‘And will you accept his offer?’ I asked.
‘Steady on, Jeff,’ Max replied as we entered the visits room. ‘I won’t be able to answer that question until next week, when I’ve had a visit from his brother James.’
‘MIND YOUR OWN business,’ was Carol’s advice.
‘But it is my business,’ I reminded my wife as I climbed into bed. ‘Bob and I have been friends for over twenty years.’
‘All the more reason to keep your own counsel,’ she insisted.
‘But I don’t like her,’ I replied tartly.
‘You made that abundantly clear during dinner,’ Carol reminded me as she switched off her bedside light.
‘But surely you can see that it’s going to end in tears.’
‘Then you’ll just have to buy a large box of Kleenex.’
‘She’s only after his money,’ I muttered.
‘He hasn’t got any,’ replied Carol. ‘Bob’s practice is quite successful, but hardly puts him in the Abramovich league.’
‘That may well be the case, but it’s still my duty, as a friend, to warn him not to marry her.’
‘He doesn’t want to hear that at the moment,’ said Carol, ‘so don’t even think about it.’
‘Explain to me, O wise one,’ I said as I plumped up my pillow, ‘why not.’
Carol ignored my sarcasm. ‘If it should end up in the divorce courts, you’ll just look smug. If the marriage turns out to be wedded bliss, he’ll never forgive you – and neither will she.’
‘I wasn’t planning to tell her.’
‘She already knows exactly how you feel about her,’ said Carol. ‘Believe me.’
‘It won’t last a year,’ I predicted, just as the phone rang on my side of the bed. I picked it up, praying it wasn’t a patient.
‘I’ve only got one question for you,’ said a voice that needed no introduction.
‘And what’s that, Bob?’ I asked.
‘Will you be my best man?’
Bob Radford and I first met at St Thomas’ Hospital when we were both house officers. To be more accurate, we had first come into contact with each other on the rugby field, when he tackled me just as I thought I was about to score the winning try. In those days we were on opposite sides.
After we were appointed senior house officers at Guy’s, we started playing for the same rugby team and regularly had a mid-week game of squash – which he invariably won. In our final year we ended up sharing digs in Lambeth. We didn’t need to look far for female companionship as St Thomas’ had over three thousand nurses, most of whom wanted sex and for some unfathomable reason considered doctors a safe bet. Both of us looked forward to taking advantage of our new status. And then I fell in love.
Carol was also a house officer at Guy’s, and on our first date made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. However, she underestimated my one talent, persistence. She finally gave in after I’d proposed for the ninth time. Carol and I were married a few months after she’d qualified.
Bob headed off in the opposite direction. Whenever we invited him to dinner, he would turn up escorted by a new companion. I sometimes got their names muddled up, a mistake Carol never made. However, as the years passed, even Bob’s appetite to taste some new delicacy from the table d’hôte became less hearty than it had been during his student days; after all, we had both recently celebrated our fortieth birthdays. It didn’t help when Bob was named in the student rag as the most eligible bachelor in the hospital, not least because he had built up one of the most successful private practices in London. He had a set of rooms in Harley Street, with none of the expenses associated with marital bliss. But now that finally seemed to be coming to an end.
When Bob invited Carol and me to join him for dinner so that he could introduce us to Fiona, whom he described as the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with, we were both surprised and delighted. We were also a little perplexed as we couldn’t recall the name of his last girlfriend. We were fairly confident it wasn’t Fiona.
When we arrived at the restaurant, we saw the two of them seated in the far corner of the room, holding hands. Bob rose to greet us and immediately introduced Fiona as the most wonderful girl in the world. To be fair to the woman, no red-blooded male could have denied Fiona’s physical attributes. She must have been about five foot nine, made up of thirty inches of leg, attached to a figure honed in the gym and no doubt perfected on a diet of lettuce leaves and water.
