Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  ‘Just as well. Because there’s nobody here, not that I’ve met at least. And did I warn you, your mobile won’t work, no signal? The nearest place is three miles away up a hill.’

  ‘Believe me, Peter, I’m not intending to call anyone.’ She thought of all the people she was avoiding—Gaz, Dick, her mother, Miles above all—and blanched. ‘I want to disappear off radar. And sleep. Sleep for weeks and weeks.’

  ‘I’ll try not to disturb you with my music. I’ve been leading quite a selfish existence, getting up early and writing till the afternoon, trying to. Outdoors, if the weather’s nice. It changes so quickly here, one minute bright sunshine, the next it’s tipping down, you have to keep going in and out. I sit on that bench looking out to sea. It’s right underneath your window, I think, so I’d better shift it.’

  ‘Don’t do that. I’d like to hear. I like your songs.’

  ‘That’s not what you said in Italy. You were always complaining.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was then. I had lots of stupid opinions then. Lot of good they did me.’

  Peter took her bags into the unlocked cottage (‘No one locks round here. Nothing to steal and no one to steal it’) and put the kettle on. The place was small and basic, two rooms on the ground floor, a sitting room and bedroom, plus a lean-to kitchen and bathroom extension at the back, and a second bedroom in the eaves reached by steep wooden stairs. The walls inside the croft were lined in pitch pine, so it felt like a sauna, Sam thought. Peter had stuck posters up of seabirds and made a display of shells and stones from the beach and the bleached skull of a sheep.

  ‘So … this is it. Your hideaway. It’s so nice you’ve let me come, Peter. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind when you didn’t call.’

  ‘I hadn’t listened to my messages. Sorry about that. Zero bars of reception. Then I climbed the mountain behind us and it burst into life near the summit. All your messages telling me to ring you. I wish you could see where I was calling from—by this deep black loch—the bleakest, most spectacular place. We can walk up there one day if you like.’

  ‘Maybe not, if you don’t mind.’ She made a face. ‘Please remember my recent backstory, big brother. Kept woman, escort girl. I don’t think I can become hillwalker and outwards bound freak overnight. It’s going to take a while.’

  Peter laid a fire of driftwood from the beach, and they sat on the floor by the hearth staring into the flames. ‘You know what this place reminds me of?’ Sam said. ‘It just came to me. It’s like that old cottage across our valley, Silas Trow’s cottage, before the Cleggs came along and bulldozed it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I took it. Subconsciously, I mean. I always loved Silas’s cottage. I had this fantasy about moving in and getting away from everyone, the family. Dad mainly, I guess.’

  ‘That’s so weird, that was my fantasy too. Except I wanted to live there with some tall handsome lover. Someone like Dad, in those days.’ She looked rueful. ‘Obviously the idea has lost some of its appeal lately …’ Then she said, ‘Do you remember the first time we met the Cleggs, or was it the second time? We drove over in the Gator, and Ross and Dawn were checking the place out with their builders. And Dad was so unfriendly to them.’

  ‘As were you, Sam, I seem to think. No one had heard of Ross then. It wasn’t that long ago either. Six or seven years? And now he’s famous. They’re even using him in the new Freeza Mart TV commercials.’

  ‘Was I really unfriendly? How embarrassing. I think I might have been quite snobbish back then.’

  ‘And now you’re not?’

  ‘Let me tell you, working as an escort you can forget it. You have to make it with whoever shows up. And they’re mostly loads less tasty than Ross.’

  ‘I always felt we behaved appallingly to the Cleggs over that whole thing. Our family, I mean. Whenever I see the Cleggs or hear about them, I’m ashamed. It’s like we’re in denial about the baby. Mandy, I mean. I sound like Dad talking about “the baby,” he never says her name. That’s if he refers to her at all.’

  ‘Does Archie ever see Mandy? I haven’t asked him about her for ages.’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. He acts like it never happened. But that was Dad’s strategy. Total omerta. The subject that could never be mentioned.’

  ‘Well, now there’s another one. Something else that’ll never be mentioned. Me. And him. And Paris.’

