A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘The Pierre! Oh, my God, this is so exciting. You know I’ve never been to New York …’

  ‘I do know, my poor little country bumpkin. OK, I’ll leave you to pack while you ponder on my amazing cleverness.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Diana. ‘God, do you think I’ll have to hang over the rail at the Empire State?’

  She put down the phone, reached for the message pad and started to make a packing list. The Pierre! One of the top hotels in Manhattan, seated magnificently on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. Soaring high above New York, its top floors home to many of the city’s broadcasting giants, home from home to the likes of Elizabeth Taylor and indeed most of Hollywood royalty – it required a lot more from her than the few pairs of knickers Freddie had suggested.

  ‘Diana? It’s Ned. I’m so sorry to have been such an age getting back to you, I didn’t get your message yesterday. Long list and then trouble with Sister, and now I’ve been summoned by the big white chief. What? Oh, later today. I’d like to tell you about it. And you’ve been on the phone for ever. What do you girls talk about, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to a girl. I was trying to talk to a man. A particular man, yes. And talking to lots of others in the process.’

  ‘Sounds mysterious. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Then you could tell me about that as well. Unless you’d rather not! Well, I thought we might go to the Savoy. It would have to be late, though, say nine, that all right for you? Good. See you there.’

  ‘Hello. Yes, this is she. Oh, Mr Bennett. How kind of you to make time to call me. This is a very – personal – story. You can’t manage a drink, I suppose? No. No, sweet of you but I can’t make dinner either. How about lunch tomorrow? Where? Oh, that’s very nice of you. I think I’d like to go to the Berkeley, if you’re really letting me choose. I have to be at the air terminal at three. I’m working in New York for a few days. It’s a political story. Well, about politicians. One politician to be precise. I don’t want to give you a name. I will tomorrow, though. Good afternoon, Mr Bennett. So sweet of you to call.’

  Pity, in a way, that it had to wait another day. But then it was a day nearer the election. Which meant it would probably damage him that bit more.

  Chapter 51

  ‘Mr Welles! Yes, do come in.’

  The tone wasn’t just icy, it was deep frozen.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ned. He smiled warmly at Sir Neil, hoping to effect even the mildest thaw. It was not successful. He sat down in spite of not being invited to do so, which was clearly a mistake.

  ‘I thought we had seen an end to this nonsense,’ Sir Neil said.

  ‘Nonsense, Sir Neil?’

  ‘Yes, bloody nonsense, mothers being allowed on the wards. I hear there was an appalling scene on Bates. Screaming, children out of their beds, discourtesy to Sister.’

  ‘There was indeed, until I said the mother might stay with her child and – settle him. After that, everybody settled.’

  Ned used the word deliberately, it being bandied about so much on the paediatric wards. ‘I admit I was rather short with Sister Bates. But I was trying to improve the situation and she wasn’t cooperating. I did apologise to her in the morning.’

  ‘What she described was hardly shortness, Mr Welles. It was considerable rudeness.’

  ‘Well – I’m sorry.’

  ‘This can’t go on. I will not have the hospital disrupted in this way. The staff don’t know how to cope with it, the mothers who are not allowed on the ward resent the fact that others appear to be –’

  ‘Both those things could be immediately rectified,’ said Ned, ‘if we could just establish the fact that mothers are permitted to be with their children.’

  ‘No!’ It was a roar. ‘No, no, no.’ He had turned an interesting shade of near-purple. Ned wondered idly if he would be up for manslaughter if a fatal heart attack ensued. It didn’t.

  ‘While you are working here, Mr Welles, you will abide by the rules of this hospital. Good surgeon you may be – outstanding, I hear from some sources – but no one is irreplaceable. The board of governors and I are agreed that if you do not abide by the hospital rules you will be asked to leave.’

  There was a long silence; finally, Ned stood up and walked to the door. His hand was on the doorknob when Sir Neil spoke again; his tone lower, full of menace.

  ‘Mr Welles?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I should tell you there are rumours about certain aspects of your – what shall I call it – private life that I dislike intensely. I would like to think that they are, like most rumours, unfounded, but I would like your solemn assurance that this is absolutely the case.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,’ said Ned. He felt now that he was lost, no longer bravely standing up for the rights of the mothers and children in his care, but flailing helplessly in a rip tide of terror.

  ‘I think you do, Mr Welles. I refer to the kind of disgusting conduct that belongs in the sewer; that no normal, decent man would even consider. I don’t intend to spell it out further. Now, I would like that assurance within the next few days, or your future might look a little different.’

  Another day, safely got through. Tom wondered if he was going to have to spend the rest of his life like this, terrified of the story getting out. Surely, in time, she’d find another victim, start playing with him, poor bugger: only of course, if he was entirely honest with himself, she was hardly the only one to blame. He had not exactly been dragged kicking and screaming into her bed.