Our conversation during the meal was fairly limited, partly because Bob spent most of the time staring at Fiona in a way that should be reserved for one of Donatello’s nudes. By the end of the meal, I had come to the conclusion that Fiona would end up costing about as much, and it wasn’t just because she read the wine list from the bottom upwards, ordered caviar as a starter and asked, with a sweet smile, for her pasta to be covered in truffles.
Frankly, Fiona was the type of long-legged blonde whom you hope to bump into, while perched on a stool in a hotel bar, late at night and preferably on another continent. I am unable to tell you how old she was, but I did learn during dinner that she had been married three times before she met Bob. However, she assured us that, this time, she had found the right man.
I was only too happy to escape that night and, as you have already discovered, I didn’t waste much time making my wife aware of my views on Fiona.
The marriage took place some three months later at the Chelsea Register Office in the King’s Road. The ceremony was attended by several of Bob’s friends from St Thomas’ and Guy’s – some of whom I hadn’t set eyes on since our rugby days. I felt it unwise to point out to Carol that Fiona didn’t seem to have any friends, or at least none who were willing to attend her latest nuptials.
I stood silently by Bob’s side as the registrar intoned the words, ‘If anyone can show lawful reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, then they should declare that reason to me now.’
I wanted to offer an opinion, but Carol was too close at hand to risk it. I must confess that Fiona did look radiant on that occasion, not unlike a python about to devour a lamb – whole.
The reception was held at Lucio’s on the Fulham Road. The best man’s speech might have been more coherent if I hadn’t consumed quite so much champagne, or if I’d believed a word I was uttering.
When I sat down to indulgent applause, Carol didn’t lean across to congratulate me. I avoided her until we all joined the bride and groom on the pavement outside the restaurant. Bob and Fiona waved goodbye before stepping into a white stretch limousine that would take them to Heathrow. From there, they were to board a plane to Acapulco, where they would spend a three-week honeymoon. Neither the transport to Heathrow, which incidentally could have accommodated the entire wedding party, nor the final destination for the honeymoon, had been Bob’s first choice. A piece of information I didn’t pass on to Carol, as she would undoubtedly have accused me of being prejudiced – and she would have been right.
I can’t pretend that I saw a lot of Fiona during their first year of marriage, although Bob called from time to time, but only from his practice in Harley Street. We even managed the occasional lunch, but he no longer seemed to be able to fit in a game of squash in the evening.
Over lunch Bob never failed to expound the virtues of his remarkable wife, as if only too aware of my attitude to his spouse – although I never at any time expressed my true feelings. I could only assume that this was the reason Carol and I were never invited to dinner at their home, and whenever we asked them to join us for supper, Bob made some unconvincing excuse about having to visit a patient, or being out of town on that particular evening.
The change was subtle to begin with, almost imperceptible. Our lunches became more regular, even the occasional game of squash was fitted in, and perhaps more relevant, there were fewer and fewer references to Fiona’s pending sainthood.
It was soon after the death of Bob’s aunt, a Miss Muriel P
embleton, that the change became far less subtle. To be honest, I didn’t even realize that Bob had an aunt, let alone one who was the sole heir to Pembleton Electronics.
The Times revealed that Miss Pembleton had left a little over seven million pounds in shares and property, as well as a considerable art collection. With the exception of a few minor bequests to charitable organizations, her nephew turned out to be the sole beneficiary. God bless the man, because coming into an unexpected fortune didn’t change Bob in any way; but the same couldn’t be said of Fiona.
When I called Bob to congratulate him on his good fortune, he sounded very low. He asked if I could possibly join him for lunch, as he needed to seek my advice on a personal matter.
We met a couple of hours later, at a gastro pub just off Devonshire Place. Bob didn’t talk about anything consequential until after the waiter had taken our order, but once the first course had been served, Fiona was the only other dish on the menu. He had received a letter that morning from Abbott Crombie & Co, Solicitors, stating, in unambiguous terms, that his wife was filing for divorce.
‘Can’t fault her timing,’ I said tactlessly.
‘And I didn’t even spot it,’ said Bob.
‘Spot it?’ I repeated. ‘Spot what?’