  ‘I wonder if Mum suspects? I’ve been thinking about that and can’t tell. Whether she turns a blind eye. I mean, if he’s using hookers all the time—sorry, escorts. Your agency said he was one of their top customers, didn’t they? It’s so weird. He always presents himself as so perfect, with this perfect life where nothing goes wrong and all of us, the family, are like this perfect idealised family unit. That’s the image he likes everyone to see. But all the time he’s lusting after call girls—sorry, escorts—or envying people like the Pendletons. Or Ross, come to that.’

  ‘Lust and Envy. They’re meant to be two of the deadly sins, aren’t they? Not that I can remember any of the others.’

  ‘Pride. Greed … Christ, they could all be about Dad. And Wrath. That’s another, I think. You should have heard him at the office when anything went wrong.’

  ‘What about Sloth? I’m fairly sure Sloth is one, but you couldn’t say Dad’s lazy. No way.’

  Peter laughed. ‘No, Sloth’s me. That’s what he thinks anyway, he’s always saying, “you lazy bugger, Peter.” ’

  ‘So that’s Lust, Envy, Pride, Greed, Anger—I mean Wrath, whatever. They’re all definitely Dad. Plus Sloth … that’s only six. There must be one more.’

  ‘Gluttony. I wouldn’t say that’s Dad either, not in the greedy pig sense. He’s not fat.’

  And then, both together, they cried out, ‘Greg!’ and fell about laughing.

  ‘That’s it then,’ said Peter. ‘All the deadly sins reside in Chaw-bury.’ He put on a voice: ‘Welcome to the valley of deadly sins, staring Miles Straker as the lustful, envious, proud, greedy squire …’

  ‘I’ve never told anyone this before,’ Sam said after a while. ‘But a few years ago I was in Annabel’s and Dad was there with a woman, with his arm wrapped round her. I’m sure they were having an affair, it looked like they were. And he spotted me and moved tables. He was incredibly cool about it though, didn’t look guilty at all. It made me wonder if I’d imagined it.’

  ‘What was she like? The woman?’

  ‘Actually you know her. Serena Harden. They live over by the Mountleighs. They always come to Dad’s big lunch parties in the summer.’

  ‘I know the one. The redhead, quite sexy-looking.’

  ‘Quite tarty-looking.’

  ‘Poor Mum, I feel so sorry for her. Do you think someone should tell her?’

  ‘Christ, no. I’d kill you if you did. When I told you about Paris, it was a secret. You promised.’

  ‘She wouldn’t need to know that bit. But surely she should know about Dad’s girlfriends, mistresses, whatever. You’d want to, wouldn’t you, if you were in her shoes?’

  ‘Would I? Not sure. Perhaps I’d rather stay in blissful ignorance. Anyway, I can hardly come on all moral, can I? Probably most of the guys I saw were married or had partners. Half wore wedding rings. They didn’t even bother taking them off.’

  ‘They must’ve thought they’d died and gone to heaven when you showed up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re stunning, Samantha. You look better now than ever. All the drugs and … that other stuff, it doesn’t show or anything. You could never tell.’

  ‘I’ve lost weight,’ she said. ‘The drugs do that. But thank you for the compliment. Much appreciated. My self-esteem’s in a bad place, it needs all the boosting it can get.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. Three compliments a day after meals, to boost your esteem system. And exercise. That’s part of the treatment programme too. Come on, we should walk on the beach. It’s quite blowy, bring a coat. But it clears your h
ead. And we could do with some of that, us Strakers. And afterwards I’m going to work on my music.’

  For six weeks, Sam lay in bed every day until two in the afternoon. Some mornings she slept, others she dozed in her room beneath the eaves, listening to the drag of the waves and Peter strumming his guitar outside. She found it oddly comforting, the folk chords on the wind and Peter’s mellow voice. She heard him working on a song about a whale washed up on the beach by the tide, and there was a haunting beauty about it she found moving. His latest songs, however, were angry and intense. One was called ‘The Secret Trapped Inside’ and you didn’t need to be a genius to know what inspired it.

  For lunch, Peter liked to roast chickens, and she could smell the aroma drifting up from the kitchen. ‘Is it my imagination,’ she asked after four consecutive days of roast chicken, ‘or is this all we ever eat?’

  ‘Uh? Oh, chicken you mean? Yeah, well, it’s easy. It cooks itself while I’m writing. I bought twelve frozen ones at the Co-op in Wick when I collected you.’

