A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Well, could I speak to her? On the phone?’

  ‘Now how do you think I’m going to manage that? Cut the phone free of its wires or something? So you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. Afternoon visiting, three to four.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see,’ said Tom miserably. ‘It seems a bit hard.’

  ‘Yes, well, it was quite hard for Mrs Knelston to go through labour not knowing where you were.’

  ‘It seems a terribly long time for me to wait.’

  ‘I daresay you’ll get over it,’ said the nurse. ‘But I can give her a message from you, if you like.’

  ‘Oh – yes, that would be very kind. Could you give her my love and say how sorry I am?’

  ‘I will. And that you’ll be in tomorrow at three?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Tom put the phone down and turned to Jillie.

  ‘No chance of visiting her, as you probably gathered. Or even speaking to her.’

  She was looking almost sympathetic.

  ‘That’s hospitals for you. I should know.’

  Tom thought briefly and treacherously of what a private hospital would offer: a private room, a phone, probably husbands allowed to visit any time. Well, if he got in next time he’d argue for the right of any husband to be with his wife, any time, including while she was in labour, the early stages anyway.

  He sat down; Jillie poured him a cup of tea.

  ‘If I had my way,’ she said, her hostility apparently forgotten in the face of his obvious distress, ‘husbands could be with their wives in labour. If they wanted to be, of course. And for the first twenty-four hours after the birth, he could visit any time at all.’

  ‘I was just thinking that very thing,’ said Tom, sipping gratefully at the tea.

  ‘Perhaps you should talk to Josh about it.’

  ‘Josh? He’s a political writer, surely,’ said Tom, a vivid re-enaction of his discussion with Josh two hours earlier sweeping into view. ‘He wouldn’t be interested in maternity wards.’

  ‘He might. His paper’s always looking for good causes. And if you were an MP, it would become quite political. Worth a try.’

  ‘It’s certainly an idea,’ said Tom. ‘Although that’s looking less and less likely, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What, you becoming an MP? I thought it was more or less a dead cert.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Why not? What’s happened?’

  ‘Oh – complicated. You don’t want to hear about it now.’

  ‘I might. I’ve got nothing else to do this evening.’

  But at that moment Lucy woke up from a bad dream, screaming, and just as she was settled Kit woke up and was not to be silenced except by the promise of a story; Jillie, having helped with Lucy, had no stomach for reading and left.

  It was going to be great fun having a third child to add to what increasingly resembled a mob, Tom thought; none of them would ever get any sleep at all.

  Alice had been, as always, transformed by the actual birth of her baby. Tom arrived next afternoon, to find her not even in bed, but sitting in the chair next to it, rosy, smiling, a silent, sleeping infant in her arms.

  ‘Hello,’ she said to Tom and raised her face to be kissed.

  ‘Hello, Alice. How are you?’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine, thank you.’

  ‘I am so sorry about yesterday.’

  ‘What, your going AWOL? Oh, it’s all right. Really. I mean, it was a bit alarming at one stage, but Jillie kept me calm, and called the ambulance and honestly, by the time I got here, everything was happening so fast, I forgot about you. Well, you know …’

  ‘Jillie hauled me very thoroughly over the coals. She was furious and so she should have been.’

  ‘Well, maybe. But today – who cares? I just assumed it was political stuff.’

  She did not mention – and indeed they were half forgotten, lost in her new happiness – her increasing doubts about Tom’s fidelity, as every attempt to find him was frustrated, every plea for a return phone call fruitless, and how even the pain of childbirth faded in comparison with the savage rage consuming her. But Jillie had sent a message to say that Josh had confirmed that he and Tom had been together for hours in The Cheshire Cheese, discussing election matters, and that then Tom had said he simply must get home.

  ‘Alice, you’re a saint.’

  ‘Not really,’ she said and smiled at him again. ‘Make the most of it, it won’t last. Best not let my father hear about it, though. Anyway, this is your new son. Quite a whopper.’

