“It’s so kind of you,” she said, “and I’d love to. But I’ll probably have to bring the children.”
“Oh, that’s all right. Seemed rather a jolly little thing, your daughter.”
“Shall I bring the picnic?”
“Oh, that’s jolly kind. No, don’t bother, Mrs. P will do that.”
“Then let me make a cake. For—for sort of teatime.”
“Capital,” he said. “Very good of you. See you on Saturday then.”
If Mrs. Bennet had been her mother, Catherine thought, looking back at Musgrove Hall in all its Jacobean splendour, she’d be getting quite excited.
Debbie felt she had grown two heads. Or at least two lives. There was the familiar one, where she was a good wife and mother, much concerned with and involved in her children’s lives: she delivered them to school every morning, neatly uniformed and well-breakfasted, their homework done and their projects well in order; after which she proceeded to her job, where she worked hard and did rather well, five days a week now, three of them finishing at three so she could collect the children. And then proceeded home, where she did the housework and the washing and entertained the children’s friends and spoke to her absent husband on the phone, reassuring him that all was well, and asking him how his job was going: and then at night she went to bed fairly early, in order to begin the next, well-ordered day.
And then there was the other, secret life: the one in which she lied and deceived and invented meetings and set up fake interviews and spent half her housekeeping money on babysitters, and drove across London, her heart racing, her body dissolving with desire, in order to meet her lover: to spend precious, rapturous hours with him, talking to him, laughing with him, making love with him, and all the time refusing to consider the future and how fast it was rushing towards her.
If Joel pressed her in any way, she simply told him not to. “What matters is now, us being together, me loving you, you loving me; us just enjoying each other. Why spoil it till we have to?”
For it would have to be spoiled, and for many people. There was no happy ending to this story, no crock of gold, and indeed the end of the rainbow was shrouded in rain; but while it lasted, it was spellbinding and full of joy.
It was not all sweetness and light, of course. Joel sometimes grew angry, often impatient, demanding a decision, upbraiding her for failing to commit herself.
“I can’t do more, for Christ’s sake. I’ve asked you to marry me. Why won’t you answer? What else can I do?”
“Nothing,” she would say, kissing him, holding him, “nothing at all. Let me be, let it be, something will happen, something will settle it. Please, Joel, please wait.”
The rows were worse on the weekends that Richard was coming home: when Joel raged and stormed and told her she was cowardly and fraudulent and cruel too, and that if she wouldn’t make her decision, then he would do it for her. She went through those weekends (only two of them since half term, thank God) in a state of complete terror: terror of Richard growing suspicious, of the children revealing how often she went out, of Joel arriving on the doorstep, of—and this was by far the most stressful—Richard making love to her. Which he did. How she got through that, she never knew afterwards. She would compose press releases in her head, plan meetings, even think what she might wear on Monday morning. The amazing thing was that he never seemed to notice.
And Monday came in due course, after what seemed like an eternity, mostly of stories about the wonders of Morag and the joys of the new job, and she returned with a sigh of welcome to her two lives. Only she knew, deep within the heart of her, at the centre of both the lives, that she had to make the decision and she had to make it alone.
“Please, please Mr. Clark can you hurry it up?” said Lucinda, looking fretfully at her consultant over her vast stomach. “I’m going to burst, I think. I can’t stand it any longer. Can’t I be induced or something?”
“No, you can’t. Induction for social reasons is a thing of the past, I’m very glad to say. You’re not even due till next Thursday. First babies are generally late. And the head isn’t engaged yet. I should say you’ve got a good week to go. At least.” He patted the stomach, beamed at her. “I know it’s a bore, but try to be patient. They come when they’re good and ready.”
She took a cab home; Blue was already there, looking slightly apprehensive.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Yeah, I know. Easy day. What’d the doc say, Lucy?”
“Oh dear. He said probably another week or even two. I think I’ll go mad.”
“No, you won’t. Poor you. I got your supper ready for you, by the way.”