  ‘Would you mind if we had something else sometimes? I’m only thinking, it might begin to lose its novelty if we have roast chicken every single day.’

  ‘Uh, sure,’ said Peter. ‘Whatever you think.’

  After that, Sam took over the cooking and they drove round the Kyle of Tongue to Durness every few days to stock up on provisions. Sam found a stall on the harbour where you could buy fish—mackerel and sea salmon—direct from the fishing boats. And then, in the granite town square, one of the new Freeza Mart Expresses Ross had been opening in smaller towns all over the country, with a delicatessen and proper cheese counter.

  In the afternoons they took long walks along the beach or through the plantations behind the croft, each day at Peter’s prompting walking a little further, and Sam felt herself become fitter and more grounded, as her traumatic encounter at the Hotel Meurice began to lose some of its paralysing rawness. As they walked, they chewed over everything: Miles, his mistress and callgirl habit, their mother and how she could put up with it (Sam was censorious, considering Davina too acquiescent; Peter protective of the mother he adored), Archie and Mandy and how awful it was he never saw his daughter and, above all, whether Sam could ever face Miles again or whether she’d avoid him forever. Having not talked properly with her elder brother for years and years, Samantha was surprised by how helpful she found it and how sensible and compassionate he was. What she hitherto dismissed as vagueness, and compared so unfavourably with her super-confident boyfriends, she now recognised as heightened sensitivity and maturity. She was constantly surprised by his range of knowledge, by his ability to identify birds of prey, by the stories he told her about the windblown Sutherland coast. And she was struck by, and learnt from, Peter’s measured attitude towards Miles, never bitter, while hinting at a deep well of fury. Several times he referred to the ritual humiliations of everyday life at Straker Communications, and the personal humiliations he endured for so long. ‘For ages I thought it was my own fault for disappointing him—and I was always disappointing him, whatever I did was never good enough, never quite right. Then one day I realised he was impossible to please. I wasn’t him, you see. I would never be, and never could be, Miles Straker. The great Miles Straker. However hard I worked, however much I improved at the job, it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. Because I’d still never be him. And he’d always need to point that out. Add to that, of course,’ he said, suddenly laughing, ‘that whole Public Relations business is such a crock of shit. I mean, you couldn’t take it seriously. All those meetings, the balls people spoke with a straight face, the posturing, you sat there with your mouth hanging open half the time. So now you get why I was no bloody good at it. Hopeless. Dad was right about that, at least. And every morning I celebrate that I’m not going back. Not ever. I’ll never darken their door again. No more press releases, no “positioning” conferences, no trying to place positive profiles about Zach Durban. God that man’s a reptile, by the way. If there wasn’t some big overblown puff profile about him three times a month in the newspapers, he whinged and whinged. As for Mrs Durban she adores Dad, naturally. He kept promising to get her on the cover of Tatler, as if. We got her on the cover of some rubbish Mayfair estate agents magazine instead.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But I’m trying to forget all that, bury the memory. That’s a sparrowhawk by the way, in case you’re wondering. Up there, no, much higher, that’s a seagull you’re looking at. Higher, hovering above the Scots pines.’

  Sometimes in the Durness post office, Peter bought postcards to send to his mother or to Mollie: his preference was for nondescript views of the town showing the war memorial and harbour wall, or cartoon postcards of gregarious Jocks in kilts and sporrans with Loch Ness sea monsters wearing Tam O’Shanters. ‘I’ve told Mollie you’re staying at the cottage, and how I intend to get you up Ben Aulty one day. That’s the hill I keep going on about, the one with the loch.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. Though in actual fact, the idea isn’t quite as impossible now as it was. I’m not saying yes, but I’m not ruling it out.’

  ‘I’ll tell Mollie it’s a maybe. And do you want to add a message to her yourself? There’s space.’

  Sam took the card and wondered what to write. She barely knew Mollie, she felt, and was guilty about that. She knew she’d been a bitch to her sister, or anyway had disregarded her, having nothing in common. Now, of course, she appreciated Mollie was rather admirable in her own way. Nor had she previously realised how close Peter was to her. From what he said, they regularly had supper together, usually round at Mollie’s Olympia flat. He knew her flatmates too. Sam realised she’d never even seen Mollie’s flat or had any idea whom she shared with. In the end she just wrote, ‘I hope being a schoolteacher is going well. Scotland is beautiful.’