‘How Fiona’s attitude to me changed not long after she’d met my aunt Muriel. In fact, that same night, she literally charmed the pants off me.’
I reminded Bob of what Woody Allen had said on the subject. Mr Allen could not understand why God had given man a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to connect the two. Bob laughed for the first time that day, but it was only moments before he lapsed back into a maudlin silence.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked.
‘Only if you know the name of a first-class divorce lawyer,’ Bob replied, ‘because I’m told that Mrs Abbott has a reputation for extracting the last drop of blood on behalf of her clients, especially following the latest law lords’ ruling in favour of spouses.’
‘Can’t say I do,’ I responded. ‘Having been happily married for sixteen years, I fear I’m the wrong man to advise you. Why don’t you have a word with Peter Mitchell? After all, with four ex-wives, he ought to be able to tell you who’s the best advocate available.’
‘I called Peter first thing this morning,’ admitted Bob. ‘He’s always been represented by Mrs Abbott – told me that he keeps her on a permanent retainer.’
During the next few weeks, Bob and I returned to the squash court regularly, and I started beating him for the first time. He would then join Carol and me for dinner afterwards. We tried to steer clear of any talk about Fiona. However, he did let slip that she was refusing to leave the stage gracefully, even after he had offered her half of Aunt Muriel’s bequest.
As the weeks turned into months, Bob began losing weight and his golden locks were turning prematurely grey. Fiona, on the other hand, seemed to go from strength to strength, taking each new hurdle like a seasoned thoroughbred. When it came to tactics, Fiona clearly understood the long game, but then she had the advantage of having experienced three away victories, and was clearly looking forward to a fourth.
It must have been about a year later that Fiona finally agreed to a settlement. All of Bob’s assets were to be divided equally between them, while he would also cover her legal costs. A date was set for a formal signing in chambers. I agreed to act as a witness and give Bob, as Carol described it, much-needed moral support.
I never even took the top off my pen because Fiona burst into tears long before Mrs Abbott had read out the terms, declaring that she was being cruelly treated and Bob was causing her to have a nervous breakdown. She then flounced out of the office without another word. I must confess that I had never seen Fiona looking less nervous. Even Mrs Abbott couldn’t hide her exasperation.
Harry Dexter, whom Bob had selected as his solicitor, warned him that this was likely to end up in a lengthy and expensive courtroom battle if he couldn’t agree to a settlement. Mr Dexter added, for good measure, that judges often instruct the defending party to shoulder the injured party’s costs. Bob shrugged his shoulders, not even bothering to respond.
Once both sides had accepted that an out-of-court settlement could not be reached, a day was fixed in the judge’s calendar for a hearing.
Mr Dexter was determined to counter Fionas outrageous demands with equally fierce resistance, and to begin with Bob went along with all his recommendations. But with each new demand from the other side, Bob’s resolve began to weaken until, like a punch-drunk boxer, he was ready to throw in the towel. He became more and more depressed as the day of the hearing drew nearer, and even began saying, ‘Why don’t I just give her everything because that’s the only way she’ll ever be satisfied?’ Carol and I tried to lift his spirits, but with little success, and even Mr Dexter was finding it harder and harder to convince his client to hang in there.
We both assured Bob that we would be in court to support him on the day of the hearing.
Carol and I took our places in the gallery of court number three, matrimonial division, on the last Thursday in June, and waited for proceedings to begin. By ten to ten the court officials began to drift in and take their places. A few minutes later Mrs Abbott arrived, with Fiona by her side. I stared down at the plaintiff, who was wearing no jewellery and a black suit that would have been more appropriate for a funeral – Bob’s.
A moment later Mr Dexter appeared with Bob in his wake. They took their places at a table on the other side of the courtroom.
