He had a flat on the river at Canary Wharf, expensive and new. There was an ex-wife in Oxfordshire and two young daughters. It was at his former family home he spent most weekends; his wife was content to move out of the house to join her new partner at Chiswick, while he had his time with the children. Revolving doors, he called it, a civilised way for him to have part custody of the kids without uprooting them from their environment. Even now she flushed at the thought of how gullible she’d been for the time they lived together.
Two blissful years, until one day she came home to Canary Wharf to find a group of people crowded into their apartment. Standing at the door in surprise, a striking blonde woman greeted her with the remark that she must be Claire.
She agreed she was indeed Claire, but who were they? Was Donald here, and what was going on?
‘This is Claire.’ The blonde woman introduced her to the mixed group, all very smart casual, who seemed to be enjoying her drinks while they sprawled in her chairs. Hers and Donald’s — of whom there was not a sign.
As she looked around for him the blonde said, ‘Claire warms the bed for Donald… Mondays to Fridays. And in case you haven’t already twigged, Claire darling, I’m Patricia, his wife.’
Everyone seemed to think it a tremendous joke.
‘Ex-wife…’ was all Claire could think to say, feeling angry at the invasion and bewildered by what was happening.
‘Quite definitely not ex, sweetie,’ Patricia replied. ‘Never have been ex, and don’t intend to be.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Claire said, ‘but I’m a bit confused.’
‘I’m not at all surprised!’ Patricia smiled, and her smart friends laughed again. Brayed, Claire thought; that was more the sound, instantly hating them for the sly way they found her discomfort so amusing. She tried not to show her anger, deciding she must remain unruffled and confront the situation.
‘Where is Donald?’ she asked firmly, but was hardly prepared for the answer.
‘In Paris, I gather, with our mutual rival. The latest one.’
‘We hear her name’s Mirabelle — like the restaurant,’ one of the friends said with a snigger.
‘Well, we know what Donald’s like. If it’s crumpet, the name doesn’t matter,’ drawled a slim effete young man. ‘Or, let’s face it, the age or the colour. Horny bugger. Shags for England!’
‘I don’t expect you’ve met Mirabelle,’ Patricia said. ‘She’s the new one he took to Bournemouth last week.’
‘Bawdy Bournemouth,’ another friend cooed, and they all seemed to think that hilarious.
‘He was at a convention there,’ Claire said, beginning to feel quite desperate at the witless banter of these upper-class twits and their expensively dressed Sloane-Ranger women.
‘If you believe that, Claire, then you’re too young and far too innocent for a conniving sod like my husband. Where do you think he is this weekend? Come on, poppet. Where did he say he’d be?’
‘At… at home. Your home. With the children.’
‘What children? We haven’t got children.’
‘He has photographs of them! He showed them to me. Their names are —’
‘There are no fucking names, dear, because there are no fucking kids,’
‘Gillian,’ Claire said helplessly, ‘and… and Lucille.’
Even the smart friends began to quieten at this moment of such complete humiliation. Patricia shrugged. Her smile was now a trifle more sympathetic, less hyped by malice.
‘The photos are of a cousin’s children. In fact their names are Gillian and Lucille. But they’re not ours. Your predecessor took only six months to tumble to it. Your tenure has been… what, eighteen months? A little longer?’
‘Two years,’ Claire stammered.
‘Did it never occur to you… no, I can see it obviously didn’t. And no one at the office ever said anything?’
‘Nobody there knows about us.’
‘Oh, I’m sure they do. But good jobs are hard to find, and Donald is the boss. Or at least I am, since I own the company, but he likes to pretend it’s his firm. There’s a woman there in projects… her name is Josie, I believe… he spends occasional weekends with her. Those times when I say I don’t want him coming home to me.’
