AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  Note: insert here: ‘But who was it in particular who was too clever for him?’ Pithy and powerful.

  1969

  ‘Lady Hunterton? This is Magnus Phillips. I wondered if we could meet.’

  Such straightforward, innocent, harmless words: belying so totally what they were to unleash. For ever afterwards, for the rest of her life, they haunted her, those words, echoing through her head, down the years.

  And well, she had said, well, I don’t know: sensibly cautious, afraid for many reasons, suspicious of his motives, wary of anything that might worsen her already deteriorating relationship with Joe, wary of Magnus and his professional reputation, the way he wrought havoc with people’s lives, wary of herself and how she might react to temptation, sexual temptation, and if ever a man embodied for her sexual temptation it was Magnus Phillips.

  ‘What don’t you know?’ he said, and she could hear him smiling into the phone, arrogantly amused.

  ‘Whether we should meet,’ she said, and promptly felt cross with herself, knowing what the next question would be, and it came, promptly, on cue.

  ‘Why not? Why on earth should we not meet?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, hauling herself together, feeling her way cautiously into a position of more control. ‘For one thing, I’m in Suffolk, for another I’m very busy, I have no intention of coming to London and I cannot imagine –’ She paused, not sure what it was she was going to be unable to imagine, but mercifully he interrupted her.

  ‘That’s fine, in fact it’s the whole point. I’m also very busy, but I have every intention of coming to Suffolk. If you’ll have me.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Let me make things a little clearer. I’m writing an article about the racing game for my paper. I thought you were the person to talk to about it.’

  ‘Why isn’t your racing correspondent doing it?’ said Caroline tartly.

  ‘I forgot you were involved with another hack. Very good. It isn’t that sort of piece. It’s about the people involved, and all that sexy stuff about stallions and stud farms and covering mares. And I thought that charming friend of yours, Mr Bamforth, might be able to help me too.’

  ‘Oh, well, that would be fine,’ said Caroline, relief and disappointment flooding her in equal quantities. ‘Jack’s forgotten more about breeding and bloodlines than –’

  ‘I know, than most people know,’ said Magnus. ‘That’d be great. When could I come down?’

  ‘Well, any time,’ she said, ‘any time at all. Jack’s always here.’

  ‘Oh, but I wouldn’t want to come all that way and not see you as well. That would be seriously stupid. Don’t you think?’

  And Caroline, aware that it was she who was being seriously stupid, arranged to give him lunch at the Moat House the following Thursday.

  He arrived at eight in the morning, on his motorbike; it was only just getting light, and she was still not dressed.

  ‘I’m a little early for lunch,’ he said, grinning at her over his crash helmet, his dark eyes roving over her as she stood there in the doorway, pulling her silk dressing-gown closely round her like a virginal schoolgirl, cursing herself for not getting up early, for being here, bleary-eyed, un-made-up, miserably aware of looking every moment of her forty-seven years, ‘but I thought there was probably a lot of ground to cover, and the roads were clear, I had a great run.’

  ‘You must have left London at about five,’ she said.

  No, he said, four actually. ‘I don’t go in for a lot of sleeping. Waste of good time. Death’s brother.’

  ‘What?’ said Caroline, looking at him blankly.

  ‘Sleep and his brother death. Shelley. I don’t suppose you thought I’d know about Shelley, did you?’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Working-class boy like me. You’d be surprised what we get up to, in between picking our noses and dusting off our flat caps.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ said Caroline crossly. ‘I never thought about whether you might know about Shelley or what class you came from for that matter. Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Love some. Dry work, biking.’ He followed her into the house, sat down in the kitchen, watching her with frank pleasure as she put the kettle on the Aga; the dressing-gown swung open revealing a rather shabby elongated T-shirt; she hauled it back round her. ‘This is a great house. Did your late husband own it?’

  ‘No,’ said Caroline. ‘My father owned it. And my grandfather and my great-grandfather if you really want to know.’

  ‘I don’t especially. But I suppose now you’ve told me it is slightly interesting. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Caroline, who minded very much, but was afraid of looking even more like a virginal schoolmistress than she did already if she said so. Magnus Phillips got out a rather squashed packet of Disque Bleu and an incongruously expensive-looking gold Dunhill and lit up, his eyes through the smoke fixed on her breasts beneath the silk robe. For the rest of her life, Caroline was unable to smell French cigarettes without feeling sexual discomfort.

  She ground the beans, poured the water into a jug; the smell of coffee joined that of the cigarette, and of motorbike oil. It all seemed strangely erotic.

  ‘You make a good cup of coffee,’ said Magnus Phillips. ‘It’s a rare talent in a woman.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. Chloe was a cook, wasn’t she? Must get it from you.’

  ‘Yes, she was. But I’m no cook. Do you know,’ she said, without being able to imagine why she should be telling him such a thing, ‘I have never made a cake in my whole life.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ he said, ‘and you the mother of – three.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and a stab of fear, a sense of danger went through her, as she wrenched her gaze away from him. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, have you?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Caroline, slightly indignantly.

