff in her beautiful new apartment, and anyway, she had engaged the services of an interior designer, who would die if that sagging old leather sofa were integrated into his string-coloured d6cor. There were a few spats, but not too many because Sam usually gave in, and he was quite happy to have the old leather sofa in his den, where he kept his computer and his fax machine. It felt friendly there, and sometimes, on weekends, when Deborah thought he was working overtime, he could lie on the leather sofa and watch football on television.
Homes. East Seventieth Street had been the last, and that, too, had gone. Along with Deborah.
She had never been a moral coward. She told him, face-to-face, that she was leaving. She was tired of playing second riddle to Sturrock and Swinfield, and tired of being married to a workaholic. There was, of course, another man, and when she told Sam his name, he was both appalled and filled with anxiety for her future. He said as much, but Deborah was adamant. It was too late. Her mind was made up. He could not persuade her.
He was furious, but he was hurt, too, bewildered and abased. He thought of that oldfashioned word, cuckold. I am a cuckold. I have been cuckolded.
And yet, in a way, he understood.
The morning after her departure, he walked into the office and was met with covert glances and sympathetic faces. Some colleagues were over-hearty, slapping him chummily on the shoulder, letting him know they were his buddies. There if he needed them.
Others, who had never particularly liked Sam, the Limey, showed signs of snide amusement, resembling cats that had got at the cream. He realized then that probably they had all had a fair idea of what was going on, and Sam, the leading actor in the drama, had been the very last to know.
During the course of the day, Mike Passano appeared, breezing through the open door, and coming to perch on the edge of Sam’s desk. For a bit they talked day-to-day business, and then Mike said, “I’m sorry. About Debbie, I mean. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s no comfort, but at least you haven’t got kids to complicate matters.”
“Yeah.”
“If you want to come over for dinner one evening …”
“I’m okay, Mike.”
“Right. Well. You can always take a rain-check.”
He soldiered on for six weeks. At the office he found every excuse to stay at his desk long after others had left, returning late to an empty apartment and no food. Sometimes he stopped off at a bar and had a sandwich and a Scotch. Or two Scotches. For the first time in his life he suffered from insomnia, and during the day found himself pervaded by an unfamiliar restlessness, as though not only his marriage but everything else had gone stale.
Mike Passano said, “Take a vacation,” but that was the last thing Sam wanted. Instead, it slowly became clear to him that he had had enough of New York. He wanted England. He wanted to go home. He wanted misty skies and temperate green fields and warm beer and red buses.
And then one evening, at the nadir of his despair, the telephone rang in the apartment, and it was Sir David Swinfield from London.
“Is this a good time to talk, Sam?”
“As good as any.”
“Hear things aren’t running too smoothly for you.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“Mike Passano told me. Had a word this morning. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you feel like a change?”
Sam was cautious.
“What did you have in mind?”
“New idea. New project. Right up your street. Might be interesting.”
“Where?”
“UK.”
“You mean, leave New York?”
“You’ve had six years. I’ll square it with Mike.”
“Who’d take over?”
“Lowell Oldberg?”
“He’s inexperienced.”
“So were you.”
He had to get it right.
“Is this a demotion?” Sam asked bluntly.
“No. Just a shunt. Upwards and onwards.” A pause.
“I want you back, Sam. I need you. I think it’s time.”
The house in Beauly Road was a semi-detached three-storey Victorian villa, set back from the pavement by a front garden which had been turned into a paved carport. The rest of the quiet residential road was lined on both sides with cars, an indication of the affluence of the district. There were as well trees, bare now, but which in summer and in full leaf would give a country illusion, suggesting a pleasant suburb far from the city of London.
On that black morning, it was still dark. As Sam, surrounded by his baggage, paid off the taxi, the front door of the house opened, letting forth a stream of light, and a masculine, burly figure appeared.
“Sam.” Semi-prepared for his day in the City, Neil Philip wore the trousers of a business suit and an enveloping navyblue polo-neck sweater. He came down the path and through the gate.
“God, it’s good to see you.”
And Sam felt himself swept up into a huge and masculine embrace, because Neil had never been a man to be shy about showing emotion. It was a bit like being hugged by a bear. The taxi driver, still expressionless, trundled away, and Neil stooped, scooped up the two enormously heavy suitcases, and charged back towards the open door, leaving Sam to hump the golf clubs and his briefcase.
“Janey’s just getting the kids organized, she’ll be down in a moment. Did you have a good flight? Bloody exhausted, probably.” He dumped the suitcases at the foot of the stair.
