‘No, darling, that’s really not the plan.’
‘So, why? I mean – you know, all of a sudden …’
‘At my age?’
‘Well, yes.’ The raised eyebrows, the attempt to be composed and ironic. Viv sees through it now. ‘After, you know, Mum, all this time.’
Viv travels back five decades, a journey she has often taken. Her mother has just told her of an affair she is having. Why, her daughter had asked. Why didn’t she tell her father? The second, unspoken why was, in effect, what her own daughter is now asking. And how had the cool-headed, rigorously truthful yet guileful Judith put it? She needed something Vivien’s father could not give her.
‘Long marriages go through stages,’ Viv says, feeling her way. ‘I know it must sound bizarre, but the problem is I’m – not getting something that I need. I used to have it, I had it until quite recently, and I’ve been missing it.’
Daisy’s earnest look is not one her mother has witnessed with any frequency. Viv does not and could not know that it is oddly reminiscent of the look on Bridie Waterstreet’s face as she listened to her mentor, Julia Jefferies, subtly recommending against an inadvisable affair of the heart. Daisy too is listening earnestly, but like Bridie she is not, perhaps, grasping the picture in its entirety.
‘You mean, you’re not having sex, Mum.’
Viv detects a resolute effort to embrace the concept not only of having, but of having had. Also of wanting to have, an arguably bigger challenge than the rest. She touches her daughter’s hand. ‘You’re being very understanding,’ she murmurs. ‘These things aren’t easy with parents, I know.’
She can tell that Daisy has another question, of the what-was-the-last-straw variety. The question is there, but Daisy may not be happy asking it and may not really want to know the answer. And may be better off not knowing.
Viv would bend over backwards not to bring about a rift between Daisy and her father. Or rather, extend the rift that already exists. She thinks it would be best if Daisy, whose feminist credentials are as staunch as her mother’s, is not told exactly what prompted Viv’s engagement with the Discretion Agency.
‘I just came to realise that the situation was unlikely to change,’ she says. ‘And I decided to do something about it rather than sit about and do nothing.’
‘Well done, Mum. I hope it works out.’ Viv sees Daisy hesitate, and reach a reluctant decision. ‘Is he – is Dad having an affair?’
Viv had expected this. ‘Oddly enough, no. I shouldn’t say oddly enough – I just mean I don’t think so. Although admittedly he has been spending time with the younger sister of a friend from the sci-fi group. She broke up with her boyfriend and he’s been helping her find a flat and a job and so on. But—’
‘How young?’ Daisy leans forward.
‘Early thirties.’
‘Jes-us.’
‘I know it sounds – but I honestly don’t think …’
Daisy breathes in deeply. ‘It doesn’t sound good, Mum. Quite frankly.’
‘No, I know it doesn’t.’
‘So, what would you do if you fell for someone? Just as a passing thought.’
‘I’m not looking for that’ – only for a little romance, in passing – ‘and I really don’t think it’s likely to happen. At my age,’ she adds, in the unlikely event Daisy hasn’t factored this in.
They pause to order coffee and two slices of Middle Eastern lemon and almond cake. Then Daisy further surprises her.
‘In a spirit of quid pro quo, Mum, we’re doing okay and Adrian’s passed his tests.’
‘He’s doing a course?’
‘No, Mum. His tests. He’s as clean as a whistle.’
‘Well, that’s good news,’ Viv says, mostly meaning it. ‘But I might ask you the same question. What would you do, darling, if you fell for someone?’
Daisy stares at her, rather as if her mother has suddenly become the village idiot. ‘What do you think I’d do? I’m a free agent. I’m not marrying Adrian.’
‘No, but – living with him, or in the same house as him – it won’t cramp your style?’
‘Of course it won’t. I’m as free as a bird, Mum. I’ll carry on as normal.’
‘I see,’ Viv says, quashing doubts.
‘He knows that. And the same goes for him.’
‘But he’s not going to carry on as normal, as free as a bird, while you’re – you know, while you’re trying to conceive?’
‘You got it, Mum, he’s going to be entirely faithful to me while that’s going on.’ A broad grin. ‘I told you, this is just a laterally thought out, interim solution to the baby question. Or possible solution.’