Claire remembered wanting to angrily reject this, to say it was a lie; Josie was a friend, her best friend in the firm, but she couldn’t frame the words. She vividly recalled the sudden rush of nausea and running to the bathroom, where she attempted to be sick quietly, but the bile choked her and she vomited again and again, no longer caring who heard. When she looked in the glass she was a dishevelled mess. She tried to clean her face, mop the tears, wondering how she could go back and face them. But when she did summon the courage to leave the bathroom, only Patricia was still there waiting.
‘They’ve gone to the bar downstairs. You were the spectre at the feast, I’m afraid… or whatever that saying is. Rather spoilt the party. Might’ve been better if I’d warned you; on the other hand, why do I need permission to come to my own apartment? It is mine. And not only this one — I own the whole damn building.’
‘And you own Donald,’ Claire had replied bitterly. ‘Is that it? You keep him as a trophy, like your father probably kept heads of the animals he shot, mounted on his walls for people to admire.’
‘I say, that’s a rather bitchy fun thought. My grandpa, actually. He was the one who left me all the loot. Cut dear old Daddy out of the will, so Daddy and I haven’t spoken since.’
She collected a scarf she had left on a chair, and slipped it around her neck. Claire knew instinctively it was an Armani.
‘A trophy? I must remember to tell Donald the next time we’re in bed. It’ll amuse him. A very valuable trophy whom I indulge with the professed ownership of a firm — together with this apartment and girls like you.’
‘Not any longer, not me. But if you care so little for him, why do you cling on to him?’
‘I thought you were brighter than that. After all, you said he’s a trophy. Impeccable family lineage. We’ll be the Duke and Duchess some day, if two elderly relatives manage to die. In the meantime we prefer other people in bed. Except when he comes home for a family fuck on our occasional weekends… with our phantom kids.’ Claire could recall every awful moment. The relief when Patricia had gone, crossing the wharf below to the bar where her friends were waiting. She flushed even now at how she’d hastily stepped out of sight as they’d laughed and looked up at the window, how within an hour she’d packed her clothes, plus a lithograph of the river that she’d bought, left her key on the table and locked the door behind her.
She had never returned to the firm. Just sent him a formal note of resignation, and had been surprised to receive — at her mother’s house, where she’d taken sanctuary — a fulsome reference.
Claire shivered, and realised it had grown cold. The sun had now vanished behind clouds and the wind was rising; the best of the day had gone. She felt a mood of deep dejection. In a few hours it would be time for Patrick to make his overseas phone call. To his sister, or perhaps his wife. The obviously talented and so beautiful Joanna, whose picture he carried in his wallet. She’d glimpsed it once when he was buying wine, and knew it could never be an even contest. Not her measured against Joanna Lugarno.
She told herself not to be a fool; these were stupid, resentful thoughts. Whoever he chose to ring, the result would be the same. Tomorrow he would be gone. Good sense had warned her not to fall so completely in love with a married man again, but good sense had nothing whatever to do with her feelings since that night at the restaurant on the Serpentine. She knew it had been recklessly impetuous and that she had only herself to blame.
Claire made her way back to the warmth of the laundrette. She shut the door before she saw him sitting there, in one of the chairs opposite the machines. He merely nodded a hello as she blinked and took the vacant seat beside him.
‘Patrick.’
‘Mrs Rhani said you’d be back soo
n.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Watching our smalls being tumbled. Like waiting for a kettle to boil, or watching grass grow.’
‘Oh God,’ she said, feeling such an outbreak of joy at seeing him that it caused an actual pain in her chest. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I rang Sally.’
‘But it must be… what time… some dreadful hour there?’
‘Five in the morning. Woke her up, but she’s given me a few sleepless nights in her time. I had to confirm what she said in her email. Claire, there’s something I’ve been keeping from you, because I didn’t know if it was really true or not. But it isn’t, so I can tell you.’
‘Patrick darling,’ she said fondly, ‘you’re not making sense.’
‘I know I’m not. Well, put it this way. There was a rumour in our family that Jo was pregnant. But she apparently isn’t.’