  Tom looked at the baby: sleeping determinedly as only newborn babies can, a mass of dark hair on his small head, the tiny snub-nosed face utterly peaceful. Once he opened his eyes, deep dark blue, and then closed them again and drifted off once more.

  ‘He’s very sweet,’ said Tom, smiling. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Yes, course. Here –’ She passed the baby over, and Tom sat cradling him, struck as always by the extraordinary yet ordinary miracle that saw a moment of lovemaking become a tiny being just nine months later, a being that would grow, that would first smile at him, and then laugh, and then learn to do amazing things, like walking and talking, and have tantrums, and demand stories and join his brother and sister as the centre of his parents’ world.

  ‘He’s very sweet,’ he said again, finding (as always) his voice oddly choked, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Isn’t he? It’s amazing. And it’s true what they say, they do bring their own love with them; I was changing Lucy’s nappy yesterday and she was giggling, you know how she does, and I thought to myself how I could never love anyone as much as I loved her and Kit, and then this little one arrived and I looked at him, as they put him in my arms, and I just felt this great wash of love. Tom, can we call him Charlie?’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Only the same as usual – I really like it, and it seems to suit him.’

  ‘Charlie it is,’ said Tom, thinking the last thing he could do after his appalling behaviour was deny Alice her choice of name. ‘He’s a fine chap and you’re a clever girl, and I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Alice, reaching up to kiss him.

  ‘Now, I need to talk to you about something very important.’

  ‘So soon?’ she said. ‘Can’t I have just one day of thinking about nothing but my baby and you do the same, like everyone else in the ward?’

  ‘Sorry, but no, you can’t,’ said Tom, and outlined his dilemma. Did he stay as the constituency’s candidate for Purbridge, and probably not get in, or did he go to a new one and almost certainly get in? It would affect her greatly, and he wanted her to be absolutely behind him.

  ‘Well,’ said Alice with only the briefest hesitation, ‘it seems very straightforward to me. Of course you should stay with Purbridge. You’ve worked so hard and made so much progress there, so many friends and acquaintances, it just seems such a slap in the face for them if you say, “Sorry, chaps, I’m off somewhere else now, so I can be sure of getting in.” Anyway, miracles do happen – you might get in there. And besides, we’re going to move there, aren’t we? To lovely Sandbanks, without which we wouldn’t have Lucy. Oh, dear. Now I’m crying. Sorry, hormones I suppose.’

  Tom pulled a distinctly grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and tenderly wiped her face.

  ‘I feel exactly the same. I’m so glad you agree. But Donald says I’d be a fool to turn this new constituency down.’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Alice briskly, ‘Donald can be a bit of a fool himself at times. Why are you smiling at me?’

  ‘Because I’ve got the old Alice back. The Alice I love.’

  ‘Where is this other place? Heart of industrial Birmingham, did you say?’ At which point Charlie suddenly started to cry very loudly.

  ‘There you are,’ said Alice. ‘Charlie doesn’t like the sound of it either. Best stay with Purbridge, Tom. Or we’ll all be sorry …’

  Donald was furious; even more so
than Tom expected.

  ‘You won’t get any gratitude from the people of Purbridge, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’re an idiot, Tom, and I hope you realise it.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom. ‘Politics are about principles, it seems to me. I’ve always felt that and I always will.’

  ‘Oh, really? Pity you didn’t stick to them when it came to personal matters. Hanging round Diana Southcott as if she was a bitch on heat. I saw her the other night, by the way. She said she had no interest in your career when I said it would be ruined if she caused a scandal. More or less said she was going to carry out her threat.’

  Tom’s stomach felt as if it had dropped several yards through the floor. ‘God, Donald, the last way to get Diana on our side is to go crawling to her. She totally despises that sort of thing.’

