Quentins by Maeve Binchy

and the shock worked more than she believed they would. She fell into a deep sleep and dreamed that she and Don were carrying a picnic up a hill, but everything was in a tablecloth and getting jumbled together. In the dream, she kept asking why did they have to do it this way, and Don kept saying, “Trust me, Angel, this is the way,” and all the time there was a rattling of broken china.
    She woke suddenly to the sound of a cup and saucer being placed beside her by Brenda Brennan. It was almost six o’clock. There was no picnic. She couldn’t trust Don Richardson anymore. But was there the slight probability that he might be back at her place waiting for her? She began to get out of bed.
    Brenda said she was going to have a shower. Perhaps Ella might like to look at the six o’clock news on television. “I’ll be in the bathroom just next door if you need me,” Brenda called.
    Ella turned on the TV and found the news. She watched without thinking until the story came on. It was worse than she thought. Don had gone. That much was certain. And he had been in Spain last week setting it all up. There were interviews with people who had lost their life savings. A man with a red face who had given money to Don Richardson every month so that he could buy a little retirement home in Spain, because his wife had a bad chest and needed good weather. “We are never going to see Spain now,” said the man, twisting his hands to show how upset he was.
    There was a tall, pale woman who looked as if she were too frail to stand and talk to the man with the microphone. “I can’t believe it. He was so charming, sopersuasive. I believe he will be back to explain everything. They tell me I don’t own any apartment in that block. But I must. He showed me pictures of it.”
    Mike Martin, a man she knew, a friend of Don’s and described by the newscaster as a financial expert, came on next. Ella had had a drink with him several times. He knew all about her. Don had said he was a bit of a smart aleck, always in something for what he could get out of it, but not the worst. Mike looked horrified by it all and said that it couldn’t have come as a greater shock. Don and Ricky were such a pair of characters, of course, and everyone who flies near the sun gets their wings burned now and then. But then he went on:
    â€œIt looked as if they must have known for about six months. But I still can’t believe it. Don Richardson is such a decent fellow, he’d help anyone, you know, fellows on the street, people he met in bars. He was always generous with advice. Other guys in his line of business would say: if you want my advice, come into the office and consult me. But never Don. I can’t imagine him spending months plotting this runaway life, knowing he’s leaving people in the lurch. He cared about people. I know he did.”
    Ella watched, openmouthed.
    The interviewer asked: “And will he miss people, friends, a lifestyle that he had in Dublin, do you think?”
    â€œWell, of course, when all was said and done he was a family man, he loved his wife and boys, they went everywhere with him.”
    â€œWasn’t there a rumor that he had this blond girlfriend, a teacher who was photographed with him?”
    â€œNo. You better believe one thing,” Mike Martin said. “I may not know a lot about Don, and I sure as hell didn’t know what he’d been up to in the last six months in terms of his clients . . . but one thing shines out. He never looked at another woman. Come on now. If you were married to Margery Rice, would you?”
    And then they cut to a picture of Margery Rice presenting prizes at a youth charity, very tiny and immaculately groomed, watched by her husband with pride.
    Ella put the cup down.
    Brenda came back into the room in her slip and put on a fresh black dress and arranged a lace collar in position.
    â€œHe knows about me