‘Forgive me, Sir Neil, but I would put it to you that the calm and quiet we require of these children is frequently the calm and quiet of despair, not order.’
‘And I would put it to you, Mr Welles, that in the opinion of myself and several of my colleagues you are wrong, that you disrupt and disturb the children in your reforming zeal.’
Ned was silent; then Sir Neil said, ‘I hear that you have some idea that if the mothers stayed with the children all day, then the children would be happier.’
‘Yes, and recover faster, sleep better –’
‘And do you not think the mild chaos you are causing at night would be hugely multiplied by day, wards full of ignorant mothers, getting in the way of the nurses?’
‘With respect, Sir Neil, I think the mothers could be a great help with washing, feeding, playing with their children, reading to them –’
‘Mr Welles,’ said Sir Neil, his voice heavy with distaste, ‘we are trying to run a hospital here, not some kind of children’s party. Now can we have no more of this, please.’
‘So you won’t even consider my ideas?’ said Ned. This was a mistake.
‘No, I won’t. And I don’t want to hear them mentioned to anyone. Next thing we know, the mothers will be demanding access to their children whenever they fancy and I will not have it. Is that quite clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Ned, careful with his words as always. ‘Quite clear. Thank you.’
‘Josh? Tom Knelston.’
Josh felt a rush of panic. He had tried very hard to forget the image of Tom on Diana’s doorstep, being greeted by what could only be described as an inviting kiss – and failed.
He had been shocked: profoundly, morally shocked. He was aware that this was scarcely a suitable emotion for a journalist to experience. But while Tom and he might not have been the close friends people assumed, given that he had been best man at his wedding, they were friends; and until then he had liked him as a man, and admired him as a politician in waiting. Far closer, though, was the other link: that his cousin Jillie was Alice Knelston’s best friend. Jillie adored Tom, she thought he was wonderful.
‘Yes?’ he said now, hearing his own voice cooler than usual.
‘This a bad time? If so, maybe we could meet. I need your advice – and it might even be a story for you.’
It couldn’t be, could it? Josh wondered. He couldn’t actually be calling him to talk to him about his infidelity. He decided he needed time to think and said, ‘Yes. Bit busy right now. Could we talk tomorrow after work? I presume it’s not desperately urgent.’
It could be, he supposed; Alice might have found out about Diana, delivered an ultimatum, and demanded an answer by tomorrow. Well, if that was the case, tough.
‘No, no, not terribly, tomorrow evening will do. I’ll warn Alice. She gets pretty sick of me being out every other night.’
I expect she does, Josh thought; poor, sweet, weary Alice. The last person to deserve such treatment. ‘We can make it quite early,’ he said, more from a wish to save Alice than anything else. ‘I have to be back for a conference at six, could have a quick drink somewhere near here at five.’
‘Cheshire Cheese?’
‘Fine. See you then. Please give my love to Alice,’ Josh added. The poor girl needed all the support and affection available to her.
‘I will. She’s pretty fed up, little bugger’s really huge now. Thanks, Josh.’
Bastard, thought Josh. Absolute two-faced bastard.
Tom had been speaking the truth about Diana. He had told her that he didn’t want to see her any more, it had been wonderful while it had lasted, that he would miss her of course, but that Alice was growing suspicious; she was about to have a baby and he owed it to her to try to be a good husband and father.
‘Besides, once this one is born, I’ll be even more needed at home. I won’t be able to spend hours out of the house every other night.’
‘Darling! Would that it were every other night.’
He was silent.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘This is a bit of a bombshell. I’m sorry, Tom. Friend Tom. Can we still be friends?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It wouldn’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I was with you I’d have to go to bed with you.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something. To soothe my ruffled ego.’ Silence. Then, ‘And – I must admit, my feelings too. There must be something wrong with me. First my husband, now my lover, both want to get rid of me.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Diana. You’re a very beautiful, very clever woman.’
