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it's nothing to
do with us."
    "You reckon? What about
Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Didn't she just about
knock on your door, up here?"
    "She was a freak," Julian pointed out. “And
she missed. Just."
    "All hurricanes are freaks of
nature, Julian," Richard told him. "And they all hit somewhere, some time."
    Julian frowned. "You really
reckon a hurricane could hit New York? Christ,
that'd be something."
    "Yeah," Richard said.
"Yeah, it could happen. Just let's keep an eye on those water temperatures."
     
THURSDAY 1 JUNE
Park Avenue —
Morning
    Sunlight flooded the bedroom, and
Jo yawned and stretched, smiling as she touched the sleeping form beside her. They had been
out to dinner the
previous night, and he would probably sleep for a while yet. They had had a lot of fun.
    She rolled out of bed, pulled on
her dressing gown, cleaned her teeth and
brushed her hair, and began to get the world moving. The apartment, thirty-eight floors up, was light and airy, with a
plate-glass picture window in the
lounge giving a panoramic view over the city and the East River. Jo had worked hard at her ambition to create a
smart, modern home with a cozy,
lived-in atmosphere; even the family room had style, despite the haphazard piles of yachting books and journals,
children's games and Nana's bean-bag
bed. Nana awoke as soon as her mistress came in, and for all her age and
rheumatism there was a bout of energetic tail wagging before she grabbed Jo's hand, gently, and led her
into the kitchen to stand, significantly, before a certain cupboard.
    "You reckon it's milk bone
time, do you?" Jo laughed and took a bone-shaped biscuit from its box. Nana accepted it
daintily, and carried it away to her
beanbag.
    Florence had already arrived, and
was making coffee, while Jo got the children out of bed, to wash their faces and get dressed
for school. Florence Bennett had worked
for Jo since Owen Michael's appearance was imminent. From being a nurse
full-time she had developed into a nanny-cum-housekeeper
when the children started school. A large, red-faced woman of Scottish descent,
married to a fishmonger named Bert, whom
she loved dearly but who was half her size, she was a total treasure. J o sometimes felt that Florence kept the entire
junior Donnelly household sane.
    This morning, as usual, Florence
would walk the children to school. Jo had ideas about sending them to boarding school when they
were a little older
– she even dreamed of Owen Michael going to an English public school – but it was a touchy subject at the
moment, like so many.
    The children sat down to
breakfast and she returned to her bedroom, to discover Michael sitting up and
scratching his head. "Shit," he remarked. "That's exactly what I feel like. Must've been
the olives."
    Jo mixed up a glass of Alka-Seltzer, handed it to him.
    "Ugh." He sighed.
"Meet me at the Club at 11.30, will you?"
    "Eh?" About to step into the shower, she
turned in surprise.
    "I'm taking an out-of-towner to lunch, and he's
got his wife with him. So I reckon it'd be good to make up a foursome; he's
quite well heeled. I've booked a table at the
Four Seasons, but we'll have a drink at the Club first."
    "I'm sorry." Jo shook her head. "I
can't."
    "Eh?" It was his turn to be surprised.
    "I can't meet you at eleven. I have an
appointment at 11.15."
    "Cancel it."
    "Now you know I can't do that, Michael. It's an
interview. You should have told me sooner."
    "I didn't goddam well know until yesterday."
    "And you never thought to
tell me last night. I'm sorry, but this interview
was set up by the magazine. Tell you what, though: I might be able to join you
at the restaurant at about one..."
    "Fucking hell," he said. "What's the
good of that? Do you think I want these people to know my wife works for a
living?"
    Jo sighed. Her going back to work had always been one
of the several bones of contention between
them; Michael felt she should just sit at home being a mother and twiddle her thumbs until he required her for