‘Oh.’ She tried to think of what to say, but he was continuing. ‘That’s what I’ve been hiding for over a week. Trying to reach her to find out the truth.’
‘You’re disappointed?’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Jo never wanted kids… so I think I’m relieved. And it means you don’t have to try to get me on a plane, especially as I don’t want to go.’
She slipped her hand into his, and leant against him. She saw Mrs Rhani glance at this, then continue the chore of folding clothes. A small child came and gazed at them; the mother called her away, told her to mind her manners and not to stare at people.
‘You didn’t even try to book a flight?’ Claire wanted her moment of happiness confirmed.
‘Didn’t even look up the phone number,’ Patrick replied. ‘So we can collect the laundry tomorrow if you like. On our way to do our daily shop in Chelsea, and have a cleansing ale at our pub.’
They walked home, arms linked, their steps in joyful unison.
‘Where were you?’ he asked.
‘Down at the river.’
‘The tide’s out. I saw it from your loo.’
‘I know. It looks horrible.’
‘It did, even from the loo. Down there it must’ve been absolutely gruesome. Probably matched your mood.’
‘Stop it.’ She smiled.
‘What?’
‘Reading my mind.’
‘I’m very fond of your mind.’
‘I’m mad about yours,’ she answered, ‘and the rest of you.’
He put his arms around her and kissed her. A well-dressed man walking two small fluffy dogs on a lead was asking them to please be good boys and do their business. The dogs came and sniffed at the legs of the couple clinging so closely together. Their owner tugged on their leads, trying to steer them away.
‘Henry… George… stop that!’
In the midst of their passionate kiss, Patrick and Claire drew apart and looked at each other in amazement. ‘Well, blow me down! I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!’ Patrick exclaimed.
‘Henry… George… Come here, boys… at once, please!’ Their owner was desperately anxious to leave the spot.
‘We knew some sisters named Henry and George,’ Claire tried to tell him, in an attempt to excuse their laughter.
The man looked startled at being spoken to, as though it was an unwarranted intrusion. He jerked on the dogs’ leads, and all three scuttled away. Patrick and Claire stood watching their retreat, and were home and in bed ten rapturous minutes later.
*
In the early hours of the morning, when a sudden storm woke them, they sat by the window and watched the lightning transform the black sky somewhere over south London. They tried to speak about the future. Claire found it like walking on eggshells. Patrick said the future was always too complicated to predict, so it was best that they tried to concentrate on the present.
‘And my present feelings are quite simple. I don’t want to lose you, my love,’ he said.
The next morning he woke to find her curled up in his arms, her bright green eyes wide open and studying him from only inches away.
‘God, it’s early.’ He tried to focus on his watch in the pre-dawn gloom.
‘The sun will be up in an hour or two,’ Claire said. ‘Shall we leap out of bed and go for a healthy jog, or stay here and keep each other warm?’
‘Let’s stay.’
They stayed. And afterwards, happily satiated and on the verge of sleep, he heard Claire murmur.
‘Am I really your love?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Patrick said.
‘Your fancy woman?’
‘That too.’
She smiled and snuggled in closer.
Two days later there was finally an email from Joanna.
Darling,
Home at last after an adventurous time, during which I got food poisoning and spent two days in the Cedars Hospital. Home to find lots of messages from you. You must have wondered, but the truth is I had an urgent call to go to LA, and wanted to resolve things there so I could surprise you with my fantastic news. I flew the sharp end, all expenses paid, a suite at the Beverley Wilshire, and I’ve signed to do a big-budget movie. Details can wait until we meet, but I start pre-production in a month, so hurry home soonest — as they say on the coast.
By the way, I bought the Kirribilli apartment you said we couldn’t afford. I just couldn’t face letting someone else live there and have that stupendous view, and it’ll make a wonderful pad when we come back to Oz from America between movies. Don’t worry about the price, darling. That’s all taken care of. I would have rung you from California with all this news, but fancy getting food poisoning at a dinner in my honour! At least the studio paid for a private hospital suite — as well they might.
