‘William doesn’t have to know. I’ll just meet you on the plane. Honestly, darling, I couldn’t let you go through this thing on your own.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of going on my own,’ said Caroline, trying to suppress the warmth and sense of pleasure that was invading her at the thought of spending several days with Joe.
‘I know you’re capable of it, but I don’t want you to. You’re going to have a foul time, and I want to be able to help you through it.’
‘Joe, you’re so nice to me. I really don’t know why you should be.’
‘Two reasons. One, I like you very much indeed and feel responsible for you, and for getting you into this. Two, I live in hope of persuading you to get into bed with me. It seems to me there’s a little more chance of that if we’re together in New York than if you’re in Suffolk and I’m in London. Just slightly more practical.’
‘Joe, I am not going to go to bed with you. So you’d better not come.’
‘Caroline, I’m going to come. Apart from anything else you don’t know New York and I do. A bit. I can help you. Now, when are you going?’
‘The day after Boxing Day,’ said Caroline, seeing, welcoming defeat. ‘The plane leaves at ten a.m.’
‘I’ll be on it. And what does William have to say about it?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Caroline, putting away from her the wretched memory of William’s cold, bleak face, his distant voice as he listened to what she had to say and then nodded and said, ‘Very well, if you must. Please let me know what you will be telling the children,’ before walking out of the room.
‘And the children?’
‘I – haven’t told them yet. I’m going to talk to Chloe now.’
‘What will you tell her?’
‘Oh, not very much. Some soothing lie.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise? She is nearly sixteen.’
‘Joe, I think I know my own daughter.’
Chloe looked up from wrapping Christmas presents as her mother came into the room.
‘Yes, Mummy?’
‘Chloe, I’m very sorry indeed, but I have to go away for a few days after Christmas. Look, I’m sorry to interfere, but you’ve got that wrapping paper the wrong way round.’
‘Have I? Oh, yes. Why do you have to go away?’
‘An – old friend of mine is dying. She lives in America. In New York. I really do have to visit her – be with her.’
‘America! That’s a long way. Who is she?’
‘Oh – a friend of my mother’s actually. She was at school with her. She has cancer. She has only a few weeks to live.’
‘You never mentioned her before.’
‘No, I know. I wasn’t particularly close to her.’
‘Well then, why are you going all the way to America to visit her?’
‘She was very good to me when I was young. Now, Chloe, let’s not waste any more time discussing why I’m going, it isn’t very important–’
‘It is to me.’
Caroline looked at Chloe, and wished she didn’t find her so irritating when she was patently such a nice child, very kind and caring and loving. She sometimes wished she wasn’t so nice; she felt she could handle her hostile emotions better if Chloe occasionally rounded on her, or flew into sulks or rages like most teenage girls. But she continued to be patient, eager to please and polite and, worse than all those things, caring and loving, rather like a puppy. She was endlessly nice to her mother, bringing her cups of tea in bed in the morning, offering to help her with this and that, asking if she could go shopping or dog-walking with her; and all Caroline could feel for her in return was not exactly dislike, but a sort of withdrawal, a distaste for her company and certainly her physical presence. If she hadn’t been away at school two-thirds of the year, she wouldn’t have been able to stand the situation; as it was she struggled through the holidays and counted the days until the beginning of term. This trip to New York would at least relieve her of Chloe’s company for much of the rest of the holidays.
‘Well, it’s very nice of you to be so concerned. But it really isn’t worth you worrying about. Now, will you be all right for a week or so? Daddy will be here, of course, and I’ve arranged for Nanny to come and stay –’
‘Oh, Mummy, not Nanny. She treats me as if I was six.’
‘Well, maybe she does, but I feel easier when she’s here.’
Chloe sighed. ‘Oh all right. Mummy, I’m sorry to sound selfish but will I have to miss the Junior Hunt Ball? The New Year’s Eve one?’
‘Not as long as your father can take you. Although I can’t imagine why you want to go, you never go hunting and you’ll feel out of it.’
‘Well, I do want to go. The others are all my friends. They don’t mind me not going hunting. It’s only you who does actually.’
‘Well I do, I suppose, but only because you’re missing out on something that I think you’d enjoy. However, we’ve been over all that far too often. Have you got anything to wear? Because if not that could be difficult. Darling, do be careful, you’re getting that sellotape in a most appalling tangle. Look, it’s stuck on to the wrapping paper.’
‘Oh, damn. Oh, I wish I could do really lovely parcels like you. Yes, I’ve got that dress I made at school last term. It’s really nice. Even though I say it myself.’
This was quite true; Chloe was, rather oddly, given her clumsiness, a superb needlewoman, and had made herself an evening dress in silver taffeta, with a swirling ballerina-length skirt and an off-the-shoulder neckline. When she had tried it on to show her mother, Caroline had for the first time in her life admitted that Chloe did look very pretty; her dark red hair and clear skin set off by the silver, her slightly plump shoulders flattered by the swathed neck, her waist looking suddenly more slender above the full skirt.
‘Yes, it is nice. And you look lovely in it. Yes, well, you can wear that.’