  ‘I didn’t go crawling to her. Just presented a straight picture. Tom, I’ve been around a lot longer than you have. I know a woman on the make when I see one. She’ll be wanting something soon, to keep her quiet, you mark my words. And it won’t be your over-active dick.’

  Tom sat looking at him very steadily for about thirty seconds. Then he stood, picked up his coat and hat, and walked out of the pub without saying another word.

  But he felt badly shaken and had to walk for at least half an hour to calm himself down, before going home.

  Home was not quite what he had hoped it would be once Alice was back to her old self. Charlie Knelston, once woken from his new-baby trance, proved an awkward, irritable, restless child, with a digestion that troubled not only him but everyone else in the household. Wails of pain filled the house from as early as three a.m. to as late as midnight; the only things that pacified him were his mother’s breasts, and Alice sometimes felt she had no life, no calling other than proffering the poor weary things, once so pretty and purveyors of such pleasure, into Charlie’s greedy, frantic little mouth.

  The only other thing that rendered him silent, especially at night, was being pushed round the streets in his pram. Alice was so tired she had no idea what day it was, what meal she was cooking, or even what time. She feared she had become a bad mother to the other children, having very little time for them, and snapping at them endlessly because she was so tired. Once or twice she slapped Kit, who was being extremely naughty, taking advantage of the general chaos; once Tom was witness to this; he was shocked and said so.

  ‘I cannot believe you did that. You know we agreed we would never hit our children. It’s a brutal thing to do, taking advantage of our superior size and power over them. You mustn’t ever do it again.’

  ‘I know that was wrong of me,’ she said, ‘and I’m sorry. But I’m so tired! Kit is being extremely naughty and just you try being endlessly patient all day, every day. You might even do a bit of slapping yourself. I wish you were at home more, Tom, it would be such a help.’

  Remorse struck Tom. ‘Alice, I’m truly sorry, I can’t. You know I’m fighting an election. Every minute counts. I’ll make it up to you when it’s over, I swear to you.’

  He desperately hoped these were not empty words. As well as worrying about the election, he was on constant tenterhooks, afraid that Diana would suddenly make her threats reality. He never turned the corner of the road without a stab of terror that her car would be there, outside the house: and if it was not, never opened the front door without fearing a furious Alice recounting how Diana had visited her that day. If Diana’s revenge was to make him suffer, she was certainly succeeding.

  He had told Josh what his decision was about Purbridge: Josh was impressed, while clearly sharing Donald’s view that, short term, it was not going to do him any good. He said that nearer the time he would put an item into the diary section of the paper which should help Tom, establishing him as a person of principle and loyalty. Not that anybody knew when the time would be: Eden hadn’t even called the election yet, although Churchill had officially resigned. It all added to his general tension.

  Of the other half of their conversation he made no mention.

  It was now three weeks since he had told Diana he couldn’t see her any longer – and despite her threats he missed her: not just the quiet, civilised evenings in the pretty house, or even the brilliant sparky sex, but Diana herself. He tried very hard to analyse his feelings for her. Clearly he wasn’t in love with her – he loved Alice, however much his behaviour might belie it and he certainly didn’t allow himself any foolish fantasies about being with Diana all the time. But she made him laugh and seemed genuinely interested in his political career, while disagreeing violently with the shade of his politics. She was truly that rare thing, a good friend: the sex had been a sort of side dish, dipped into to better savour the main ingredients – although clearly it would be difficult explaining that to Alice, let alone the press.

  There was nothing he could do, plainly; except perhaps hope – and of course pray. But as he doubted the existence of the Almighty – he couldn’t help feeling that even if He did exist, He was unlikely to help him conceal several acts of adultery from his wife – he did nothing.

  Chapter 49

  Blanche’s voice down the phone was odd. A touch of bravado, a bit of faltering, an unmistakable choke as she finished bringing the shocking news.

  She had been fired. Along with the editor. The editor! When did they get fired? And the art director, the whole creative team, in fact.

  ‘But – who’s fired you?’