“Blue, you’re so sweet.”
He looked slightly shamefaced. “Yeah, well, it’s only Chicken Chernobyl. From Marks and Sparks.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”
“What, Marks and Sparks?”
“No, Chicken Chernobyl. It’s so—so insensitive.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I do appreciate it. Thank you.”
“You sit down, put your feet up, I’ll bring it in.”
As she sat there, trying to imagine ever having a flat stomach again, the phone rang. It was Catherine. She’d got the children sorted for Monday, was coming up to town to do some Christmas shopping. Would Lucinda like a visit?
“Oh, yes. So, so much. Come over here as soon as you can; as soon as you’re shopped out.”
“All right. Golly, Phyllis is calling me. Better go. Bye, Lucinda.”
Blue came in with a tray, complete with Lucinda’s best linen napkins and a small vase with a rose in it. She looked at him suspiciously.
“Blue, what are you up to? What’s going on? Come on, tell me.”
“Well, few of the lads are going over to Paris on Monday. Just for the day. Bit of a pre-Christmas jolly. I said I wouldn’t go, of course. Said the baby was due.”
“Well, it is.”
“Yeah, but you said—well, obviously I wouldn’t dream of going. Not if it’s imminent.”
“It isn’t. Blue, you are such a bad liar. You’d better go.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
“Not too terribly,” said Lucinda with a sigh. “It might even bring it on.”
“In that case I’ll certainly go. It really is only for the day. And we’re going by private plane—a client do. So all you’ve got to do is call me—”
“In Paris?”
“That’s the one. On my mobile phone. And I’ll be back before you can say contraction. Well, two hours later, max. But honestly, Lucy, I swear I won’t go, if you don’t want me to.”
“You go,” said Lucinda, “it’s fine. Probably the last time you’ll be able to go out for ages. But if you switch your mobile phone off, and I need you, I warn you I’ll never speak to you again!”
Nigel’s company was limping towards closure; if he got hold of John Major, he thought, he’d give him a very strong piece of his mind about what Major swore was a recession and which was clearly a full-scale depression. The company had a small factory in Yeovil which was running at catastrophically low production levels, and was costing him more than it earned. He decided he should bite the bullet, go down the next Friday and break the news himself.
Looking at the map, it occurred to him that he wouldn’t be so very far away from Gillingham, which was where Catherine now lived. If Lucinda had been right, she was pretty lonely and might appreciate a visit. Although maybe not so lonely now, as she hadn’t been able to come to his party last Saturday, which had disappointed him quite a bit. She was such a sweet girl, and pretty too. And he liked her children a lot. He’d give her a ring, see what she said. Perhaps they could all go out to lunch together on Saturday.
Catherine was very sorry, she said, but she was going out on Saturday. “To a point-to-point. With a…a friend.”
“Oh, shame. Well, never mind. Just an idea. Another time.”
“I don’t suppose,” said C
atherine tentatively, “you’ll still be down here on Sunday?” She didn’t want to appear too keen; but she did like him so much, and it seemed silly to lose the opportunity to meet.
“No ’fraid not,” said Nigel, and then, because he really rather wanted to know, without being sure why, he said, “This friend of yours, does she live in Gillingham as well?”
Catherine hesitated, then said, “No, but quite near.”
At least it was a woman. Not a man. That was something.
“Well, nice to talk to you, Catherine. Some other time perhaps.”
“Yes.”
He obviously wasn’t really interested in her; otherwise he would have hung around till Sunday. Damn. He was so nice, so gentle…
It was fairly horrible, telling the people at the factory that he had to close it. He took everyone out for a few drinks at the pub, and then a few key people for a pub meal in Yeovil. They were all very good about it, said they’d been expecting it, swapped stories about the old days. There was hardly anybody young there.
