She had sat through an earlier item about budget meals slightly impatiently and had just turned the volume up when Cook came in with some menus. Even without looking at them it still took time to dismiss her, by which time the journalist, Joe Payton (who had, she at least managed to take in, a very sexy voice, throaty, slightly raw-sounding and with an accent that was certainly not public school, but not what Jacqueline had called C-O-M either), was halfway through his item.
‘There are so many different types of scandal,’ he was saying to the interviewer when Caroline finally managed to give him her attention. ‘Marital scandals, like those of Lana Turner, six or maybe seven husbands, all little better than one-night stands; alcoholic scandals, think of Frances Farmer, who put drink in everything, including her porridge, and ended up for ten years in the Snake Pit, the famous Hollywood asylum, for want of a little compassion; crime scandals like the ones surrounding gangster Bugsy Siegel who was one of the kings of Tinsel Town until he got gunned down in his own living room; drug dependency scandals, and we all know about Judy Garland who was given uppers, downers and God knows what else just to get her through each day until the poor kid didn’t know what time it was.
‘Then there are what I call manipulation scandals, where young actors are taken to Hollywood, asked to deliver, used by just about everybody in just about every way, and then when they fail get dumped, often literally on the street. There was a young man about three years ago, called Byron Patrick, a truly tragic case, who was sent to Hollywood, got taken up by some casting director and set up in a nice apartment, expensive car, nice clothes, all that sort of thing, and then some unfavourable story about him was published in one of the scandal sheets. She turned him out of the studio and the apartment and presumably her bed, and he ended up a down and out on the beach at Santa Monica. Now he was actually killed on the Pacific Coast Highway by a passing car, but of course really it was Hollywood who killed him. And then . . .’
Caroline switched off the radio. She shut her eyes, bent her head over her sewing and started to shake. She felt very cold, and very sick; after a while she got up and went up to her bedroom and lay down on the bed. She didn’t feel very much, only a terrible deadness and a complete lassitude; hours passed; she knew there were people talking downstairs, she heard the boys come in from riding, and then later, much later, William’s car draw up in front of the house, and his voice calling her.
After a while he came up, walked into her room; she looked at him, and it was as if she didn’t have the faintest idea who he was.
‘Caroline, my dear, are you ill? What is it?’ he said, and yes, she said, yes she did feel a little odd, a terrible headache, and sickness, probably a bug, she would just stay in bed if he would forgive her, Nanny could see to the boys, Chloe had gone to tea and to stay the night with a friend. ‘Please go, William, please,’ she added, a rising hysteria in her voice, ‘I just need to be alone.’ Alarmed and frightened, but anxious not to upset her further, he went out and closed the door.
Many hours later, he came in quietly. ‘Are you all right, Caroline?’ he whispered and she was silent, pretending to be asleep, and he went away again, relieved not to have to do any more for her, and slept in his dressing room.
All night she lay there, fully dressed, her eyes wide open: thinking, remembering, raging, and the worst thing of all, it seemed to her, was that she had had no idea, she had thought simply, and quite cheerfully even, of Brendan alive and doing, if not well, all right, taking care of Fleur who would be growing up happily, fifteen on her last birthday, and all the time – how much of the time, dear God, how long ago had it happened? – he was dead, cold, run over like a dog on the highway. And what story had there been, in the – what had the man called it, the scandal sheet? – was it about her, possibly, her and Brendan? At that thought, that her past, her sad, literally shocking past was to reach out at her from what she had thought its safe hiding place, she felt a rise of such panic she had to bite her fists to stop herself from screaming. But no, she thought, no, that couldn’t possibly have been. If it had been, then surely she would have heard of it: William would have heard of it, she would have known. Although, if it was in these articles that this man was writing, then maybe the story had yet to reach her. But then again, surely, the journalist would have contacted her. Yes. Yes, of course he would. Obviously it was something quite different, it had to be, something horrible and undoubtedly ugly, but at least that would leave her and William and her children safe. But then she thought on, through the long night, and reflected on the awful fact that Fleur was alone, with no one in the whole world to care for her and love her and see that she was safe and had what she needed. Fleur, whom she had imagined to be so perfectly safe, with the one person apart from herself she should be with.
As the hours passed, the pain got worse; she remembered Brendan as he had been, laughing and tender and funny and handsome, sitting beside him in the truck, showing him the countryside, teaching him about English life. She remembered sex with him, wild, strong, wonderful sex, her body arching, rising, reaching out for him; and she remembered love with him, gentle, all-reaching, all-embracing love. She remembered the pain of losing him once, and of losing their daughter; she remembered the last time she had been with him, living a lifetime with him in just a few hours, remembered his voice saying, ‘I can’t lose you again, Caroline, I just can’t,’ heard her own voice saying, ‘I’m afraid you have to,’ and then remembered his tears, and her own mingled with the memory; and then she remembered most forcibly, most painfully, saying to him, ‘You must have our daughter, Brendan, and take her home with you.’