“The kettle’s on; would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Love one.”
“Come on, then.”
Sam shed himself of his overcoat and draped it over the banister. From upstairs he heard a child’s voice complaining about something. A pair of small gum boots and a toy lorry sat side by side on one of the stairs. He followed Neil down the passage into a spacious family kitchen, with a skylight and windows over the sink. The curtains of these were still closed, but overhead he could see the dark clouds, stained with reflected light. There were pine cupboards and a humming fridge, and the table was set for breakfast. A checked table-cloth, packets of cereal, a milk jug, egg cups.
Neil spooned coffee into a jug and poured on boiling water. The delicious, fresh aroma filled the room.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No, just coffee.”
Sam pulled out a chair and took the weight off his feet. He could not imagine why he felt so weary, considering the fact that he had been sitting down for at least seven hours.
“You’re looking terrific, Neil.”
“Oh, not so bad. Surviving family life.” He found bread and put two slices into an electric toaster.
“You’ve never seen this house, have you? We bought it a couple of years after you went to New York. Upgrading, Janey called it. And we needed a garden for the children.”
“Remind me.”
“Sorry?”
“Ages. Daisy and Leo. One loses track.”
“Daisy’s ten, Leo six. They’re wildly excited about you staying. Been talking about it ever since your phone call. How long can you stay?”
“It’s not a holiday, Neil. Business. I’ve been summoned by the Chairman. Some new project.”
“Goodbye to New York?”
“For the time being.”
“Sam, I’m so sorry about Deborah, and everything.”
“We’ll talk about it, but not now. There’s too much to say.”
“Let’s weave our way down to the pub this evening, and you can spill it all out over a pint. But remember, you’re welcome here for as long as you like.”
“You’re more than kind.”
“It’s my nature, old boy, it’s my nature.”
The toast popped and Neil removed it from the toaster and put another couple of slices in. Sam watched him, the neat and precise movements of a large and apparently ungainly man. Neil still had a head of thick dark hair, but there showed a sprinkling of grey. He had put on weight as well, as athletic men tend to do, but otherwise nothing else much seemed to have changed.
Neil Philip was part of Sam’s life. They had been friends ever since they met, on their first day at boarding-school, two apprehensive new boys feeling their way into the system. Neil was one of the regular visitors invited to Radley Hill for the holidays, and Sam’s mother had ended up calling him her second son. When Sam went to Newcastle, Neil went to Edinburgh University, where he played Rugby like a fanatic and
spent one brilliant season as fly-half for Scotland. After University, meeting up again in London, in the Eel Park Common days, it was just as though there had simply been a pause in the conversation. When Neil married Janey, at Saint Paul’s, Knightsbridge, Sam had been their best man. And when Sam married Deborah, in the garden of her grandparents’ house in East Hampton, Neil and Janey had flown out to be with him, so that Neil could be best man to Sam. Sam was deeply grateful, because otherwise the bridegroom would have been sadly short of family or friends.
Neil poured coffee and put eggs on to boil. From upstairs, voices grew louder, and then there were scurrying feet on the stairs, and the two children erupted into the kitchen, Daisy dressed in her school uniform, and Leo wearing jeans and a pullover. They stood staring at the stranger.
Sam said, “Hi.”
They stared, silent, all at once overcome.
“Say hi back,” Neil told them.
Leo said, “I fort you’d be wearing a cowboy hat.”
“They don’t wear cowboy hats in New York, silly,” his sister squashed him.
“Well, what do they wear?”
“They probably don’t wear anything.”
“Who doesn’t wear anything?” Janey came through the door, dressed much as her little son, and her arms were held wide, all ready for her welcome.
“Oh, Sam, it’s been too long. It’s so heavenly to see you.” He stood, and she hugged and kissed him.
“God, you haven’t shaved, you brute.”
“I was too idle.”
“It’s been such ages since we saw you. I do hope you can stay forever. Daisy, you’re never going to eat all those Cocoa Puffs, put some of them into Leo’s bowl.”
The house was quiet, its owners all gone. Neil to his daily grind, Janey to take the children to school. Sam had been shown his bedroom and his bathroom. He had a relaxing bath and shaved, and then, bundled into the towel robe he had found on the back of the bathroom door, fell into bed. It was light now. Through the window he could see the lacy branches of a plane tree. Cars passed, swishing down the road. Far overhead, a jet moved across the sky. He slept.