He told them he’d arrange as much redundancy money as he could, left them for a rather dismal commercial hotel, and woke up next morning feeling suicidal. If only he could have seen Catherine, she would have cheered him up. And God, she’d had far worse troubles than this. Suddenly it seemed worth waiting at least till Saturday evening. Maybe they could go out for a drink or something. He could mooch around during the day, maybe visit Wells or somewhere like that—he’d always wanted to see the cathedral. He ate a fairly disgusting breakfast and set off for Wells, where he enjoyed the cathedral and indeed the rest of his day, then drove to Gillingham and parked in the lane by the Morgan seniors’ hideous house—he was a little shocked by its hideousness, but told himself Catherine could hardly be blamed for it—to wait for her return from the day with her girlfriend.
And then drove away, even more shocked, and indeed saddened, after a very large and mud-spattered Range Rover had pulled into the drive and disgorged not only Catherine and Freddie, but Caroline, fast asleep and carried in the arms of its equally large and mud-spattered male driver.
Chapter 54
DECEMBER 1990
“Hello, Lucinda, how are you?”
“Oh, all right. You know.”
It was so unlike her to sound down, Catherine felt quite alarmed.
“You’re not—not…”
“God, no such luck. Just fed up. I’m so looking forward to seeing you, Catherine. Blue’s in Paris and—”
“Paris!” For the umpteenth time, Catherine wondered what on earth Lucinda saw in Blue; Nigel would never have gone off to Paris the week before the baby was due, he’d have been there with her every moment, caring for her, worrying about her.
“Yes, but it’s only for a day. He’ll be back tonight, sooner if I need him. ’Fraid I won’t though. But do come, Catherine, as soon as you can. I feel awfully odd.”
“Well, I’ve got to do a bit more Christmas shopping, haven’t got anything for Phyllis yet. I’m in Selfridges—there must be something there—and then I’ll come right over.”
“So how long do you think you’ll be?” She sounded almost desperate.
“Let me see, about…an hour and a half. That should do it. Yes, by—let’s see—four.”
“OK. I’ll try and stay sane.”
“When will Blue be back?”
“Oh, quite late. He just rang, said the client wants to have dinner there. An early one, of course. I’ve been so bad-tempered and horrid to him all weekend, I think he’d stay the week if he could.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” said Catherine, who found it impossible to imagine Lucinda being horrid. “Just hang on, and I’ll be there by four.”
“OK. Thanks.”
Lucinda did, as she had told Catherine, feel terribly odd. Not physically so much as mentally; she felt rather confused, restless.
The phone rang: “Lucinda?”
“Oh—Nigel. Oh, how lovely to hear your voice. How are you?”
“I’m all right. Bit depressed. I rang you to see if you had heard anything from the solicitors.”
“Not yet, no. But Steve’s totally confident. Don’t worry. Um—do you want to come round, have a cup of tea, see if I can cheer you up? I’ve got some crumpets.”
Nigel felt rather choked suddenly; she had always got him crumpets or scones, every week, and had served them with Little Scarlet strawberry jam or Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade for Sunday tea…
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said.
“Please, Nigel, I’d so love to see you. I’m terribly bored and fed up with waiting for this baby. Catherine’s coming too. We can have a tea party.”
“Catherine? Ah, yes,” said Nigel, thinking of his lonely vigil at the bottom of the Morgans’ drive, and its unsatisfactory outcome.
“Yes. She’s up here Christmas shopping.”
Nigel hesitated, then he said, “Well, it does sound quite nice.”
“Good. How long will you be? Because I was about to have a bath…”
“Oh, about an hour.”
“That’s exactly what Catherine said. Good. I’ll have the kettle on.”
Nigel and Catherine actually arrived at the same time; they smiled rather awkwardly at each other as they approached Lucinda’s house from opposite directions.
“Hello, Nigel.”
“Hello, Catherine. You’re looking well. Country life must agree with you.”
“The life maybe,” said Catherine with a sigh. “Not sure about the people.”
“But you are making some friends?”
“Sort of.”
Nigel thought of the large male figure, cradling the small girl in his arms so tenderly, and felt irritated.
“Well, shall we go in?” he said.