‘Not clever or beautiful enough, it seems. Well, Tom, thank you for being honest with me. I appreciate it. And it has been fun. Such fun, indeed, I think we should have just one last glimpse of it, before you go.’
‘Diana, no!’
‘But why not? What harm can it do? You’re here, you’ve made your getaway for the evening. You’ll be out for an extra hour or so; what’s that, set against this blameless future you envisage?’
‘Diana, I’m sorry but no. It’s over. It would be – well, a travesty, to – to –’
‘What? Oh, Tom, come on. For old times’ sake. No? All right. Just kiss me goodbye. Please. Dear Friend Tom –’
And at that he was lost. The goodbye kiss went on and on, Diana collapsing under him, laughing, just as she had that first night, wanting him as she had that first night – she became irresistible again.
‘Well,’ she said, sprawled naked on the sofa, watching him dressing, unable to meet her eyes, his face a study in guilt and remorse. ‘You know what, Tom? I don’t fancy life without that occasionally.’
‘Diana, I said—’
‘Oh, I know what you said. It made me very sad. So au revoir, then, I think, dear Friend Tom,’ she said. ‘Not goodbye.’
‘Diana—’
‘No, I really don’t want to lose you now. I decided that about – what? – twenty minutes ago. Just as I – well, you know what I mean. Anyway, I want you to continue your visits. I need them, you know. I spend many, many evenings alone here. You have your Alice – who do I have? Occasionally Jamie, sometimes a few friends, but most often just me. So I need you, Friend Tom, I really do, and I don’t want to do without you. So please continue to come and call—’
He interrupted her. ‘Diana, that’s impossible, I told you, very sadly for me at any rate, it’ s—’
‘If you don’t come,’ she said, her voice quite different suddenly, ‘if you insist on saying it’s over, then I’m afraid I shall have to visit Alice and explain where you’ve really been all those evenings. I’d love to meet the children, I do really like children, as you know, and I’m also quite curious to meet Alice.’
Tom sat down abruptly on a small gilt chair that stood next to the drawing-room door; it creaked ominously. Rather like his life, he thought. His legs had become shaky and jelly-like, an unpleasant accompaniment to the nausea rising in him.
Diana was pulling on the silk robe she had been wearing for his arrival; he looked at her and she smiled brightly, as if she had just offered him a cup of coffee.
‘Or – or should I say, I could go to the press. That would never do so near the election, would it? When you’ll need all the good write-ups you can get. So, what with one thing and another, Friend Tom, I think you’d be much better preserving the status quo, don’t you? Shall we say two weeks from now? For your next visit? Now, will you excuse me, darling, I’ve got to change – I’m having dinner with a girlfriend.’
She walked over to him, kissed him briefly on the lips, and then disappeared up the stairs. Tom somehow dragged himself onto his feet, let himself out of the house, and stumbled down the mews.
Chapter 47
Diana actually had no intention whatever of going either to Alice or the press. She simply wanted to make Tom sweat a bit. She had been hurt by his rejection, more than she would have expected. She loved him in a way; felt she
had loved him for years. Their relationship had always been oddly close, from the first time she had properly talked to him, in her parents’ house when he had fallen in the snow, right until she had finally achieved what felt like a lifelong ambition and got him into bed.
Although – she was sure no one would believe her – she did value him above all as a friend; someone to talk to about her life and its problems, to laugh with, to have a drink with. He fascinated her, with his rise from poor village boy, his unshakeable socialist principles, his determination to improve people’s lives, his devotion to what he seemed to regard as an almost sacred cause, that of the National Health Service.
But then she had also, from that very first exchange between them when he was standing half-naked in a ditch, fancied him sexually; he was so extraordinarily good-looking, with his dark red-gold hair and green eyes and his countryman’s physique, tall and very strong. There was the element of sadness about him now too: the loss of the wife he had adored, the baby he would have adored, was the stuff almost of Greek tragedy. He was also extremely sexy and her hours in bed with him were an ongoing surprise and delight. Now it was to end, and rather like her early passion for Ned, her main emotion was humiliation.
