Page 86 of Be More Capybara

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. No messages from Helen. He was tempted to try texting her again, but what else could he say? She’d made it perfectly clear that whatever they had was over. Dumped by two women in less than five months. Not a record he’d been planning to set.

He checked the map to remind himself where the car rental company was located. It was only half a dozen or so blocks away. But he needed some caffeine before the long drive to Seneca Lake. He headed to the coffee shop across the road.

‘Tea to take out, please, with semi-skimmed.’

The woman behind the counter looked confused.

‘Sorry, English Breakfast to go, 2% milk.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all thanks.’

He’d drink it on his way to picking up the car.

As he pulled his suitcase along the busy pavement, he pondered how Madison had known about Helen. Surely she hadn’t employed someone to spy on him - a private detective would stand out a mile in a small place like Dashford.

Then it dawned on him. Sloane. That birthday phone call. Jesus Christ, had Madison really sunk so low that she thought it was acceptable to get his daughter to spy on him? He sincerely hoped not. Madison was bound to have quizzed Sloane, and she might have innocently relayed the fact that Daddy had been sitting in a strange kitchen with a woman visible in the background. Sloane could track his location. It used to be useful when he picked her up from parties and sports events. Armed with that information, Madison wouldn’t have had to make much of an effort with Google to work out which house he was in and who lived there.

Not that it mattered now. He just wanted this phase of his life to be over so he could start afresh and work out how to win Helen back. But the way things had been left in that conference room, it looked like arguing over finances was going to go on for months, possibly even years.

What if you don’t contest it? Chill out over it, like those capybaras Helen loves?

That wasn’t going to happen with lawyers involved. But perhaps there was a way. He walked to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab. He didn’t have long to wait. As he climbed into the back of the car, he gave the driver his destination.

‘31 East 22nd Street, please.’

Nigel got out of the cab and took a deep breath. Madison might not even be here. He opened the gallery’s large glass door and walked inside. The current exhibition appeared to consist of huge canvases covered in a riot of red and orange daubs that angrily stood out against the bright white walls - not conducive to a reconciliation. He glanced around.

Madison’s assistant, Hillary, a tall thin woman with a taste for heavy black glasses that looked far too big for her face, walked up to him. ‘It’s a surprise to see you here, Mr Farnham. Is Madison expecting you?’

He wasn’t Nigel anymore, he noticed. ‘No. Is she here?’

Hillary hesitated, probably desperately trying to work out whether she should send him on his way or not. But before she could answer, Madison walked out of the rear office looking at an iPad. ‘Hillary, can you explain this …?’

She stopped in her tracks when she spotted Nigel looking at her, his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Can we talk in your office? It’s not very private here.’ He glanced at the couple who were entranced by a painting that looked like the centre of an explosion in a petrochemical plant.

‘Your attorney should be talking to my attorney.’

‘I know that, but I’ve got an offer I want you to hear first. Or I could announce it out here in public?’

The woman customer gave Madison a fixed smile and hurried out of the gallery, closely followed by her companion.

‘Fine, let’s not make a scene. I don’t want you to lose me any more potential clients.’ Madison strode purposefully towards the office door, her head held high - her classic “I’m not putting up with any crap from you” walk.

It didn’t bode well, but Nigel hadn’t come all this way to give up now. He followed her into the office.

‘You’ve got five minutes. What is it?’ she said, sitting down behind her large white desk.

Nigel sat in the chair opposite. ‘I’m advised that I’m entitled to a share of this place as I helped you set it up and supported you while you built it into the successful business it is today.’

Madison stared at him as if she wanted to stab him with the art deco paper knife that she always kept lying next to her keyboard.

‘I’m sure my attorney has opinions on that.’

‘I’m sure she does, but her opinions can’t change the law. I’ll cut to the chase.’ He leaned forward in the chair and matched her stare. ‘I’ll give up all claims on this gallery and our home, and let you have whatever living arrangements the girls want. All I ask in return is that you leave me in peace to get on with my life in Devon.’