‘Yes, I see,’ says her mother again.
‘He’s great fun, you know. We have loads of laughs; it’s like living with your best girlfriend. Except,’ a gleam, picked up by Viv, ‘it’s not quite like that. Do you know what I mean?’ She clearly thinks her mother doesn’t have much of a clue.
‘Actually I think I might, just a little,’ Viv murmurs. It might resemble, in some respects, the rollicking times she, Geoff and Jules had when they shared Julia’s flat. Or, and this is a more uneasy resemblance, when she and Geoff, explosive new lovers, were alone in their room.
Daisy says nonchalantly, ‘Don’t stress, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for viable alternatives.’ She shoots a meaningful look at her mother. ‘Just like you are, Mum.’
Viv arrives home to find Geoff and Eliza holed up yet again in the kitchen. She greets Eliza with every appearance of pleasure. Indeed, were it not for a negative cast in the back of her mind, an aggravation she traces directly back to her mother rather than anything else, she thinks she could be quite kindly disposed to her.
Eliza jumps out of her seat and gives Viv an enthusiastic hug. ‘Great to see you!’ Brilliant timing, because they just found her a flat. Whoop de do! A tiny little bolthole, but really quite pretty.
The word bolthole gives rise to another unpleasant memory. ‘Light, too, and not far from here,’ Eliza continues. Isn’t that amazing? If only it weren’t four in the afternoon they could be breaking out the champagne.
We might even defy the four o’clock curfew, says Geoff, eyeing Viv gingerly, if we had any on the ice. Which we don’t.
What bad management, says Viv, who has resolved to put Paris behind her and wouldn’t mind a glass of champagne herself just now. Shall we have some wine instead? What have we got, Geoff? She’d very much like to vent her feelings about her mother’s behaviour too, but as this is out of the question she sits down and asks questions about the new flat instead.
Eliza likes white, so they crack open a bottle of Pinot Gris. She is stoked to hear about Daisy’s show. What an incredibly talented daughter you both have. She would love to see her work and meet her sometime – would it be possible to gatecrash the opening, or would that be absolutely not done?
What do you think, hon? A swift glance between Geoff and Viv, with Daisy as the complicated subtext. Viv nods. We could probably smuggle you in, Lize, says Geoff.
No need to smuggle, says Viv, briskly, Lize will be lost in the crowd anyway. But she’s sure Daisy would enjoy meeting her, too. Her airy glance meets a matching one from her husband.
All these exciting things on the horizon, says Eliza. ‘Geoff is acting as guarantor on the flat until the new job comes through and I’m solvent at last. Isn’t that sweet of him?’ She looks at him, not a million miles (had she or anyone present known) from the way Bridie Waterstreet has been looking at Emils Liepins. Viv takes it in with, she is surprised to find, a feeling that is more or less neutral.
The flattering attention of the opposite sex, especially the undivided interest of a youthful acolyte. She can’t blame Geoff for lapping it up. Most people would, although Viv thinks she herself might find it tedious after a while. Eliza, with her abundant locks and eager manner, reminds Viv of a silky terrier straining at the leash.
She decides to take her second glass of wine upstairs. �
�I’m going to leave you to it. I must go and call my mother.’
‘Wow, is your mother still—’ Eliza stops short.
‘Yes, still alive and kicking at ninety-one. Must be hard for you to believe. But people are living so much longer these days.’
‘She’s in a home, is she?’
‘She most certainly is,’ smiles Viv. ‘Her own home.’
When Judith eventually answers the phone, she sounds all in. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’
‘Yes, I’m perfectly well, thank you.’ This is predictable.
‘You sound a bit tired, that’s all. Did you have a big day?’ A big day, for her mother, might be the bus into Oxford and, less frequently now, a film.
‘Whatever makes you think that?’ The thin voice is querulous.
‘Why don’t you have supper and an early night?’
‘I’m quite all right, dear, for Pete’s sake don’t fuss. Was there anything else?’
Viv shelves her conversation plan. Her plan of attack, as it would unwisely have been. It was her fault, anyway. She’s had a lifetime to get to know her mother; nothing she does now should surprise her. Judith deals the cards according to her lights and never on impulse. She weighs things up, determines, and only then does she act.