  ‘Then I’d like some with some toast please. I’m addicted to the stuff. Eat it at all hours of the day and night. Thanks a lot.’

  She made him some toast, passed him the jar of Cooper’s. He spread it extremely thickly, and wolfed it down.

  ‘Well,’ he said, finally, with evident regret, ‘that was good. Lead me to the man, Lady Hunterton. Or tell me where to find him. I imagine he’s an early starter.’

  ‘If you wait five minutes,’ she said, ‘I’ll get dressed, and take you down there.’

  ‘Five minutes!’ he said, grinning at her. ‘That’s very quick for a female. Do you undress quickly as well?’

  Caroline, enraged, felt herself blushing. ‘I’ve never timed it,’ she said and walked quickly out of the kitchen.

  She carefully didn’t make him lunch: too much danger of intimacy, she felt, after the morning, and it showed too much desire to please. ‘I thought we’d go to the pub,’ she said, walking into the stable yard at lunch-time. ‘Jack, you’ll join us, won’t you?’

  ‘Mustn’t be long,’ said Jack. ‘Got a pony to look at this afternoon, for Pandora. Mr Windsor asked me to keep an eye out for one.’

  ‘Really?’ said Caroline. ‘I didn’t know. What did Chloe have to say about it?’

  ‘You don’t know everything, Caroline,’ said Jack, grinning at her as she climbed up into the Range Rover. ‘And Chloe wasn’t keen, you’re quite right. I’ll bring my own car, then you don’t have to rush off when I do.’

  They sat in the smoky warmth of the Hare and Hounds, eating large plates of shepherd’s pie; Magnus and Jack drank beer while Caroline, still uneasy, afraid of relaxing, drank tonic water. Jack continued to talk about bloodstock, about National Hunt racing, about the flat, about yearling sales, and Caroline sat silent, watching Magnus make notes, an
d wondered why she felt so sure he was not remotely interested in anything Jack was saying.

  Finally Jack rose. ‘Got to go, Caroline. See you later.’

  ‘Bye, Jack. Thank you. Don’t get anything for Pandora unless you’re absolutely sure, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. Bye, Mr Phillips.’

  ‘Cheers, Jack,’ said Magnus. ‘Very much appreciated. Nice bloke,’ he added, as Jack left the bar. ‘Very unfeudal, isn’t he? Calling you Caroline and all that.’

  ‘Jack is a friend,’ said Caroline simply, forgetting to be watchful of what she said. ‘He may be my groom, but he’s been here all my life, and he knows more about me than anyone in the world. He’s eased me through all kinds of crises, the death of both my parents, and of my husband –’

  ‘The births of all your children?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said smoothly, ‘and he is the most marvellous man. Very special. I love him.’

  ‘Strong words.’

  ‘Strong feelings.’

  ‘And what does he make of your son-in-law?’

  The question threw her slightly. ‘I don’t know. We haven’t discussed the matter.’

  ‘I’m surprised. Since you’re so close. Perhaps you don’t need to discuss it.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Oh, I think you do. He’s hardly – well, hardly what you would have chosen, is he? Any of you?’

  ‘Magnus,’ said Caroline, and her eyes were very steady as she looked at him, ‘be careful. Please.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t like him either. Don’t know how I got mixed up with him really.’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t like him,’ said Caroline with dignity.

  ‘No, you didn’t say it.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘You’re not writing this book about him, then? So I understand.’

  ‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I haven’t quite given up the idea.’

  ‘Really? Chloe says Piers told you he didn’t want to go ahead.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Piers did say that. But – well, you know, there’s no law against biography writing.’

  ‘But surely –’

  ‘You can do what’s known as an unauthorized biography. Written without the cooperation of the subject. Usually scurrilous, and often, although not always, inaccurate. Mine are accurate and scurrilous.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t do that to Piers, would you?’

  ‘What, write something scurrilous?’ He was grinning at her, looking particularly saturnine, with his dancing, almost black eyes, his uneven, very white teeth. ‘Not unless there was something scurrilous to say. Which I’m sure there isn’t.’

  ‘So why haven’t you given up the idea?’

  ‘Oh – I have really. Just keeping a tiny option open. That’s all. Don’t look so worried.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Although, as you must be aware, there is – gossip about him,’ he said, taking out a cigarette from the crumpled packet, offering it to her.

  She shook her head. ‘What sort of gossip?’

  ‘Oh – you know. The usual sort. That surrounds so many of our actors.’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  ‘Caroline!’ He shook his head solemnly, his eyes brilliant, boring into hers. ‘I cannot believe you are quite so naïve. Gossip about homosexuality of course. There always has been. Utterly meaningless, fairly harmless, very malicious. Ask your friend Joe. I cannot believe he’s never come across it.’

  ‘Well, if he has he’s certainly never mentioned it,’ said Caroline, hoping she sounded as positive as she meant to. ‘When you say gossip, do you mean people just – just talking about it? Fairly harmlessly? Or deliberately spreading it, with intent to – well, to do damage?’