She was clearly, she thought, drinking glass after glass of wine that night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, doomed to unhappiness in her love life. Where for her was the calm, happy marriage her best friend Wendelien enjoyed with her Ian; or the sparky, sexy partnership of her brother Michael and his Betsey; even the peaceful affection of her own parents, about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary? What was the matter with her, that she chose so disastrously wrongly for herself: first Ned, then Johnathan, sundry lovers who took their pleasure from her and then departed again – most notably Freddie Bateman? And now, Tom Knelston, so firmly married, although she was fairly sure Alice was no real replacement in his heart for Laura. Why couldn’t she find someone who was suitable, for God’s sake, sexy, sophisticated, available – a nice divorcé would do – and loving? It was the loving she seemed to fail with every time.
She had worked out a little cat-and-mouse game she was going to play with Tom. If he turned up within the two weeks she had specified she would give him a kiss, pat him on the head – notionally – and send him on his way. If he didn’t, she would make a phone call or two to his office, perhaps send a note: and see what happened next.
In April, she had a wonderful trip planned, shooting two features with Freddie Bateman in the States; one, seriously glamorous, in New York, and then the second one, which she was much more excited about, on the wild windswept beaches of Massachusetts, places which had become so famous it made her spine tingle just to think about them – Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket and Cape Cod, home to the famous Kennedy clan.
She and Freddie were now growing famous for their ingenuity; the fur shots at Smithfield had been really groundbreaking, and Blanche Ellis Brown, in particular, who had first put them to work together (and never failed to claim credit for doing so), had come to rely on them to find a story where she could not. So it was with the New York shoot; she had invited them to lunch in her office that very day, shown them a few of the clothes, and said of course she did have one idea, but how about them? It was Freddie who came up with the ‘Day in the Life of New York’. Twenty-four pictures shot on the hour, round the clock. It was a well-known fact that New York never slept. ‘We’d have everything from one of those crazy downtown diners, with Diana chatting up some truck drivers, to dancing at some fantastic nightclub. That way we’d get in every iconic New York landmark, and a huge range of clothes. What do you think?’
Diana clapped, leaned towards him and kissed his cheek. She rather enjoyed encouraging the fiction that they were still lovers.
‘Brilliant!’ said Blanche. ‘Absolutely brilliant.’
‘So – what was your idea?’ Freddie asked her.
‘Oh – not even worth discussing,’ she said quickly.
‘I knew she didn’t have one,’ said Freddie to Diana later. They were drinking cocktails in the American Bar at the Connaught, where he was inevitably staying.
‘You are naughty.’
‘I know. I enjoy it. Now, we must make sure they book us into the Carlyle in New York. Terribly smart, darling, the place right now. Wonderful jazz in the café; we could maybe use it for one of the shots, it’s all marvellously deco …’
‘I can’t wait,’ said Diana. It sounded exactly what she needed just now. And suddenly, Freddie looked rather attractive again.
She was just sipping thoughtfully at her third Martini (and finding him more attractive still) when Donald Herbert’s flamboyant figure loomed over her.
‘Miss Southcott. How lovely to see you. How are you?’
‘Now you know you should call me Diana,’ she said, reaching up and offering him her hand. ‘I’m very well, thank you. This is Freddie Bateman, a friend from the States. He’s a very famous and wonderful photographer. Freddie, Donald Herbert, well-known politician.’
‘Hardly a politician,’ said Herbert. ‘I just paddle about in the shallows.’
‘That makes it sound so cosy,’ said Diana. ‘I’d ask you to join us but we’re about to leave.’
‘I wouldn’t think of intruding on you,’ said Herbert, ‘and in any case, I’m meeting someone myself.’
‘Not our mutual friend?’
‘No, no. But speaking of our mutual friend, Diana, I believe you and he had some unfinished business the other evening.’
‘It might not be,’ said Diana coolly. ‘Unfinished, I mean.’
