The Clayton Account Read Online Free Page A

get upset about crazy, ancient conflicts thousands of miles away.
    ‘Did he mention it again?’ he enquired.
    ‘Not exactly,’ she recalled. ‘But last summer in the Hamptons, apropos of nothing, he was telling me about family duty – duty to the ones that stayed behind.’
    ‘Meaning what?’
    ‘I think he was asking me to renew the severed links. With the family. Dad’s profound sense of history, I suppose,’ she speculated.
    ‘Any idea where we start?’ Tom forced himself to smile.
    ‘Well … five or ten thousand apiece, for the family, wouldn’t hurt us. They are not at all well off, and I do believe it would have pleased Dad.’
    ‘Okay,’ Tom agreed, reaching across the table to squeeze his sister’s hand. ‘For the family, and for Dad.’ He did not mention his problem and, anyhow, a few thousand more or less would hardly make a difference.
    They left the restaurant together and turned into a sun-drenched 47th Street, a torrent of New Yorkers dashing past purposefully. Yet none bumped into them. Perhaps it was the commanding aura they projected. Though Tom was six inches taller than his sister, at five feet eight Tessa was taller than most women. Tom’s unruly mop of curly brown hair somehow added to his poise and though Tessa’s hair was fair and frizzy like her mother’s, and Tom’s a reddish brown, their shared facial expressions and laughter left no doubt as to the blood relationship.
    Tessa opened her handbag and took out a cashier’s cheque for $10,000.
    ‘My half,’ she said, smiling.
    ‘Ah! You expect me to deliver it as well?’ Tom jested.
    ‘You live closer to them.’ She looked at him with their mother’s aquamarine eyes. ‘You could hand it over in person.’
    ‘Across the Irish Sea.’ Tom parodied childhood ballads.
    ‘Across the Irish Sea,’ she echoed, threading her arm through his. Speeding up their step, they merged with the crowd.
    * * *
    In the afternoon Tom took his documents to the Swiss Consulate General, where an official certified the signatures of the US State Department and sealed his own signature with the Swiss crest.
    Clayton checked the documents once more and replaced them in his briefcase. At five-thirty he stopped for a drink at the Pierre, called his wife in London to confirm his flight details, then took a taxi back to Kennedy for the overnight trip home.
    As the plane flew towards the Arctic Circle and the Polar route to Europe, a five-course dinner was washed down with vintage champagne. Later Tom reclined his first-class seat to its full length, put on a pair of eye-shades and went to sleep. He was woken for breakfast five hours later as they descended towards Heathrow.
    After a slight delay, queuing for Immigration, he picked up his bags and walked out of the terminal to find Caroline waiting in the car. Tom put his bags in the back, then deposited himself on the passenger seat and reached over to kiss his wife. Her lips were soft and she smelt of recent bath salts. Her shoulder-length, rich chestnut hair felt fresh and slightly damp as it brushed Tom’s cheek.
    ‘Was everything all right?’ she asked, dextrously swinging the Mercedes estate on to the London-bound carriageway.
    ‘Yes, thanks. I saw Tess a few more times and sorted out the paperwork with Dick Sweeney,’ he replied, but decided to keep his discovery for later.
    ‘I’m glad. Poor Tess. She’ll miss him terribly.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said softly, then added: ‘Oddly enough, so will I, though I hardly ever saw him.’
    ‘I know,’ she said, glancing at him and placing her left hand on his knee. ‘I know, darling.’
    * * *
    They had been married six years but sometimes it seemed like six months. Their life together had been like a whirlwind from the first day. Scarcely a pause, never a dull moment, and though Tom’s work demanded long hours, they always had time for each other. For impromptu shopping trips to Paris, weekends on the French Riviera, short breaks on the slopes