  He paused in his present task, preparing a speech for a rallying meeting in Purbridge the next day, not that it required much preparation; he could have recited all his speeches without a pause, so frequently did he deliver them.

  He was seeing Donald Herbert tonight; Donald had not exactly forgiven him for his refusal to do the right thing, as he saw it, but he seemed to have decided to help Tom anyway.

  Their meeting was to be at Donald’s house in South Kensington, a huge pile just off the Old Brompton Road. The unfortunate Christine had been responsible for the decor. It was rather dull, like Christine herself: a great deal of beige carpeting, chintz curtains and covers, not a proper picture in sight, the walls and surfaces of the reproduction furniture adorned with countless framed photographs of the Herbert family, with one vast painting of the entire clan – fifteen of them, three generations – hanging over the fake fireplace in the drawing room. This evening they were to spend in what Donald called the snug, the home of the television, shelves of political books (he didn’t seem to read anything else) and a very flashy radiogram. Donald had invited Tom round to watch the very first TV debate, chaired by Anthony Eden, with four other senior politicians, including ‘Rab’ Butler and Iain Macleod, all questioned by members of the press, one of whom was the legendary Hugh Cudlipp. The questions were spontaneous and had not required approval. Tom wished only that the Labour Party, with Nye Bevan and Gaitskell among them, had envisaged something similar; but then he thought that Attlee would have had to chair it, and changed his mind. Eden was suave, good-looking and relaxed. Attlee, while unarguably clever, probably more so than his counterpart, had the charisma of a bowl of cold porridge.

  Donald had invited Alice too and Tom had begged her to come, but she said that short of bringing Charlie with her it was impossible. He disliked all strangers, and reduced the few available babysitters to tears, and the one occasion Alice had tried giving him a bottle, acting on a suggestion from the district nurse, had been a resounding failure. She had offered Charlie a few ounces of Cow & Gate; he took a tentative suck while she held her breath. His face screwed up in disgust, and he clamped his mouth firmly shut and turned his small head away from her. Alice wearily put the bottle down and unbuttoned her dress. Charlie clamped his mouth round her nipple, with a look that very clearly said, ‘Don’t you try that again’. He didn’t even gaze up at her adoringly while she fed him, as the others had. It seemed a v
ery long time since anyone had gazed at her adoringly. Certainly not Tom.

  He agreed that taking Charlie was not an option, and set off alone. Christine, who clearly liked him, greeted him with a large vodka tonic.

  ‘I’ve got some sausage rolls here,’ she said, putting a dish of about fifty down on the coffee table. ‘And some of my fruit cake to follow. You look as if you need feeding up.’

  Tom accepted the drink and ate his way manfully through about five sausage rolls before giving up. ‘I’m sorry – more in a while, maybe.’

  ‘How about a piece of cake then?’ Christine said. ‘Or I’ve got some shortbread.’

  ‘Christine, he’s had enough,’ said Donald, his voice tinged with exasperation. ‘Why don’t you go and tidy up the kitchen while Tom and I talk business. I’ll call you when the debate begins.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ said Christine, rather heavily. ‘I can tell the time. And the debate’s at eight thirty.’

  Tom thought briefly and sharply of how Laura might have reacted to similar instruction some ten years earlier and Alice too, for that matter, and wondered why Christine put up with it. He supposed it was because they were different generations.

  ‘Well,’ Donald said, ‘someone did a small poll in Purbridge last week – it’s not impossible you’ll win. They really do seem to love you down there, so unless you get some particularly bad publicity over the next couple of weeks, you’re in with a fighting chance.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tom, taking a very large slug of the vodka tonic; and then, ‘I’m doing an interview with the local paper tomorrow, before the meeting, so that should do some good.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. What we really need is more of what young Curtis did for you. I’ll have a word tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t,’ said Tom.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well – you know journalists hate any suggestion that they might write what they’re told.’

  ‘I do. I also know half of them haven’t got a thought in their heads and are quite grateful for a story.’

  ‘But I don’t see what else he could say, or rather write,’ said Tom. ‘He’s written about me, Alice, the children, and far more than anyone ever wants to hear about my devotion to Bevan and the NHS.’

  ‘Yes, well, we might pursue that one. Maybe you could tour Alice’s old hospital. I’ll see what the PR people come up with. Meanwhile, no sound from your upmarket mistress, I presume? She was definitely bluffing, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, definitely,’ said Tom.

  ‘So I’m having lunch with Leo Bennett, he’s the diary editor of the Dispatch,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll give him the sort of story journalists dream about.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Wendelien. She had been summoned to the Ritz by Diana because she had something on her mind and needed a sounding board.

