‘But you won’t marry me?’
‘No, Mungo, I won’t marry you. I can’t. I told you, it’s an –’
‘Yes, yes, all right, it’s an appalling idea. You’re going to have to work quite hard to convince me of that.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, not really. I won’t have to. Because what I’m going to do is go away, leave London.’
‘What do you mean, you’re going away? Going away where? I don’t understand, you weren’t going away yesterday.’
‘Mungo, I know. But I did a lot of thinking yesterday. And – well, I am. I’m going to Italy.’
‘Italy? What the fuck for?’
‘Not fucking,’ she said smiling, touching his face gently. ‘Oh, Mungo, your poor, poor nose.’
‘Never mind my nose,’ he said, rummaging in his pocket for another handkerchief. ‘What’s with this Italy business?’
‘Business actually,’ she said. ‘Exactly that. Here, let me clean you up.’ She bent over him, started tenderly wiping his face; she was very near him, he could smell the warmth of her, smell her skin, her hair. He put out his hand, gently touched one of her breasts, clearly defined beneath the white silk jersey.
‘Alice,’ he said, ‘oh, Alice –’
And ‘Mungo,’ she said, ‘Mungo, don’t. Please don’t.’
‘Why not?’ he said and he could hear the pain deep down in his voice. ‘Don’t you like it? Don’t you want me any more, is that it, are you tired of me, Alice, are you in love with someone else?’
‘Mungo darling, I do want you, and I do love you, and I’m not tired of you. It’s none of those things. That’s what makes it all so difficult. That’s why I’m going away.’
‘Oh, Alice, please. Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go away. What would you do?’
‘Work. My friends of last night, the ones you didn’t believe in, Giles and Fanny, they’ve bought a big house in Tuscany and they want to turn it into a small, very luxurious hotel. They want me to run it for them. For a while at least.’
‘You can’t do that,’ he said, ‘you don’t know anything about hotels, you don’t speak Italian, it’s nonsense.’
‘I know quite a lot about hotels actually, Mungo, and I can speak Italian. I think I’ll be very good at it.’
‘What about the children? You can’t leave them.’
‘I’m not going to leave them. The little ones will come with me, go to the International School in Florence, and Jemima will come out in the holidays, practise her burgeoning sexual talents in a different language. It’ll do them good, to discover there’s a world beyond SW3.’
Mungo felt panic, clammy, cold, clutching at him. ‘Alice, you can’t. You can’t do this to me.’
‘I’m doing it for you,’ she said, with a peculiarly sweet smile. She reached out, touched his cheek very gently. ‘Because I love you so much. And for me, actually. It’ll be wonderful.’
‘Alice, please don’t go. Please. I need you.’
‘Mungo, I have to go. It really is the only thing to do.’
‘Well then, I’ll come too. I want some European business, I could be your agent, find more places to let and –’
‘Mungo, no. That is really not the idea. Much as I’d love it.’
‘Well, if you’d love it,’ he said, feeling in spite of himself that he was losing ground, ‘why don’t you let me?’
‘Mungo, listen to me.’ She took his face between her hands, looked into his eyes. ‘I can’t let you because it wouldn’t work. We have lives to live, you and I, and they don’t go together too well. It’s been lovely having you all this time, and the children have adored it and so have I, but it hasn’t been about real life. You couldn’t fit permanently into my life, Mungo, and, much more importantly, I couldn’t fit into yours. I should never have let you think so, never have let myself think so. And I’m more sorry than I can tell you. And I do love you very, very much.’
‘But I need you. I need you so much.’
‘Not really. You can manage beautifully without me. You’re a very special person, Mungo. Just don’t forget it, that’s all. Don’t – er – fuck the very special person up, OK?’
‘Oh God,’ he said, staring at her, a clutch of misery starting at his heart, realizing she meant it. ‘Oh God, Alice. I don’t know if I can do this. Say goodbye to you. Live without you. And it seems so unnecessary somehow.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘of course you can. And it isn’t unnecessary, actually, Mungo. Not at all.’
‘And this is it? I’m not to see you any more?’
