When Thomas’s financial planner retired in late 1995, he politely gave Thomas the option of taking his records and finding another company. Callaghan had then assured Thomas, however, that he wouldn’t find a better financial planner than his replacement at Bridges and Callaghan: Ms Jacqueline March.
Thomas, only in his late fifties, still considered retirement to be at least ten years away, but he’d secured an excellent financial situation over the past three decades, and his retirement funds were solid and steadily appreciating. Callaghan had served him well. Thomas had trusted the man’s advice for thirty years – he wasn’t about to stop now.
So, as Thomas sat in the reception area of Bridges and Callaghan (now minus the Callaghan, but with the addition of two new potted palms), he reminded himself of this trust in order to quell the apprehension he felt at the prospect of meeting this Jacqueline March. In terms of life, ten years was a long time – he had plenty of work left to do. But in terms of finances, how much more could he save in ten years? And how much could he potentially – with the wrong advice – lose? He had a responsibility to his family.
Thomas shifted in the chair, shaking off his unease. Callaghan had endorsed Ms March glowingly. He told himself also that for a Monday, this day had been off to an auspicious beginning.
Before the alarm, he had woken to the blanketed movements and murmurs of Elsie and Aida beside him. In the dark, his eyes still closed, he dived beneath the quilt to seek his wife and found her sleep-warmed skin, her limbs entwined with Aida’s. He kissed the curve of her neck and slipped inside her; she found Aida with her hands and Aida’s leg came up to hook behind his knee and Elsie, their beloved, the heartbeat between them. Fingertips pressed into his thigh. A giggle; a bitten-off gasp. Beneath Aida’s nightdress he replaced Elsie’s hands with his own, and Aida’s fingers slid to where he sank into his wife. Dawn draped a rosy gauze of light across the bed. In his mind’s eye he saw them from above, fitted together, a tangle of limbs and the women’s soft, fragrant hair and as always, he considered himself surely the luckiest bloke on the planet.
As further distraction he told himself that it was only a matter of weeks and he would become a grandfather.
Grandfather. Granddad. He broke into a sudden grin; his briefcase bounced on his knees. Poppy. Pa. Grandpa. Across the room the receptionist glanced up, and thinking his smile was for her, returned it briefly.
None of them knew why Millie had insisted on leaving it so late to start a family – she was almost thirty-two – but she and Joseph (although they still weren’t married) were finally having a baby.
The door to what had been Callaghan’s office cracked open.
‘Mr Mullet?’
Flash of a vivid pink blouse; thick, straight black hair cropped blunt at her eyebrows and chin. A bright, sincere smile.
Thomas stood and crossed the room. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Ms March,’ he said. Thrusting out his hand, in a habit as ingrained as walking, he then wavered. For a long second he didn’t quite know what to do. Then he recovered, smiled, and entered her office.