Lucinda was wearing a towelling bathrobe, and her bump looked enormous. Nigel tried to avert his eyes.
“How lovely,” she said. “I am just so pleased to see you both. I’ll just go and get dressed and then we can all have tea. Catherine, darling, put the kettle on, would you? And Nigel, you can find the crumpets. I feel rather perky all of a sudden. I shall enjoy our party.”
“Crumpets!” said Catherine. “I love crumpets. We used to have them every Saturday for tea. With Little Scarlet strawberry jam. Frederick’s favourite—mine too.”
“How extraordinary,” said Nigel, staring at her.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Half an hour later, they were all munching crumpets when the phone rang.
“Hello…What?…Oh Blue, you are so hopeless. How could you have let it do that? He’s let his phone run down,” she said to the others.
“What?…Oh, just a couple of friends, popped in for tea. Well, thanks for ringing anyway. And no, I’m not in labour. Which is lucky for you, I’d say…Yes, you keep ringing me, since I can’t ring you, all right? At least every hour. Bye. And don’t come home drunk.”
“Where is he then?” said Nigel.
“He’s in Paris. On a pre-Christmas jolly. He’ll be back tonight. Not late either—they went by private plane.”
What sort of husband, thought Nigel, looking at her tenderly, went to Paris when his baby was due? And had to be told not to get drunk. What did she see in him, for goodness sake—what?
“Now,” said Lucinda briskly, “more tea, anyone? I’ll go and fill the kettle. I—goodness. Golly. What a mess. I didn’t spill all that, did I?”
“No,” said Catherine calmly, looking at the large pool of water that had formed underneath Lucinda, “your waters just broke.”
Catherine rang the ambulance number on the telephone pad; after an incredibly long time (or so it seemed), someone answered and said they would try and get one out immediately, but they were experiencing serious delays.
“Traffic’s shocking. How often are the contractions?”
“There aren’t any,” said Catherine. “But her waters have just broken.”
“Where are you?”
&n
bsp; “Limehouse.”
“Bit of a way. Is this her first baby?”
“Yes.”
“And absolutely no contractions?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I honestly think you’d be better bringing her in by car. The traffic’s bad going out in that direction, but it’s more or less OK coming in. So just set off, I’m sure you’ll do better that way. Tell your hospital you’re coming so they know to expect you. Good luck.”
They left a message on the answerphone for Blue and went out into the street; Nigel’s Volvo, square and reassuring, stood waiting for them.
“You get in the back,” Catherine said to Lucinda, “and I’ll map-read.”
“Oh, no need for that,” said Lucinda. “I’ll tell you the best way to go. I’d rather you sat next to me, Catherine, held my hand. This is rather fun, I’m enjoying it.”
“Good,” said Catherine, “that’s as it should be. Off we go, Nigel.”
Nigel was shaking so much he could hardly turn the ignition key.
They were just going over Holborn Viaduct when Lucinda gave a small yelp.
Catherine looked at her. “Contraction?”
“Yes, think so. Wasn’t very bad though.”
“OK. We need two more.”
“Surely it’ll take longer than that?” Lucinda’s teeth were beginning to chatter.
“Of course it will, you idiot. But that means we can time them.”
They were driving down towards Gower Street when Lucinda yelped again; Catherine looked at her watch.
“That was quick. I mean, after the last one. About five minutes. Keep going, Nigel.”
“I’m doing my best,” he said. He sounded very shaky.
Another contraction came in five minutes; it lasted about thirty seconds.
“You’re fine,” said Catherine. “They’re very short.”
“They may be short, but they’re not exactly sweet,” said Lucinda. “It quite hurt, that one. Maybe I should do my breathing. How are we doing, Nigel?”
“Fine. Much better. Don’t worry, soon have you there.”
By the time they arrived, Lucinda was having contractions every three minutes and everything happened rather quickly after that; a nurse appeared with a wheelchair and Lucinda was helped into it.
An Absolute Scandal Page 52