‘Not any more,’ she said.
‘You seem very cheerful about it.’
‘Mungo, I’m not cheerful at all. I’m going to be very unhappy for quite a long time. But I’ll survive. And so will you.’
‘Well – can’t we still be friends? At least?’
‘Mungo,’ she said, bending down, kissing him very gently on the lips, his sore, bloody, cracked lips; her own mouth was cool, soft. ‘Mungo, I would love to be your friend. In time. But not just yet. It wouldn’t work and I –’ Her voice cracked, she stood up quickly, decisively, her eyes brilliant with tears. ‘I couldn’t bear it,’ she said quietly. ‘Goodbye, Mungo. I’ll see you – I’ll see you maybe next year? Come and find me, then, in Italy. If you still want to.’
‘Of course I’ll want to,’ he said slowly, staring at her. He felt as if he was seeing her for the first time, not the last, discovering her all over again, her lovely face, with its high cheekbones, its curvy mouth, her blue eyes, brilliant, tender, fixed on him, her ice-blonde hair (more dishevelled than usual) and – oh God, her perfect slender body, the body he knew so well, how it felt, smelt, how it welcomed him, loved him, wanted him; and he knew she meant what she said, that there would be no dissuading her, that he had to say goodbye to her, for a long while.
‘You’d better go,’ he said, ‘I think you’d better go quickly. Goodbye, Alice. I love you. I love you so much.’
‘I love you too,’ she said, ‘and I’m sorry about your face.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘don’t worry about that. I expect I deserved it.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she said, and smiled again, gaily, bravely. ‘Darling Mungo. Take care. Goodbye.’
And she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her, and Mungo sat at his desk, just looking, staring at the space where she had been, thinking of the space in his life she had filled, empty of her, empty of everything about her, and he couldn’t see how he was going to bear it, even while he knew he had to, and he buried his head in his arms and wept like a child.
‘Mungo.’ It was Belinda; she was standing in front of him, looking very tender, very concerned. ‘Mungo, I’ve brought you some coffee. Is there anything else I can do for you, get you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mungo, taking a gulp of coffee, blowing his nose hard on his bloodstained handkerchief, ‘Yes, Belinda, there is. Could you please get hold of my father? And tell him I’d like to buy him dinner tonight.’
Chapter 30
James 10:30am
James was half a mile down the lane in the cab the hotel called for him when he realized he still hadn’t picked up the jacket he had left there yesterday. Bloody hell. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to that place. On the other hand, he did have to get it, and retrieving it would postpone the conversation with Maggie a little while longer. On balance probably better to turn around.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said to the cab driver. ‘I’ve left something behind. Could we go back please?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Forrest, the Bergins are all out. Mrs Bergin has gone for a walk with Dr Bergin and Mr Bergin has gone into Oxford. I’m sorry, sir. Is there anything we can do to help?’
‘Well, yes, there is actually,’ said James. ‘I left my jacket in Mr Bergin’s room yesterday. I do rather want it. Could one of your staff fetch it for me?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ He called a young man in a striped waistcoat who was standing in the hall trying to
look importantly busy. ‘Michael! Would you go and get Mr Forrest’s jacket from Mr and Mrs Bergin’s room, please? He left it there yesterday.’
‘Certainly, Mr Rogers. Er – how will I know which jacket it is, Mr Forrest? Is it distinctive in any way at all, sir?’
‘Oh Lord, I don’t know,’ said James. ‘No – yes – look, I’ll come up with you. All right?’
‘Well, sir, I don’t know –’ The young man in reception looked dubious. ‘We’re really not supposed –’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said James, feeling nearer to a loss of control than he had for twenty-four hours. ‘Mr Bergin is a very old friend of mine, his son was about to marry my daughter, my daughter’s gone missing, now will you, for Christ’s sake, let me go and retrieve my own jacket from his room?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. Michael, go along please, don’t keep Mr Forrest waiting.’