About you, what news of the BBC? If they don’t play ball, tell them to shove it. There’s plenty of work in LA, and an agent who wants to meet you. Call me to prove you’re not cross at me for being secretive, but you know how I feel about Hollywood and its pitfalls. They owed me big-time for the icy reception six years ago, and I wanted to do this solo. I can’t tell you how great it feels, I’m walking on air.
Much love, and eagerly waiting here to show you how much, Jo xxx
PS. There was a strange rumour that I was pregnant. Your mother sent a sweet note saying she was sorry I lost the baby, but I rang her and explained there wasn’t one. I think it was my dad who started the false alarm, a case of wishful thinking. Let’s face it, we may love our nearest and dearest, but sometimes families are hell!
That night, when it was morning in Australia, Patrick rang her. He said he was thrilled to hear her news, and listened to her enthusiastic account of the visit and details of the proposed movie. It was being rewritten, and she was receiving new pages daily. After they dealt with the acquisition of the new apartment, and how she’d organised a special deposit so she could move in immediately, she asked about progress with the BBC. Patrick admitted there was no word from Charlotte Redmond.
In reply to Joanna’s suggestion he pack and come home, that they didn’t need the hassle, Patrick dissembled. Despite the fact that he was sure the assertive Ms Redmond would have her own slate of productions and would not welcome leftovers from her disgraced predecessor, he said a meeting was imminent. Truthfully, each day he expected his screenplay to be returned with a note of rejection. He was so sure of this happening that he had started not to care. There were more important things in his life just now: one was the continuing search for what had finally happened to his grandfather, and the other was Claire.
They hung up after mutual assurances they’d see each other soon. As Joanna did not raise the subject of her postscript in the email, he made no mention of the pregnancy that may or may not have been a delusion.
Patrick and Claire’s Indian summer lingered through October as the leaves began to fall. As if time was against them, they spent more hours trying to decipher Stephen’s court-martial account and its aftermath in the increasingly brittle pages of the notebook. It was more difficult now, the sentences disjointed a
nd unstable, his once neat writing erratic, and the vital final pages badly smudged and faded.
TWENTY TWO
I don’t know where it was held, this trial, or as the army likes to call it, court-martial — a phrase that has a more ominous sound. I was brought there in chains from the cell, leg irons and handcuffs, with armed guards around me as if I was truly dangerous. It wasn’t like a courtroom at all, not a bit like the ones I saw when I was a law student, those times when we were taken to the criminal courts at Darlinghurst, in the process of being taught the noble trade of administering justice. This was just a room, a large office, a long, safe distance behind the lines. I know it was not within miles of the front, because there was no thud of artillery firing, no explosions or the fierce chatter of machine guns; it was so peaceful that there might have been birds singing, except there are no birds here anymore.
Not one in the sky, no birdsong to be heard or martins to be seen building nests, for when walls are smashed by bombardments and lie as rubble on the ground there are no nesting places for even the busiest of builders. The swallows and starlings, the wrens and rooks and finches, even the eagles who might have soared arrogantly high above it all must have fled Europe — escaped from France and their mud-filled trenches when the guns began to fire four years ago — and flown south along their migratory escape routes to warm undisturbed Africa and beyond. And perhaps in pursuit went the predatory cuckoo, intent on seizing one of their new nests when they settle in their peaceful destination. I wonder if they will ever come back?
I thought about this while trying to avoid looking at the four judges. All of them British. Four officers sitting at a table, caps placed in front of them, four rigid and frosty faces staring at me. Immaculately uniformed, all with polished leather Sam Browne belts and straps, their shoulders bearing the gleaming icons of rank, each officer with cropped military hair and hostile eyes. The colonel in charge, the president of the court, seemed particularly antagonistic.
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 25