‘But I haven’t got any shoes. That’s the only thing. Could I maybe get some shoes?’
‘Chloe, there’s no time to get shoes. Not before I go. The shops are all shut.’
‘But I’ve only got my school shoes. Could I borrow a pair of – of yours?’
‘They’ll be too big. And too high-heeled.’
‘Oh, Mummy, please. Not much too big. And I am nearly sixteen.’
‘Oh, all right. Have a rummage through my wardrobe. See what you can find. But you’re not to drag Nanny round Ipswich. She’s too old.’
‘No, Mummy.’
‘And I rely on you to keep an eye on the boys.’
‘Mummy, I can’t do anything with those boys. Honestly. They’re totally out of everyone’s control and specially mine.’
‘Nonsense. They’re just high-spirited. All teenage boys are like that. Now I have to go and get organized. Oh and Chloe –’ She hesitated, searching painfully for the right, tactful words. ‘Look after Daddy. He isn’t very well.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Caroline truthfully. ‘When I get back I’m going to make him see the doctor.’
‘Mummy?’
‘Chloe, what is it now? I really do have a lot to do.’
‘Did you – have you read my report yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Caroline absently, ‘yes, it was very good. Well done.’
‘Thank you.’ Chloe knew her mother hadn’t read it; if she had, she would have known she had been nominated for Head of House next term, and that she was to be swimming captain of the whole school, before even going into the sixth.
Well, her father would be pleased. She would show it to him later while her mother packed. She wondered who this old friend was and how she could possibly merit her mother leaving the family in the middle of Christmas.
‘Can I see the le
tter?’ Joe settled himself into the seat beside Caroline. ‘Got enough room?’
‘Yes, thank you. Plenty.’
‘It won’t seem like that in ten hours’ time. Now look, let’s order a drink – you need to be completely plastered to cope with this flight – and then let’s work out what we’re going to do.’
‘All right. Here’s the letter anyway.’ She handed it to him. It had come a week ago, and she had hardly slept since.
Joe read it in silence and then covered her hand with his. ‘Poor you.’
‘Yes. Well, as I said, she doesn’t seem a very nice child.’
‘I suppose she’s a very hurt and angry child.’
‘And frightened, I suppose.’ The gin and tonic was already seeping into Caroline’s weary tense senses; she felt warmer, softer suddenly. She moved her hand under Joe’s; he took it in his, and began massaging her palm gently with his fingers. She looked at him, her face suddenly raw and open with emotion; he smiled back at her and stroked her cheek lightly with his other hand.
‘I think it’s only fair to tell you,’ he said, ‘that this is only the beginning of an intense assault on your very determined fidelity to your husband.’
‘Not on the plane!’ said Caroline, laughing.
‘There are the toilets. Have you not heard of the mile-high club?’
‘No,’ said Caroline.
‘Membership is earned by having sex during the flight. I’m not quite sure how you prove it. Shall we join?’
‘No.’
‘Well, on the way back maybe.’
‘Maybe.’ She smiled again.
Joe got his flight bag out from under the seat and pulled a set of papers out. ‘I’ll be working on it. Now I have some work to do. I was telling the paper the truth when I said I was going to do some interviews in New York.’
‘Who are you going to see?’
‘Bobby Kennedy – I hope. Shirley Maclaine. Joe DiMaggio.’
‘What a marvellous time you’re going to have.’
‘I hope so. But my main purpose is to see your time isn’t too terribly bad.’
‘You’re a nice man, Joe.’
‘I know.’
Caroline studied him as he sat totally engrossed in the newspaper cuttings he had brought with him. Her tiredness and the second gin and tonic the stewardess had served her had brought her emotions very near the surface. She found it little short of miraculous (she now dared admit to herself) that she had resisted him for so long. It wasn’t just that he was extremely attractive: and he looked particularly so at this moment, his shaggy fair hair looking more in need of a comb and a cut than usual, his long rangy body – dressed rather scruffily as always in jeans and an over-large, rather geriatric-looking sweater – sprawled across two seats, his thin, sculptured face unusually intent and unusually serious; it was that he was so good to her, so caring and thoughtful, so persistently flattering and appreciative. There was also his ridiculous way of crying whenever anything touched him: he cried over films, books, newspaper reports, stories of friends’ fortunes, both good and bad; he cried, he assured Caroline, at weddings, he cried when friends had babies – and he quite often cried when Caroline was upset. He was a highly emotional man, and it added to his sexiness. And then he made her laugh, he infected her with his own high spirits, made everything seem oddly and intensely pleasurable. But most of all, and this was where the real miracle of resistance came in, he was inordinately sexy. He had a way of looking at her, of flicking his lazy green eyes over her, moving from her eyes to her mouth and then on to her breasts and then her stomach and her thighs: he could reduce her to almost helpless desire simply by sitting there and studying her. And then he was a great exponent of the art of talking dirty, talking sex; he had never done more than kiss her, but he had discussed what he would like to do to her, would indeed do to her, with such infinite humour, hunger and grace she quite often had the greatest difficulty in not removing her knickers there and then and thrusting herself at him under the table, or in the taxi – which was as near to privacy as she allowed herself or him. Caroline was still intensely highly sexed; she was married to a man who had no idea how to satisfy her, and she felt as if she had a huge spring coiled somewhere in the depths of her body; she could feel it physically, its stirring and its pressure, endlessly trying to unwind, and prevented only by the boundaries of her body itself. One day, some time, the spring would be properly unleashed; and the thought of that, when she allowed herself to dwell on it, was almost beyond her own imaginings.