James followed the unfortunate Michael into the lift and out again, along the first-floor corridor into the Bergins’ room; Michael stood awkwardly silent while James walked over to the cupboard. His jacket was there, hanging neatly next to Josh’s morning coat, still in its plastic cover. The sight of that, forlornly unworn, brought back more poignantly than anything what had happened, the loss of Cressida, the heartache and the grief of the day. Tears rushed to his eyes; he sank down on the bed and buried his head in his hands. To his horror and humiliation he began to cry, loud racking sobs. Michael coughed gently, discreetly.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ James shouted, his voice rich with tears and pain, ‘for God’s sake get the hell out of here. I’m not going to rob the bloody room. Get out.’
Michael withdrew and closed the door very quietly; James continued to sob. After a while he felt better, lay back exhausted, staring at the ceiling. Why had she done it, why, why? Was she really so bad, so totally devoid of morals? Was it his fault, Maggie’s fault, for spoiling her, loving her too much? Was it his bad genes, his own lack of morality, passed on to her? Christ Almighty, was this his judgment, his punishment? Or was Susie’s illness that, a punishment for them both? He suddenly felt filled with terror for Susie, for the danger she was in, with shame too, at what he had done to her, for failing her. Christ, he was a mess, an appalling, amoral mess. He looked at his watch: she would be out of theatre by now; maybe he could phone.
He went over to the bedside table, picked up the phone, dialled the number of the Princess Diana Hospital. ‘Is Mr Hobson out of theatre, please?’ he asked. ‘This is James Forrest, obstetrics consultant at St Edmund’s. I’m a colleague of his.’
‘Just a moment, please, Mr Forrest,’ said the girl. There were a few clicks, then she said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Forrest, Mr Hobson is still in theatre. Can I ask him to call you?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said James, ‘I won’t be here. I’ll call back in about an hour. Will he be there?’
More clicks. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Forrest, Mr Hobson won’t be here in an hour, his secretary says he’ll be in his consulting rooms. Can I give you the number?’
‘Yes, please,’ said James. He had no pen or paper on him; he rummaged in the small drawer of the bedside table, found a pad, took it out, pulling half the contents of the drawer with it. ‘OK, fire away, yes, 934–2268. Thank you very much.’
He tore the piece of paper off the pad, replaced the rather florid gold-plated biro that was clearly Julia’s and started picking up the papers from the floor. Lists in Julia’s spidery American writing; a note from Maggie, giving the name and address of the hotel; a – James suddenly sat down on the bed staring, staring at the letter in a hand that had begun to shake, fallen from inside a leather-bound notebook of Julia’s.
The writing paper was headed with an address in Palm Beach, Florida, and the letter was written in a slightly shaky but absolutely legible hand. It was dated a week earlier.
My darling girl (it said)
So very lovely to see you the other day. I wish you could come more often, but of course I know you have your duties to your husband. He is extremely fortunate to have you, to ease his path so loyally and effectively. I hope he recognizes his good fortune.
I was very distressed to hear that this girl is proving to be so unsuitable for Oliver. It seems tragic that such a brilliant and charming young man should have his future endangered by falling into the hands of someone so amoral and, if it is not too strong a word, dangerous. How foolish love makes one; even you, my darling.
Of course I am more than happy to extend what I am pleased to see you now perceive as the favour I did you, in keeping the Coleridge fortune safe from incompetent hands. I have spoken to my lawyers and changed my will. Under the new terms, Oliver is no longer a beneficiary, of either capital or income, and will not be one for so long as he remains married to this creature; should the marriage end, as I know you pray it will, then we can review the situation. I enclose a photocopy of the relevant passage; the fully revised document is now lodged, as always, with the trustees.
I have done as you advised and not written to Oliver myself. I trust you, in your wonderfully charming and tactful way, to break the news to him. He may be a little hurt and even angry, as you were so many years ago, my dearest, but I am sure he will come in the fullness of time to see the wisdom of what we have done. We have a duty to protect and care for our children for as long as God grants us; I thank Him daily that I have been able to do that for you.
My fondest love,
Dada
‘Dear Christ,’ said James aloud, putting the piece of paper down, ‘dear Christ in heaven.’
He went over to the mini-bar and, for the first time in twenty years, poured himself a drink.