  It was during her eighth or ninth week staying with Peter that Sam agreed to climb Ben Aulty.

  ‘You sure?’ Peter said. ‘It’s four hours to the top. No actual climbing, but it’s quite testing.’

  Sam bought boots in Durness and a blue cagoule, which she considered the most hideous garment she’d ever put on.

  ‘You’ll be grateful for it when it pours. Which it probably will,’ Peter said.

  They tramped up through the plantation, then followed a stone track which cut across a mile of low heathery hills towards a higher range beyond. As time went by, the heather and bracken were strewn with boulders and immense slabs of flat rock, and the sheep which had grazed on the lower hills were prevented from venturing higher by wire stock fences.

  Peter was carrying a shepherd’s crook and once brought it down sharply on the earth. ‘A viper. Got it in one. I hate doing it but they eat the birds eggs.’

  Towards the crest of the second hill, when she’d hoped they must be near the summit, Sam realised a third, steeper one lay ahead, and began to regret coming. She was impressed by how fit Peter was, when she’d never considered him sporty. They were picking their way across an interminable flat area of bogland on the perimeter of the loch, when both their mobiles bleeped and rang at the same time. ‘That’s exactly what happened last time,’ Peter said. ‘Same place. The signal locks on.’

  Texts and voice messages began downloading in rapid succession. ‘Here they come,’ Peter said. ‘Two texts from Mum and three, no four from Mollie …’ He started opening them and gasped in shock. ‘Sam, listen to this. Good God. Mollie’s getting married! She says she’s engaged to Greg Clegg. And, wait a minute, here’s a text from Mum confirming it. I’m speechless.’

  Samantha was scrolling her way through her own texts. ‘I’ve got one from Archie saying the same thing. It’s incredible. Did you have any idea, Peter?’

  ‘None. I mean, she mentioned she’d seen Greg and they’d had supper. But she didn’t give the slightest hint. Not that they were going out. And she’s so young. How old’s Mollie now?’

  ‘Twenty-one? Tweny-two? Four years younger than me. Twenty-two then.’

  ‘And
she’s marrying Greg? I mean, I don’t know him that well, so I don’t want to be negative … And he’s quite a bit older.’

  Samantha was stunned. She thought of Greg in Thailand and how she’d almost fallen for him herself, on the island of Koh Pha-Ngan. She’d spent the intervening years avoiding him. And suddenly he was going to be her brother-in-law.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s gobsmacking,’ Sam said.

  ‘I wonder what Mum thinks about it,’ Peter said. ‘She doesn’t say in her text.’

  ‘I wonder what Dad thinks, more like,’ said Sam. ‘Not that we need ask. He’s going to go fucking ape.’

  50.

  Mercifully, as Miles declared more than once, it being his official public position on the matter, Mollie and Greg wanted their wedding to be extremely private, with only immediate family and a handful of very old friends attending. As far as he was concerned, the smaller the better, and at least he wasn’t expected to shell out for a big reception.

  Ironically, he had always rather looked forward to throwing a big wedding for a daughter. He’d envisaged a top-of-the-range marquee on the lawn at Chawbury, a dinner dance for five or six hundred people, family friends and clients judiciously blended, and a nicely turned speech from the father of the bride. But in these daydreams the bride in question had always been Samantha, not Mollie, and the bridegroom emphatically not Greg.

  The announcement was so unexpected, so disagreeable, it had taken a day or two to take it in. Miles had just landed in New York, and was waiting by the carousel for his luggage at JFK, when Mollie rang his mobile to break the good news. He had to call Davina to confirm it wasn’t a joke. Greg Clegg! Of all potential husbands in the world, why had she picked him? Miles was inclined to blame Davina, who had allowed Mollie to go to Blackpool with Greg in the first place, which set the whole unfortunate business going. If Davina had put a stop to it then, as he would have done himself, it never would have got off the starting blocks. It annoyed him she didn’t accept responsibility or apologise. She’d been behaving most strangely lately.