Sweet Talking Money. Harry Bingham

       THREE

      1

      The loneliest place in the world is easy to find: a luxury hotel in a foreign city and a phone with no one to call.

      It was six weeks now since Bryn’s life had broken to pieces on the rocks. Cecily had promised him that her decisions were for ever – or, to put it bluntly, that she was as stubborn as a donkey. Bryn knew this. He’d have been less surprised to meet Mount Rushmore on walkabout than to find Cecily changing her mind. All the same, he’d done what he could. On the assumption that she’d gone home to her parents, he’d tried to call her there. It was Cecily’s mum who answered.

      ‘Oh God, Bryn, it’s you,’ she’d said, not unkindly.

      ‘Yes, I was hoping that I could maybe speak to –’

      ‘Yes, yes. Of course you were.’

      Her voice was sympathetic and unhappy and Bryn then knew straightaway that Cecily hadn’t just left him, she’d left him for somebody else. ‘He’s a rich sod,’ her mum went on to say. ‘Taken her off to some horrible mansion in the Caribbean. I met him once, Bryn, hated him. I’m so sorry.’

      But sympathy from his about-to-be-ex-wife’s mother was little comfort, as he began to search the ruins of his life for a path leading out.

      Once, that path would have been work. He was still at Berger Scholes, of course – back in Boston finalising his biotech deal – but his career there was coming to an end. He wasn’t going to knuckle down as Rudy Saddler’s number two, and he wasn’t going to trudge the world of emerging markets, hunting for nickels. He’d called a headhunter, who was even now lining up new places, new jobs. Bryn Hughes would start out all over again: new job, new start, and in time, perhaps, a new woman, perhaps even a family.

      Meantime he was lonely. No one to visit. No one to call. It wouldn’t be different tomorrow or the next day. Welcome to life without a family. Welcome to life without direction.

      He wasn’t hungry, but ordered a giant salad from room service anyway, giving himself something to pick at. Putting his hand in his pocket, searching for a couple of dollars to tip the waiter, his fingers met the sharp rectangular edge of a business card. He pulled it out with the money. A receipt for a hundred bucks, received with thanks, scribbled in pencil on the back of a card. Cameron Wilde, MD, PhD. Bryn tipped the waiter and stared at the card.

      A Boston number, someone to call.

      2

      Over on the university campus, a phone rings in the surrounding silence. Cameron Wilde, working late, answers it.

      ‘Cameron Wilde.’

      ‘Dr Wilde, it’s Bryn Hughes.’

      ‘Brandon …’

      ‘Bryn. Bryn Hughes. A patient of yours.’ Still no recognition. Bryn gave her the help she needed. ‘I came to you with flu and you punched me in the chest.’

      ‘Oh. Sure. You were the guy who said he wasn’t stressed.’

      ‘Right. It was around then you started hitting me … I was calling to say that you totally sorted me out. One day in bed, then as right as rain.’

      ‘As right as what?’

      ‘Rain. A British expression. Something to do with our love of bad weather, I suppose.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      ‘I wanted to thank you. Perhaps I could take you out to dinner somewhere. That is,’ he added, joking, ‘if you know anywhere which doesn’t serve coffee, alcohol, sugar, fats, additives or dairy.’

      ‘No, sorry.’ Her no was flat, no hint of apology.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No. I don’t know anywhere. Uh … you could eat at my place if you wanted. Did you mean tonight?’

      ‘Yes. Tonight. Unless you’re doing anything.’

      ‘No. Sure. Fine.’

      And shortly Bryn was in a cab crossing Boston, watching the darkened winter streets pass by, feeling as he hadn’t done for years.

      For the first time since his life had smashed upon the rocks, here was an edge of excitement, a tiny nibble of adventure, a step into the unknown. He sat forward in his seat, unaccountably excited by what lay ahead.

      3

      The air that night had come down from Canada, and shivered with the possibility of snow. Bryn stamped his feet in the lamplight spilling from the apartment block’s lobby, careful with his once-injured right knee on the frozen pavement. When, following his second ring, the buzzer buzzed the door open, he made his way across the over-heated lobby towards the stairs and Cameron Wilde’s apartment.

      ‘Here. I brought this.’ Bryn held out a bottle of champagne he’d bought at the hotel before leaving. Cameron looked at it, but made no move to take it. Her face was white, drawn, shocked. ‘Are you OK? Is this a bad time?’

      She shook her head, turned, and walked into her living room, leaving the door open for Bryn to follow.

      The room was pleasant enough. Pale floorboards, strewn with rugs. A couple of lavender-blue sofas. Walls stone-washed and decorated with a handful of anonymous prints. No TV. You could look at the room for an hour and know nothing of the person who owned it. Until, that is, your eye arrived at the corner devoted to Cameron’s work: paper stacked high on shelves and the surrounding floor; PC and printer; graphs, notes, equations tacked up on the wall above. If the room was coloured according to the intensity of life in its various parts, then the whole large living space would be a pale, almost icy blue; the study area, a vivid, glowing scarlet. Cameron crashed down on one of the sofas, looking like death.

      Bryn read the situation quickly and crouched in front of Cameron, squatting awkwardly with his weight skewed on to his stronger knee.

      ‘Dr Wilde, I don’t know what’s happened in between my phone call and now, but I can see you’re in shock. If you want me to go, please say.’

      She said nothing.

      ‘Right. I’m going to stay. Now I can help you best if I know what’s going on. What is it? Some kind of attack? An intruder?’

      There was no sign of forced entry, and Cameron was on the third floor, but it was best to be sure. The scientist gave no response.

      ‘An intruder? No intruder?’