As ten o’clock struck, my worst fears were realized. The judge entered the courtroom – a woman who immediately brought back memories of my old school matron – a martinet who didn’t believe that the punishment should fit the crime. The judge took her place on the bench and smiled down at Mrs Abbott. They’d probably been at university together. Mrs Abbott rose from her place and returned the judge’s smile. She then proceeded to do battle for every jot and tittle in Bob’s possession, even arguing over who should end up with his college cufflinks, saying that it had been agreed that all Mr Radford’s assets should be divided equally, so that if he had one cufflink, her client must be entitled to the other.
As each hour passed, Fiona’s demands expanded. After all, Mrs Abbot explained, hadn’t her client given up a rewarding and happy lifestyle in America, which included a thriving family business – something I’d never heard mentioned before – to devote herself to her husband? Only to discover that he rarely arrived home in the evening before eight, and then only after he’d been out with his friends to play squash, and when he eventually turned up – Mrs Abbott paused – drunk, he didn’t want to eat the meal she had spent hours preparing for him – she paused again – and when they later went to bed, he quickly fell into a drunken slumber. I rose from my place in the gallery to protest, only to be told by an usher to sit down or I would be asked to leave the court. Carol tugged firmly on my jacket.
Finally, Mrs Abbot reached the end of her demands, with the suggestion that her client should be given their home in the country (Aunt Muriel’s), while Bob would be allowed to keep his London apartment; she should have the villa in Cannes (Aunt Muriel’s), while he kept his rooms at Harley Street (rented). Mrs Abbott finally turned her attention to Aunt Muriel’s art collection, which she also felt should be divided equally; her client should have the Monet, while he kept the Manguin. She should have the Picasso, he the Pasmore, she the Bacon, etc. When Mrs Abbott finally sat down, Mrs Justice Butler suggested that perhaps they should take a break for lunch.
During a lunch, not eaten, Mr Dexter, Carol and I tried valiantly to convince Bob that he should fight back. But he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘If I can hold on to everything I had before my aunt died,’ Bob insisted, ‘that will be quite enough for me.’
Mr Dexter felt certain he could do far better than that, but Bob showed little interest in putting up a fight.
‘Just get it over with,’ he instructed. �
��Try not to forget who’s paying her costs.’
When we returned to the courtroom at two o’clock that afternoon, the judge turned her attention to Bob’s solicitor.
‘And what do you have to say about all this, Mr Dexter?’ asked Mrs Justice Butler.
‘We are happy to go along with the division of my client’s assets as suggested by Mrs Abbott,’ he replied with an exaggerated sigh.
‘You’re happy to go along with Mrs Abbott’s recommendations, Mr Dexter?’ repeated the judge in disbelief.
Once again Mr Dexter looked at Bob, who simply nodded, like a dog on the back shelf of a car.
‘So be it,’ said Mrs Justice Butler, unable to mask her surprise.
She was just about to pass judgement, when Fiona broke down and burst into tears. She leant across and whispered into Mrs Abbott’s ear.
‘Mrs Abbott,’ said Mrs Justice Butler, ignoring the plaintiff’s sobs, ‘am I to sanction this agreement?’
‘It seems not,’ said Mrs Abbott, rising from her place and looking somewhat embarrassed. ‘It appears that my client still feels that such a settlement favours the defendant.’
‘Does she indeed?’ said Mrs Justice Butler and turned to face Fiona. Mrs Abbott touched her client on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. Fiona immediately rose, and kept her head bowed while the judge spoke.
‘Mrs Radford,’ she began, looking down at Fiona, ‘am I to understand that you are no longer happy with the settlement your solicitor has secured for you?’
Fiona nodded demurely.
‘Then may I suggest a solution, that I hope will bring this case to a speedy conclusion.’ Fiona looked up and smiled sweetly at the judge, while Bob sank lower into his seat.
‘Perhaps it would be easier, Mrs Radford, if you were to draw up two lists for the court’s consideration, that you believe to be a fair and equitable division of your husband’s assets?’
‘I’d be happy to do that, your honour,’ said Fiona meekly.
‘Does this meet with your approval, Mr Dexter?’ asked Mrs Justice Butler, turning back to Bob’s solicitor.
The New Collected Short Stories Page 35