It’s just that Judith’s particular lights, in the eyes of her daughter, don’t conform in many respects to those of others. Her mother’s influence makes her aware that this is untidy thinking. Woolly, Judith would witheringly call it.
Untidy it may be, and woolly, but Viv has found that codes of ethics that differ markedly from one’s own are always hard to handle. Hard to comprehend, even over a lifetime.
She stares at her phone. Her hand hovers over it. Then she puts it away, out of sight, and spreads out her quilt. It’s still unfinished, but evolving.
24
LEARY
Viv is standing on the crowded platform at Finchley Road, having let one overloaded train go past. There are delays due to repair work on the line. She is standing here in response to a text from Leary.
Hey B. Any chance of a quick drink, like N.O.W? Bar in Greek St circa 6?
As she peered at it with, she wouldn’t pretend otherwise, a certain reluctance, the front door had slammed downstairs. Footsteps, and Eliza’s voice. She made a quick decision. Okay. She looked at her watch. She had roughly three-quarters of an hour.
Great. I’ll be the scary dude in a hoodie. Kidding – boring geek in baseball cap. He gave her the street number and a name: Greek to Me. Viv had grabbed a black top and thrown a coat over the rest of her work gear.
On the packed Tube a young man gives her his seat, something she always has mixed feelings about but is grateful for overall. She performs a cursory operation with lipstick and powder. The next station is Green Park, where she will need to get off and walk or change to the Piccadilly Line. Fast walking will probably be quicker than Tube or bus. Anything to get out of here. The crush in the streets will be more bearable. Bag over shoulder, she marches resolutely up the escalator.
Viv has some misgivings about coming face to face with Leary, but on the plus side a drink will either clear them up or enable a painless getaway. As she exits the station, on impulse, she texts Martin Glover. Going off to meet Leary for a drink Soho 6. No great expectations. Any advice gratefully accepted.
The phone rings promptly. ‘What sort of advice did you have in mind?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ she replies. ‘That’s why I was asking.’
‘I don’t think it’s my place to give you advice, Beatrice.’
‘But if it were your place, Martin, what advice would you give?’ ‘If it were my place, I’d probably say: do what your instinct tells you. I have great faith in instincts.’
‘I’ll try to do that but I think my instincts may have seized up. It’s freezing.’ She had come out without her gloves. She tucks in her scarf and tugs her coat tightly round her. A wind has come up. Nasty, brutish, and attacking in short, savage gusts.
‘Are you in the street?’
‘Yes. Piccadilly. Along with thousands of fellow sufferers. How did you know?’
‘I think what gave it away was all the cars, buses and fire engines screeching and hooting.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you warm enough?’ he asks.
‘Not really. But I should probably trudge off gently into the good night, or I’ll be very late. Although the night doesn’t seem all that good at the moment.’
‘Well, my other advice is to order a hot toddy. Don’t—’ The traffic is louder than ever. Now there’s a deafening ambulance siren.
She shouts. ‘What did you say?’ She can’t hear a thing. But maybe he didn’t say a thing, she can’t be sure. ‘Did you say don’t?’
‘You’re only going for a drink, you said.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Well. That’s all right then, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t do anything against your best instincts, Beatrice.’
She hurries away, walking extra rapidly to shut out the wind and anything else she doesn’t want to let in.
She nearly misses Greek to Me. Apart from the number on the door she wouldn’t have known she was there, the nameplate is so discreet. But once inside, she can see through engraved glass doors that it’s crowded and buzzing. There’s a personable young woman in a reception area taking names. It must be some sort of club.
She gives her name. The receptionist scans up and down the list with the kind of elongated, immaculately painted forefinger Viv could never aspire to. Is it real or stuck on by one of those false-nail salons? She smells of something fashionable, perhaps suede or licorice, reminding Viv that she hasn’t any perfume with her.
Whose guest was she again? Funny, she’s saying, I can’t see you here.
Viv does a mental somersault. ‘Sorry. Sorry – did I just say I was Vivien Quarry? I must be going bonkers, that’s not my name at all. It’s my mother’s name. I’m Beatrice Taylor. Senior moment.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Stupid of me.’