  ‘Oh, very much the former,’ said Magnus. ‘Dinner party tattle. Green room gossip. For the most part. Which can, I have to say, be extremely damaging in its own way.’

  ‘But nothing in the press?’

  ‘Oh, no. Not yet at any rate.’

  ‘You sound as if that was something inevitable,’ said Caroline. She was beginning to feel alarmed.

  ‘Not inevitable,’ he said, his eyes thoughtful as he looked at her. ‘But it’s always a possibility. Although of course the libel laws are very clear in this country.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ said Caroline.

  ‘Oh, that I think there is little for Piers to worry about. Whatever the facts.’

  ‘Magnus,’ said Caroline, angry suddenly, with herself for being drawn into such a discussion, as much as with him, ‘I have to tell you I find this conversation fairly offensive. You’re talking about the man who’s married to my daughter. And I do very much hope you’re not implying –’

  ‘I’m not actually very given to implication, Caroline. Blunt sort of chap. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I did preface my remarks by saying it was very prevalent, this sort of thing. The gossip, as well as the behaviour,’ he added with a grin. ‘Tell me, did you ever meet that guy Byron Patrick?’

  The suddenness of the question, on top of the disquieting conversation about Piers, completely disarmed Caroline. She sat staring at Magnus Phillips, feeling her face drain of colour, her heart falling away into the depths of her body. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said did you ever meet that guy Byron Patrick? The one in Joe’s book?’

  ‘No,’ she said, closing her eyes briefly, trying to steady herself. ‘No, of course not. Why should I have?’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t sure how far back you and Joe went. It’s possible. You’ve read the book, I presume?’

  ‘Well – sort of. Not really my sort of thing.’ She was fighting for time, to recover herself.

  ‘Oh. Oh, well. Just a thought. You don’t know anything about all that then? His death and everything? And the article in that scandal sheet?’

  ‘Absolutely not, no. Is this something to do with your article on bloodstock?’ asked Caroline tartly. She felt better now, and suddenly furious with Magnus Phillips for trying to trick her.

  ‘No. This is to do with a book I’m thinking of writing. About Hollywood. And various goings-on.’

  ‘But not Piers?’

  ‘No, not unless some strange new facts emerge.’

  ‘Surely you’re not going to write about the same people as Joe?’

  ‘No. Not really. But they all interwine and overlap, that lot. You’d be surprised. It’s been said before, I know, but Hollywood is a very small town.’

  ‘Oh really?’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t know. But anyway, I certainly can’t help you. Look, I have to be getting back. I have work to do.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I have to write my article about horses.’

  ‘Do you know, I slightly doubt that,’ said Caroline.

  Magnus laughed. ‘You’re a cynic, Lady Hunterton.’

  ‘I’m a realist, Mr Phillips.’

  She worried and fretted through the rest of the week. What was the bastard up to: all those veiled hints about Piers: what should she do? Who should she tell? Was he trying to warn her, or to tell her something? It was worrying, scary almost. She almost phoned Joe, dialled his number even, but then put the phone down. It would sound very odd, casually mentioning she had had Magnus Phillips down for the day. Chloe? No, definitely not Chloe, it would worry and frighten her. Especially as they were all living in LA for a year while Piers made his film. Piers himself? Obviously not. No, there was nothing she could do, nothing at all. Just hope it was going to stay in the green rooms and round the dinner tables. She might ask Joe casually if he had heard anything more: although she rather thought he would have told her if he had.

  The quest
ion about Brendan, clearly designed to catch her completely unawares, had been more frightening, more disturbing: had Magnus been even remotely deceived by her response? Probably not. What was he up to? Why ask her about Brendan, and not any of the other people Joe had written about? Did he have any real grounds for thinking she might have known him? He was like that detective on television, the one in the crumpled raincoat, always turning up unexpectedly with apparently innocent questions. Not that it would be so very terrible, she supposed, if it did all come out now. None of them had committed a crime, done anything wrong. She just didn’t want it all hauled into the open, and certainly not by a journalist from the gutter press. It had been so sneaky, so rotten, the way he had introduced the subject. He was a devious, clever bastard, and a dangerous one, and she had been right to mistrust him. She cursed herself for letting him come down. Gullible, naïve, pathetic behaviour. In future, she would steer very clear of him. If there was an article in the Daily Sketch on bloodstock by Magnus Phillips on Saturday she’d go and personally kiss his arse.

  On Saturday, Jack Bamforth came up to the house grinning from ear to ear; he was carrying a copy of the Daily Sketch.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  ‘Secrets of the Stud’ ran the line across the top of the paper. ‘Magnus Phillips opens some very smart stable doors.’

  Caroline sat down and began to giggle rather weakly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Oh – nothing. I was just thinking how glad I was I kept at least some of my thoughts to myself.’

  Later that morning Magnus phoned.

  ‘Did you and your nice Mr Bamforth see my piece?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ said Caroline. ‘It was full of inaccuracies. And what my friend Jane Pinchbeck is doing right this minute I dread to think. On the phone to her solicitors, I imagine. I hope you didn’t get any of that from Jack.’