‘I do hope it can be,’ said Donald Herbert. ‘It would be most unfortunate if his career was to come into difficulties now. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that either.’
‘I’m afraid I have no interest whatsoever in his career,’ said Diana. ‘Whether it was in difficulties or not.’
‘I see. Well – just thought I’d mention it. This could be his big moment.’
‘How exciting for him. Well, Freddie and I have work to do. Please excuse us, Mr Herbert.’
‘What was all that about?’ said Freddie curiously. ‘Not your usual type at all, darling.’
‘What a ghastly thought. If he was my usual type, I mean. And you really don’t want to know what it was about: a pathetic little tale. Come on, Freddie, drink up, and I’ll take you out to dinner. How about the Berkeley?’
She suddenly felt very annoyed with Tom. Running to his boss, or whatever Herbert was, blubbing about her threats, and obviously begging him to help: it was pretty pathetic, really. Clearly, she came a very poor second to his career; and that was not something she was used to. If Herbert thought a word from him could obtain her silence and her sympathy, he had another think coming. There might yet be some fun to be had from the situation.
Chapter 48
‘They said in your office that you were just popping out for half an hour. And they promised to give you the message.’
‘What message?’
‘Oh, nothing important,’ said Jillie, her voice curdled with sarcasm. She was standing on Tom’s doorstep. ‘Just that Alice had gone into labour.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Tom. ‘Where?’
‘She’s in hospital. And she’s had the baby. It was terribly quick, touch and go she might have had it here. It’s a boy,’ she added. ‘If you’re interested.’
‘Of course I’m interested, for God’s sake,’ said Tom, hardly taking in the good news, so heavy were her reproaches, so great his guilt. ‘Oh, God, this is awful. Jillie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Apologise to her, not me. Luckily I had the day off and came whizzing over. She was really frightened, Tom.’
‘Why didn’t she call an ambulance?’
‘Small matter of the other children. She could hardly take them with her.’
‘Yes, well, her mother should have been here,’ said Tom. ‘She was coming for the week.’
‘Maybe, but the baby wasn’t to know that. It decided
to come early. Determined little creatures, babies. And the next-door neighbours both out, and most of her friends round here not on the telephone. Tom, you must have realised it could happen any minute. You should have kept properly in touch. Where were you, for God’s sake? It’s hours since we first phoned your office.’
‘Oh, it was political stuff,’ said Tom. ‘Not always easy to get away. Look, Jillie, can I come in?’ For in her rage she was still occupying the whole of the doorway. ‘I’d like to phone the hospital.’
‘Yes, I expect you would,’ said Jillie, turning and walking into the house, Tom behind her.
‘And go and see her. If it’s allowed this late. If I can, would you – that is, can you –’
‘Look after the children? Yes, of course. For Alice’s sake, rather than yours. God, Tom, I just cannot get over your behaviour. It honestly makes me wonder if you weren’t engaged on something rather more personal than political business.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tom. He turned away from her to the telephone.
‘I think you do know what I mean,’ said Jillie, but he could tell it was a wild bluff, just from her expression.
‘Well, you’ re –’ he started and with a merciful intervention from fate he got through to the hospital, and then to the ward.
‘Ah, Mr Knelston. Well, your little one’s going to spend his life in a hurry and no mistake. All’s well though, a big boy, eight and a half pounds. He spent the first hour telling us he didn’t like it here, cried non-stop, but he’s quiet now.’
‘And – how is my wife?’
‘She’s well. Very well under the circumstances. Glad it’s over …’
‘Could I – could I come and see her?’
‘You most certainly may not,’ said the nurse. ‘Visiting hours end at seven, as you should know.’
‘Yes, but if I’d been in the hospital when she had the baby, I’d still be there now,’ said Tom, in a desperate attempt to call logic into play.
‘Ah, but you weren’t,’ said the nurse. ‘Mrs Knelston was hoping until the very last minute for a message, but …’ Her silence was a reproach, stronger than any words.
A Question of Trust Page 44
