Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [16]
“Mother, there’s a gentleman at the door.”
Her timing was off but the punch line was good. Then Helen Conway pulled the door open wide and her daughter ceased to exist. Devoid of makeup, the soft lines either side of her eyes put me in mind of quotation marks. The simple black dress would have been appropriate at a millionaire’s wake. The thin string of pearls designed to enhance the gentle curves of her throat should have retired gracefully and long ago. Her hair was jet black, and if it was a dye-job her stylist was wasted, he should have been in Rome retouching the Sistine Chapel.
“Yes?”
Polite, frosty.
“How do you do?” I slipped her an ingratiating smile. “I have an appointment to see Mr Conway?”
“Mr Conway isn’t at home right now. Can I help you?”
“I do hope you can. My name is Bob Delaney.” I flourished a card that read Robert L. Delaney, Sales Representative, First Option Life Assurance.
“There must be some kind of mistake.”
She handed the card back. I waved it away, still smiling.
“Not at all. I spoke with Mr Conway yesterday, on the phone. He was very interested in discussing the possibility of realigning your current life assurance commitments owing to the significant cost reduction strategy we employ at First Option.”
“Is that a fact?” She sounded faintly bemused. The delightful Miss Conway snorted, turned on her heel, pounded up the stairs. I heard the muffled sound of a slammed door.
“Indeed it is.”
I was getting a pain my face from all the smiling, and if you’re not inside the door within sixty seconds of hitting the step, chances are you’re not going to make it at all.
“Well, as I say, Mr Conway isn’t at home at the –”
“I don’t mind waiting.” I dropped her the shoulder, swerved into the hallway, smiled again. “I make it a habit to be early for my appointments.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
She recovered quickly, ushered me down the hallway. I wanted to call a cab halfway along but we got there in the end. The kitchen was all shining chrome, polished pine and terracotta tiles, and the Rovers could have kicked around a five-a-side without unduly disturbing the chef, who had probably got lost on his way back from the mezzanine level.
“Nice,” I said, nodding approval. “Airy.”
“Can I get you something to drink, Mr –?”
“Delaney. But call me Bob, please. And I’d love a cup of coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, Mr Delaney. Cappuccino? Espresso?”
“Just black, please.”
The kitchen was bright. Patio doors reached from ceiling to floor, revealing no swimming pool in the back yard, which surprised me, but the sea was only a back-flip dismount away, grey and sullen and a wave-break from anger. Beyond, the Donegal mountains were snow-capped, the kind of view you can’t buy for love or money, although the combination might get you a down payment. She poured something black and sludgy from the pot bubbling on the Aga.
“Sugar?”
“No thanks, I’m watching my figure.”
She smiled, distant, a woman who’d heard all the lines so many times she’d forgotten her cue. She put the coffee down, nothing for herself, lit a cigarette without offering me one.
“If you’ll excuse me for one moment, Mr Delaney…”
I rolled a twist while I waited for her to come back from ringing her husband, who was out of the office with his mobile turned off, per instructions, or else I was in deep schtuck, as was he. When she returned, she lit another cigarette and sat down, composed. I tried another of my asinine smiles, nodded in the direction of the patio doors.
“Let’s hope the rain keeps off.”
“Naturally.” Her voice was dry frost, as befitted an Ice Queen, and I half-expected her words to drift across the tabletop and gas me. “You said you were speaking with Francis?”
I thought, Francis?
“That’s right, yesterday afternoon.”
“And he wants to change our insurance policy?”
“Most people do when they discover how favourably First Option compares with our competitors.”
She wrinkled her nose, like she’d smelt something sickly-sweet. Most people