Caroline wrenched her thoughts away from her body, and returned to the ordeal in front of her, reading and rereading the letter from Fleur until it seemed to her it would melt under her own intense emotion.
Dear Caroline Hunterton,
I was hoping not to have to write to you ever again but my grandmother has insisted.
She is very ill, in fact dying, of cancer of the liver. The doctors say she has only a few weeks to live. For some reason, she wanted to meet you before she died; she feels she has to talk to you.
I suspect she wants to ask you to look after me, but of course this is out of the question. Clearly neither of us would wish it. I am almost seventeen and quite able to earn my own living, and my aunts will take care of me.
She is in the state hospital in Brooklyn, which is adequate. It would be nice if she could be somewhere better, but none of us has any money. You, I imagine, have plenty; I don’t know if you could help in this particular way.
I had originally thought it better if we did not meet, but I know my grandmother would die happier if she thought we had become friends. So I think you should come to the hospital with me.
Please let me know if you can come, and also where you will be staying. Perhaps you could phone me when you get to New York.
Yours,
Fleur FitzPatrick
It was a strange, heartbreaking letter to receive from a daughter who had occupied your thoughts obsessively for seventeen years, Caroline thought, but better perhaps, less shocking than the earlier one, announcing her rape and pregnancy. She had longed to go to New York then, to try to help Fleur, to take care of her, to ease her pain, and when she sent the cheque had offered to do so, but a terse note from Fleur by return, saying that she would be fine now, that everything was fixed, and telling her to stay in England, had arrived and Joe had warned her strongly against going, simply turning up.
‘You would simply add to her trauma. She couldn’t handle it. She’s obviously OK. She’s a tough little nut. This is not the correspondence of an emotional cripple. She wouldn’t have written to you unless she had got it all together. Leave her alone. She’ll survive.’
‘But, Joe, she’s been raped. The worst thing that can happen to a woman. And she’s only sixteen. She needs comforting, caring for, and I’m her mother.’
‘Yes, and she’s never met you and she obviously thinks you’re the most uncaring person in the world. I know that’s tough, but forcing yourself on her now would be tougher. How can she talk about it to someone who isn’t just a stranger, but the one person who should be closer to her than anyone else? It would be impossible. You’d both of you just get badly hurt. Please, darling, I can see it’s really difficult, but please leave her be.’
Leaving Fleur be then had been the most difficult thing she had ever done, with the possible exception of handing her over that first morning, but somehow she had done it. She had written twice more, asking her if she was all right, and had received one laconic postcard saying, ‘Everything is OK now. Fleur FitzPatrick.’
Now she was actually going to meet her. Almost seventeen years to the very day after Fleur had been born, she was to look at her across a room, meet her eyes, hear her voice, hold out her hand to her, speak to her, touch her, discover precisely at long last what she was like. And she was terribly afraid . . .<
br />
‘May I speak to Fleur, please?’
‘Who is this?’ The voice was guarded, cautious: a light, cool voice, with a strong American accent. Caroline closed her eyes, clutched Joe’s hand tighter.
‘It’s – Caroline Hunterton.’
‘Ah.’ She could hear the withdrawal, the coldness. ‘Well, this is Fleur FitzPatrick. Was – was your flight OK?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ said Caroline, disproportionately touched by this attempt at politeness. ‘Yes, very good indeed.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At the St Regis.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s on East 55th Street,’ said Caroline.
‘Oh yes. Well look, I think the best thing would be if you came to the hospital. I could meet you in the foyer. It’s near Flatbush. I don’t suppose you’ll want to risk the subway –’ the voice held a tinge of contempt, and something else – amusement? – ‘so just tell your driver to come to St Margaret’s Hospital, near Lafayette Street.’
‘When? When is visiting time?’
‘Oh, we can see her any time. They’re pretty liberal here when you’re dying.’
‘All right. Well, this evening? Six o’clock?’
‘Sure.’ The phone went down.
Caroline felt so sick as the cab driver lurched across Brooklyn Bridge, alongside and apparently perilously close to one of the trains, that she thought she was actually going to throw up. She wound down the window and tried to lean out but the driver snarled at her. ‘Lady, don’t do that. Want to get your head knocked off?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Caroline, ‘I don’t feel terribly well.’
‘Well, hang on to it. I don’t want anyone throwing up all over my cab. You spew in my cab, you clean it out. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Caroline humbly. Sheer terror kept her from vomiting. It was a long journey; far longer than she had expected. The trip down through Manhattan and the financial district had been slow, with the rush-hour traffic; but she had been distracted by the excitement, the beauty of New York in darkness; she kept looking back at the skyline, etched out in lights against the sky, and even in her anguish, marvelling at it and the fact that she was actually seeing it.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 20
