pleasure of annihilating, who was rumored to be coming tonight. Having grown up dirt-poor himself, a fighter who’d worked hard and played dirty for every cent he’d ever made, Brogan had never let go of the ruthlessness that had made him such a rich man. The diamond business was notoriously clubby. Having no family name, no connections, and, crucially, being a gentile, had put him at a hell of a disadvantage in his early years as a trader and smuggler before he hit the big time buying up cheap, poorly managed mines in Congo and Zaire. By the time he moved into South Africa, and later Russia, he was already a wealthy man, and doors that were once locked to him had begun, slowly, grudgingly, to open. But he’d got to where he was without asking anything of anybody. If people wanted to try and paint him as the Big Bad Capitalist Wolf now, thatwas their problem. In his own mind, he was the living embodiment of the American dream, and he dismissed all criticism of himself and his company as straightforward envy.
“Sir?” The voice of his secretary, the coolly efficient Rose, drifted over the intercom on his desk.
He hit speaker. “Yes. What is it?”
“It’s Mrs. O’Donnell on line one. Are you available to take the call?”
Brogan thought about it for a second. “No. Tell her I’m in a meeting, will you, and I’ll call her back in about ten minutes? I need some time to get my head together. She’s in rather a fragile state at the moment.”
“Will do,” said Rose, and the line went dead.
Walking over to the window, looking out at the snow sparkling like a billion tiny diamonds in the dazzling winter sun, he thought about his wife, Diana. He knew, or thought he knew, what this call would be about: another early miscarriage. They were on their fourth cycle of IVF—his sperm apparently preferred attacking one another to racing toward the egg, plus Diana had some sort of cysts that made the whole thing difficult on her end—and the specialist had already told them on Monday that it wasn’t looking good. Brogan himself couldn’t have cared less about children. He’d never much liked other people’s, and he already had a business empire to leave to posterity. But he knew Diana felt utterly bereft without them, and he wanted to make things right for her.
Despite his workaholism, serial infidelities, and complete lack of remorse, in his own way Brogan did love his wife. Diana was precious to him, like a rare bird that he daren’t release or even stroke for fear of damaging it in some way, but which he cherished from a distance. Born into a well-off, stable family from Connecticut, she was everything that he wasn’t: educated, gentle, secure in herself in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. Making love to her wasn’t exciting in the way thatscrewing young models was exciting. It was more like sticking your scalded hand into cool water—a sort of blissful relief. Congenitally incapable of showing affection in any normal, expected ways, he tried to express his love by showering her with diamonds, real estate, and other expensive, though not necessarily romantic, gifts. When she failed to react with the hoped-for enthusiasm, he withdrew further, deepening the already vast divide between them. Having a child, he knew, would be the one sure way to bridge that divide, a gift for which she would remain slavishly and everlastingly grateful. But infertility was the one problem in his life that money alone couldn’t solve. He’d already paid top dollar for the best IVF specialists in the world, but so far nothing seemed to be working, leaving Diana increasingly desperate and Brogan feeling furious and impotent in more ways than one.
He did feel sorry for his wife. But he also hoped she wasn’t going to use this latest setback, if she was bleeding again, as an excuse to bow out of tonight’s party at Tiffany. Wives were expected at these events. He needed her there, looking stylish and making intelligent, ladylike
“Sir?” The voice of his secretary, the coolly efficient Rose, drifted over the intercom on his desk.
He hit speaker. “Yes. What is it?”
“It’s Mrs. O’Donnell on line one. Are you available to take the call?”
Brogan thought about it for a second. “No. Tell her I’m in a meeting, will you, and I’ll call her back in about ten minutes? I need some time to get my head together. She’s in rather a fragile state at the moment.”
“Will do,” said Rose, and the line went dead.
Walking over to the window, looking out at the snow sparkling like a billion tiny diamonds in the dazzling winter sun, he thought about his wife, Diana. He knew, or thought he knew, what this call would be about: another early miscarriage. They were on their fourth cycle of IVF—his sperm apparently preferred attacking one another to racing toward the egg, plus Diana had some sort of cysts that made the whole thing difficult on her end—and the specialist had already told them on Monday that it wasn’t looking good. Brogan himself couldn’t have cared less about children. He’d never much liked other people’s, and he already had a business empire to leave to posterity. But he knew Diana felt utterly bereft without them, and he wanted to make things right for her.
Despite his workaholism, serial infidelities, and complete lack of remorse, in his own way Brogan did love his wife. Diana was precious to him, like a rare bird that he daren’t release or even stroke for fear of damaging it in some way, but which he cherished from a distance. Born into a well-off, stable family from Connecticut, she was everything that he wasn’t: educated, gentle, secure in herself in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. Making love to her wasn’t exciting in the way thatscrewing young models was exciting. It was more like sticking your scalded hand into cool water—a sort of blissful relief. Congenitally incapable of showing affection in any normal, expected ways, he tried to express his love by showering her with diamonds, real estate, and other expensive, though not necessarily romantic, gifts. When she failed to react with the hoped-for enthusiasm, he withdrew further, deepening the already vast divide between them. Having a child, he knew, would be the one sure way to bridge that divide, a gift for which she would remain slavishly and everlastingly grateful. But infertility was the one problem in his life that money alone couldn’t solve. He’d already paid top dollar for the best IVF specialists in the world, but so far nothing seemed to be working, leaving Diana increasingly desperate and Brogan feeling furious and impotent in more ways than one.
He did feel sorry for his wife. But he also hoped she wasn’t going to use this latest setback, if she was bleeding again, as an excuse to bow out of tonight’s party at Tiffany. Wives were expected at these events. He needed her there, looking stylish and making intelligent, ladylike
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