Chapter 31
Susie 10:30am
Maybe she hadn’t died yet. The darkness was somehow softening. And the light was back, a faint pinprick now, but getting bigger. She was drifting towards it rather fast, so obviously she hadn’t got long. Her arm and her breast hurt; hurt quite a lot. Well, that would be over soon, at least. You didn’t feel pain if you were dead. Oh God, she was thirsty, her mouth was so dry. She wondered if you had drinks in heaven, and what they were. Would there be champagne? She wouldn’t think much of a heaven without it. And would James be there? If she was going to be happy, she’d need him. But he couldn’t be, because he hadn’t died. And he didn’t love her anyway. She knew that now. He didn’t love her and he probably never had. The whole of her grown-up life had been lived on a lie. It hurt so much to think that. And all that time Alistair had loved her, and she hadn’t realized it. And that hurt, too. She’d wasted him, and wasted herself on James. ‘Oh God,’ she said fretfully, through dry, thick lips, finding her throat was sore. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’
‘Darling,’ a voice said, very gently, ‘darling Susie. Hallo.’
She hadn’t expected God to use that sort of endearment; she’d thought He’d be rather gruff. Kind but gruff. The light got bigger suddenly, brighter; she braced herself to open her eyes, look at Him, look at God. And found herself looking at Alistair.
He was smiling very tenderly at her; he put out his hand and stroked her hair. Then he picked up her hand and kissed it. ‘Hallo,’ he said.
‘Alistair,’ said Susie, ‘Alistair, aren’t I dead?’
‘Not in the least,’ he said, ‘I’m happy to say. Very much alive.’
‘Hi, Mum,’ said another voice. It was Rufus.
Susie turned her head to the other side of the bed; he was sitting there, smiling down at her with equal tenderness. He took her other hand.
‘Ouch,’ said Susie, ‘that hurts. So does my arm.’
‘Sorry. How are you feeling?’
‘All right I think. Bit woozy. I –’ She remembered suddenly the fear, the awful fear that it would be gone, and tried unsuccessfully to move her good arm, her right arm, over to try to feel if it was still there, her precious, treacherous breast. It was too much of an effort; she relaxed again, biting her lip. Alistair kissed her again.
‘
It’s all right, darling. It’s still there.’ He knew, had realized what she was trying to do. She was so touched by that, and by a great flood of relief, of joy, her eyes filled with tears; she closed them briefly. They stung; they hurt. Everything hurt. Maybe if she kept them closed for just a second, it would be better …
When she opened them again, Mr Hobson was standing at the foot of her bed; he was wearing his green gown, and he was looking rather pleased with himself. A nurse was taking her pulse. ‘Good,’ she said. Definitely not dead then, thought Susie, smiling at Mr Hobson.
‘Your husband’s popped off to make a quick phone call,’ he said. ‘He was getting just a tiny bit restive, watching you sleep.’
‘Watching me sleep! I just woke up.’
‘Half an hour ago. Then you promptly went off again.’
‘No I didn’t,’ said Susie, indignantly.
‘Yes you did, Mum.’ Rufus’s face was very solemn, very loving. ‘Honestly.’
‘Rufus, what are you doing here? How did you know? I told your father –’ She bit her lip, realizing she would never be able to say that again to Rufus without guilt, without shame. But he didn’t seem to react any differently from usual. ‘I told Alistair not to tell any of you.’
‘Dad didn’t.’ Did she imagine it, or was there just a slight emphasis on the word Dad? She hoped so. ‘Harriet told me.’
‘Harriet! How did she know?’
‘You rang her up. Don’t you remember?’
‘No. I’m sure I didn’t. I –’ And then she did remember, struggling to speak to Harriet through the fog of her pre-med, wanting, needing to speak to James. For the last time. And failing.
‘Mum, why didn’t you tell me? How do you think I’d have felt if – well, if I hadn’t – oh, you know what I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Susie, smiling rather uncertainly at him.
He bent to kiss her. ‘Love you loads,’ he said. He had always said that, ever since he was a tiny little boy, whenever they said hallo or goodbye.
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