And now their daughter was alone, not being cared for, not home with him at all; and where was she now, her Fleur, her lovely, long, slender, dark-haired daughter, who was she with and how could she find her?
At that thought Caroline sat up; the urgency of the emotion gave her strength, eased her pain. Whatever else she did, she had to find Fleur, and make sure she was safe. No matter what it cost her, or William, or her other children, she had to find Fleur.
But how was she to do it? How could she begin to find one little girl in the whole of the United States of America? She could be anywhere: probably New York, possibly Hollywood, conceivably somewhere else altogether. She might not even be in the United States of America at all. ‘Oh, God,’ said Caroline aloud, lying down again, tossing her head fretfully from side to side, ‘oh, dear God, help me.’
It was not God, however, who helped her. It was, as it so often had been in her life, Jack Bamforth.
She went to the stables as soon as she knew he would be there. He was heaving manure out of one of the boxes, and he looked up and smiled at her.
‘Morning, Lady Hunterton.’
‘Good morning, Jack. Jack, could we – could we talk?’
‘Talk?’ he said with his gentle, carnal smile.
‘Yes, talk. Really talk.’
He put down his fork. ‘You look terrible.’
‘I feel terrible,’ she said.
‘Look, come into my office. I’ve got a flask of coffee there. Come on. You’re frozen.’
He poured her a lidful of coffee from his thermos, and offered her a biscuit from the old tin with the Queen’s photograph on it that was kept permanently filled by Cook for the stable staff.
She shook her head and smiled faintly. ‘No, thank you.’
‘So what is it? Tell me.’
She told him. She sat there, dry-eyed, very composed, and told him, and when she had finished, he shook his head and said, ‘What a dreadful business,’ and patted her hand and then sat quietly thinking.
‘You’ll be wanting to find her, I expect? To see if she’s all right?’
‘Oh, Jack, yes, I will. I have to. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. It may be – painful, but I do think so. Will you tell Sir William?’
‘I’m afraid I have to, yes. Well, what do you think?’
‘I think he’s not a fool, Sir William. I think you can’t do anything else. Not really.’
‘But, Jack, how do you think I should go about it? I mean I just don’t know where to start. I don’t have an address in New York. I don’t have an address anywhere.’
‘Didn’t he give you one?’
‘No. No, I wouldn’t let him. I knew if I had one, I’d never be able to stay away from them. Well, from Fleur anyway.’
‘Well I can see that. What about the adoption people?’
‘Maybe. I could ask. I could explain, couldn’t I? They might help. It’s a long time ago though. She’s fifteen now, Jack. She was fifteen on New Year’s Day. Can you imagine?’
‘Just about,’ he said. ‘It seems to have gone pretty quick to me.’
‘Anyway, yes, I will try the adoption people. Do you have any other ideas?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what about this journalist person? He might have a trail or two you could pick up. Worth a try.’
Caroline stared at him in silence for a moment or two. ‘Jack, you are extremely clever,’ she said, ‘really very ingenious indeed.’
‘You have to be,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘working with horses.’
The conversation with William was painful. He was very thin and looking very old these days, she realized, looking at him properly for the first time for ages. Well, he was fifty-eight. No longer young. And he smoked too much and ate too little. It was showing. I’m not young either, she said to herself, thirty-seven years old, with two teenage daughters; well past my prime, whatever and whenever that was. She forced her mind back to the conversation with William.
‘I cannot tell you,’ he was saying, ‘how unhappy about this I am. You know you promised me you would never have anything to do with that child again. Our marriage has been built on that premise.’
‘Yes, William, I understand, and I have kept my word to you totally, but surely you must see everything has changed. Brendan is dead, and Fleur may be all alone in the world.’
‘Please don’t use her name,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘William, I’m sorry. But please, please, try to understand.’
He was silent for a while, looking out of the window.
‘I very much doubt,’ he said, ‘if she is all alone in the world. Most people have families. Her father undoubtedly had a family. A large Irish one, I believe. I cannot believe they would have abandoned her. Besides she is – what – a little older than Chloe. Not a baby. Not totally vulnerable. I feel sure she is perfectly all right. I think you should leave things be. Besides, it may be years since – since her father died. I cannot see the sense in chasing all over the States for her. She probably wouldn’t welcome you at all, even if you found her.’
‘I know,’ said Caroline very quietly. Then she looked at him again, her blue eyes pleading. ‘William, think if it was Chloe. Think if you heard that I had died, and you didn’t know where she was and who was looking after her. Wouldn’t you have to know, need to find out? Please, William, think.’
He thought, silently, drawing heavily on his cigarette. Then finally he looked at her. ‘I have to be honest,’ he said, ‘and yes, yes I would. Or I would think so. But if you were as unhappy about it as I am, I would try very hard to dissuade myself.’
‘Oh, William,’ said Caroline, her voice half a sob, ‘William, I can’t. I’m sorry but I can’t.’
‘Then,’ he said, standing up and looking at her, his face heavy and infinitely sad, ‘then you must clearly go ahead. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go to work.’