  ‘Mr Big –’ her name for the American proprietor, a sweet, benevolent man, who had inherited the whole Style stable from his own father – ‘Mr Big has died.’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Yes, and the dreaded Master Big has taken over.’ Master Big was the son and heir, obnoxiously brash, entirely lacking in his father’s courtesy and charm. ‘With ideas about relaunching, new editors – including, guess what, his girlfriend – new titles. He’s decided he doesn’t like English Style, he wants a whole new look and relaunch.’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Oh, Blanche, I’m so shocked.’ Diana had a lump in her throat herself. Style had made her, and Blanche was truly talented, a visionary when it came to fashion. She had had countless offers from other magazines and even a couple of newspapers, but she always turned them down, loyal to Style which she said was her natural habitat.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said now, her voice and emotions clearly under control. ‘I’m afraid it’s from today –’

  ‘What? Can they do that?’

  ‘Well, yes, they’re paying me for my notice period. Some Yank broad is on the plane even as we speak, taking up residence from Monday morning, and I’ve been told to cancel any features from June onwards. Which, since we put your shoot back two weeks, more’s the terrible pity, means goodbye to your American dream.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Diana. ‘Have you told Freddie?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you would. I can’t take many more of these phone calls, and there are a few sessions booked even sooner than yours. So, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’d be so grateful …’

  ‘Of course,’ said Diana. ‘And Blanche, let’s meet next week for a drink.’

  ‘Lovely. Call me in a few days when I’m a bit less frantic. Lot to do, not least clearing my desk.’

  Blanche’s desk was famous for its clutter, every inch of surface taken up with sheets of photographers’ contacts, pages ripped from other magazines, scribbled reminder notes to herself, invitations and letters waiting to be answered. Diana could never believe the order Blanche could pull from this chaos. ‘Well,’ she said feebly now, ‘if there’s anything I can do –’

  ‘Sweet of you, darling, but I don’t think so; see you next week.’

  Freddie was outraged: ‘Poor darling Blanche. Look, I’ll be over next week, I’m shooting something for Flair, and I’ve been summoned to Vogue as well. I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be around, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, where else might I be?’ said Diana. She suddenly felt very depressed.

  She had
been looking forward to this trip so much; it was the only really exciting thing on her horizon at the moment. The only thing altogether, she realised. Her social diary was not as full as she would have liked, she had no other bookings for any other magazines; her birthday was coming up and she supposed she could give a party, but it was her thirty-fifth, and would rather remind people, especially in the fashion business, that she was no longer young. OK. So Barbara Goalen was apparently immortal, and so was Fiona Campell-Walter, but they were goddesses, and she belonged to a more mortal band. Once forty she’d be done for, apart from the odd booking if she was lucky for ‘Mrs Exeter’, the elegant, sophisticated Vogue creation, Exeter being a synonym for ‘older’.

  She suddenly thought about Jamie; maybe she could see him for half-term week. He was increasingly good company, and they had had a very good time in London seeing shows and films and were working their way through the sights. He was getting very tall and at the age of eight could easily be taken for ten. He was still a charming child, but there was no denying he was very spoilt; he only had to mention that he wanted something to his father than it arrived: he had a bigger horse, one of the new transistor radios, an electric gramophone, and Johnathan had set up a complete train layout for him all round one of the attic rooms.

  ‘You want to be a little bit careful, darling,’ Caroline said to Diana when she told her mother she thought they might look out for a new pony for Jamie for the autumn hunting season. ‘He’s well aware that you and Johnathan will do anything for him, just to keep him on your side, and he’s beginning to use that. It won’t really do any harm to say no to him once in a while.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m not going to risk it,’ said Diana coolly. ‘I think I know my own child well enough to make judgements about how I bring him up.’

  Caroline wasn’t quite brave enough to say that having Jamie a maximum of twelve weeks a year was hardly bringing him up.

  Diana telephoned Johnathan.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ His voice was very cold.