And she’s the guest of?
‘I’m the guest of Leary – oh God, what the fuck is Leary’s name? He’s in TV, I’ve got a – a script meeting with him. Actually, Leary’s not his real name either. Sorry again, I’m having a complete mental block. Or a total meltdown might be more like it.’
Now the girl is giving her a pitying look. ‘It’s all right, I’ve found you. Beatrice Taylor is right here. You’re Laurence Davidson’s guest,’ a tinkling laugh, ‘for future reference, Beatrice.’ And Viv is waved through the glass doors, feeling very foolish.
At least it’s warm and welcoming. Lots of etched mirrors, framed cartoons, masses of celebrity photos, comfortable armchairs and sofas. A bar and plenty of people drinking cocktails. It’s bigger than it looks, a long room full of nooks and crannies. Viv screws up her eyes, and identifies what looks like a baseball cap on a blurry figure in an alcove with bay windows. She gives a tentative wave, but can’t tell whether the figure has seen her or not.
She catches a passing glimpse of herself in an ornate Venetian mirror from early last century. The glass has lots of cracks and worn patches. Her face is pink from the cold and her hair is a mess. She should have dashed into the cloakroom for a quick touch-up.
‘Beatrice?’ The man in the cap has lurched into focus. He jumps out of his armchair. A middle-aged white man, in a black leather jacket and jeans. Tallish, lean, wire-rimmed spectacles. He exudes a harassed sort of energy, as Viv had anticipated. He shakes her hand vigorously, and in a seamless move plants a kiss on her icy cheek.
‘Guess I can take off my ID now.’ He whips off the cap to reveal thinning sandy hair standing on end. It looks wiry, like the rest of him. ‘Hey, you look like you’re totally knackered like me and you’re frozen solid.’
He gives the chair opposite him a hospitable pat and hangs her coat on a Victorian hat stand in front of the window. It wouldn’t look out of place i
n Julia’s flat. Between their chairs is a table with a canvas satchel lying on it; his script bag, Viv assumes.
‘I tried for a seat in front of a fire,’ he scans the room, ‘but they were all taken. Bribery, threats, intimidation – nothing worked. What are all these guys doing here? Why aren’t they still in the office? You have to ask yourself these searching questions, right?’
His attention, jokey and restless, switches to her. ‘This is a searching look. Can I call you Bea?’ He continues without pause. ‘They do New York-style cocktails here.’ He indicates his over-sized glass. ‘The real deal, none of your cheapskate London thimbles. Wanna try my martini? Shaken not stirred. Award-winning Aussie barman Adam, best in town. What’ll you have? You name it, he’ll do it.’ It feels like a major decision, one Viv feels incapable of making just now. ‘I’ll have what you’re having. Or, Leary, wait—’ He has sprung to his feet. ‘Better still, a hot toddy.’
He shakes his head. ‘Not possible. This is a strict no-toddy zone. Pain of severe penalties. But one of Adam’s mind-blowing martinis’ll warm you up. What do they say? Warm the cockles. Know where they’re located, Bea?’
‘Somewhere in the heart, I believe.’
‘Okay! Very appropriate for our purposes, right? Vodka or gin?
Olive or twist?’
‘Uh – gin. With a twist. Please.’
‘Hendrick’s, Bombay Sapphire, or they have these great new craft—’
‘Surprise me,’ she murmurs, smiling. She sinks into the armchair and is strongly tempted to close her eyes. Leary has vanished. Does he have a hyperactive disorder? Perhaps this is a requirement for directing armies of people in TV dramas. He’s already exchanging badinage with the barman.
She locates the ladies, heads for it and attends to her hair. She needs another visit to Ramona. And it’s only a matter of days since she was hit by a hairpiece and had her face slapped. The whiplash has gone, and the black eye, but there’s still a faint shadow on the cheek.
She applies more powder but the result looks cakey and has to be rubbed off with a damp tissue. She tells herself she must be more grown-up and organised. Must keep foundation in my bag for just this sort of emergency. And a travel-sized perfume. Not that this encounter is an emergency, it’s more of a – she realises she was about to think, a nuisance. It’s more of a – distraction. But a distraction from what?
The Age of Discretion Page 26