The woman at the Adoption Society was very clipped, very brisk. She was not empowered to hand over addresses of adoptive parents, under any circumstances. Yes, she realized the circumstances were rather extraordinary, but those were the facts. She would ask her superiors, but she was quite sure they would agree with her. She made a phone call, and said that her superiors had said if Caroline liked to write and put her case they would consider her letter carefully. She was sorry but there was no more she could do.
Caroline stormed out of her office, drove home very fast, poured herself a very strong Scotch and went down to the stables.
‘Well,’ said Jack, ‘it looks like the writer fellow, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. How do I find him, though?’
‘You could phone the people at the wireless programme.’
‘Jack, I know I’ve said this before, but I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’
The people at Woman’s Hour were sympathetic and helpful. They said they couldn’t give Caroline Joe Payton’s number, but they would pass her name on to him, and ask him to ring her; they also gave her the number of his agent in case he didn’t ring.
She rang the agent anyway and spoke to a very superior-sounding girl who said she would see if she could contact Mr Payton, in tones that implied it was about as likely as contacting the Angel Gabriel.
Three days later, when Caroline had given up all hope of ever hearing from him, the phone rang just before lunch: it was the girl from Woman’s Hour. ‘Lady Hunterton? Sorry to have been so long. Look, I’ve tracked Mr Payton down for you, but I’m afraid he’s away for a couple of weeks. He’s on holiday apparently. I’m sure he’ll ring you when he gets back. I have left a message.’
‘Oh,’ said Caroline, feeling suddenly hopeless and chill. ‘Oh, thank you. Er – do you know where he is?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the girl, sounding faintly amused.
‘What paper does he work on?’
‘The Herald.’
‘Thank you. And thank you for taking so much trouble.’
‘That’s all right, Lady Hunterton.’
She dialled the Herald, asked for the film department.
The man on the switchboard chuckled. ‘We don’t have one of those. Who was it you wanted?’
‘Er – Mr Payton.’
‘Oh, Joe. Just a minute.’
There were a lot of clicks; then a girl picked up the phone. ‘Show pages.’
‘Er – could I possibly speak to Mr Payton?’ said Caroline.
‘I’m afraid not. He’s on holiday.’
‘And when will he be back?’
‘In a fortnight.’
‘Oh, God.’ The news was not really particularly crushing, but to Caroline it seemed that way. She felt tears rising into her eyes, heard her voice quiver.
‘Well – well, thank you.’
‘Are you all right? Is it urgent in some way?’ The girl sounded concerned.
‘Well – yes. In some way. Yes, it is.’
‘Well, look. He’s only at home. I’m not allowed to give you his number, but he’s in the book. He lives in St John’s Wood.’
‘Oh,’ said Caroline, ‘oh, thank you very much.’
‘One of Joe’s young ladies from the sound of it,’ said his secretary, putting down the phone. ‘When will he ever learn?’
Joe Payton’s voice sounded different on the phone: just as sexy, but lazier, less businesslike. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Yes, this is Joe Payton. What can I do for you?’
‘Well basically,’ said Caroline, ‘you can listen to me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘But it’s a bit difficult on the phone.’
‘I always thought that’s what phones were for.’
‘Well – this is very complicated. And personal. We couldn’t – meet, could we?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a very busy man. Are you beautiful?’
‘Not very,’ said Caroline, smiling in spite of herself. ‘But I could do my best. Brush my hair and put on some make-up, that sort of thing.’
‘What’s your n
ame, and just, briefly, what is this about?’
‘My name is Caroline Hunterton, and just briefly, I once – well, I knew Byron Patrick. I heard you on the radio the other day.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And, I didn’t know he’d died.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And – well, I need to find his – his daughter.’
‘His daughter! Did you say his daughter?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Miss Hunterton, this sounds like a wonderful story. Of course I’ll meet you. Do you want to come round?’
‘Well, I can’t exactly come round.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not in London. I’m in Suffolk.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, what about tomorrow? Shall I meet you somewhere? Shall we have lunch?’
‘That would be nice. Yes, thank you.’
‘OK. Let’s see, there’s a funny old place in Fleet Street called the Coffee House Club. Just opposite the law courts. I’ll meet you there at one, if that’s OK.’
‘All right. Thank you. Thank you very much indeed.’
‘But, Mummy, you did say you’d take me to Ipswich tomorrow. To look for a dress for Sarah’s party. You promised.’ Chloe looked up at her mother from the breakfast table, her brown eyes large with misery, and in her anguish knocked the jug of orange juice over. ‘Oh, sorry. Sorry.’ She started dabbing at it frantically with her napkin.
‘Chloe, leave that, you’re just making things worse. Get Mrs Jarvis to do it in a minute. I’m sorry about tomorrow, but I can’t. Something very important has come up and I have to go to London. We can go to Ipswich the next day.’
‘But I’m going to stay with her the next day, and then it’s the party. Mummy, please can’t we go? Or couldn’t I come to London with you, and wait while you do this important thing, and then we could go and find a dress, in Harrods or somewhere?’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 16