  ‘Is that all you have to say? I mean, it’ll do for Tom.’

  ‘And his family,’ said Wendelien quietly.

  ‘Well, family men shouldn’t put it about. That’s not my fault.’

  ‘Oh, really? He just rang you up one day, did he? No prompting or anything like that?’

  ‘Wendelien, what’s the matter with you? Aren’t you on my side?’

  ‘Yes – but I’m not sure in this case that means encouraging you to do this.’

  ‘But why not? Apart from the mealy-mouthed little wife?’

  ‘You don’t know she’s mealy mouthed. From that interview in the Daily News she sounded quite feisty.’

  ‘Oh, Wendelien, please! She’s a pathetic little mouse, and anyway, Tom will be able to fob her off with some travesty of an explanation.’

  ‘Diana, what has got into you?’ Wendelien sounded quite exasperated. ‘What wife was ever easily fobbed off with stories of her husband’s infidelity?’

  ‘Well, all right,’ said Diana, looking slightly less sure of herself. ‘But I don’t think you quite realise what this has been like for me, Wendelien. Just dumped. And him assuming I’d never tell on him. Then reading all that rubbish about him being a family man and his devotion to them all. Honestly, I nearly threw up, it was so repulsive. You might ask why he didn’t think of me and my feelings when he gave that interview.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it was dreadful for you,’ said Wendelien. ‘Don’t think I don’t sympathise. But have you thought about the harm to you as well?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not going to tell him I was the woman in question, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Diana, don’t be absurd. They’ll know, of course they will. Even if you deny it, they’ll work it out, it won’t be difficult. Think of Jamie –’

  ‘Jamie!’

  ‘Yes. Think how he’ll feel seeing his mother all over the front pages of the newspapers, branded as some kind of upper-class tart.’

  ‘It’s for the diary, not the front page. And they won’t know it’s me, whatever you say. I’ll say it’s a friend.’

  ‘Oh, really? Diana, I’m amazed at you. How can you of all people be so naive about the press? Look, Tom’s a hot story, especially since he appears to be being given the full publicity treatment by the party. They’re not going to leave it at that.’

  Diana looked at her, and for a moment Wendelien could see she was faltering. There was a long silence; then she said, ‘Well, I can’t stop you, obviously. But –’

  ‘No, you can’t. Anyway, I’ve fixed to see Leo Bennett tomorrow, so – nothing I can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Diana, don’t be ridiculous. You can cancel the lunch, say you haven’t got a story after all.’

  ‘Of course I can’t. It would be really – really unprofessional.’

  Wendelien stood up. ‘I must go,’ she said. Her expression as she looked at Diana was not friendly. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Having dinner with Ned. His idea, not mine. We’re great friends these days.’

  ‘How ironic,’ said Wendelien. ‘Better not tell him what you’re going to do.’

  ‘He’d understand.’

  ‘I don’t think he would. He’s an extremely moral person. He’d hate the idea of your wrecking Tom’s marriage.’

  ‘Oh, do shut up about wrecking his marriage. If it was a good one, he wouldn’t have had an affair in the first place.’

  Wendelien was silent. Then her face softened and she leaned down and gave Diana a kiss.

  ‘I’m sorry to have been such a bore,’ she said. ‘It’s only because I care about you so much.’

  ‘I’m used to it from you,’ said Diana. ‘Being boring, I mean. Ever since you became a mother.’

  Wendelien stood up again, looked at her with a mixture of dislike and hurt. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said. ‘You’d better not waste good champagne on me in future.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. Bye, Wendelien. Enjoy your evening with your husband and family. It must be nice to be so perfect.’

  Wendelien was less hurt by this than she might have been; it meant her words had struck home, and Diana was rattled. And when she was rattled, she went flailing about, inflicting as much hurt as she could. By breakfast tomorrow at the latest, Wendelien knew she would have phoned to apologise.

  ‘Good evening.’ Anthony Eden’s handsome face, his well-modulated, upper-class voice and his easy charm emerged from the television set. God, he was an asset to that party, Tom thought. He fitted it like an expensive glove. If only the Labour Party had someone like that. Bevan, of course, would have been the perfect fit, but he was at loggerheads with almost the entire party.

  ‘Now this evening we are going to have the first of three television debates.’ Eden smiled at them all, going on to explain that the editors of several national newspapers were to ask him questions, the content of which he had no idea.

  He sat flanked by his ministers, who smiled slightly less assuredly at the camera. Rab Butler looked distinctly uncomfortable, Iain Macleod possibly more so.

  ‘He’s got health,’ said Donald. ‘Not making too bad a fis
t of it.’

  Tom studied the editors. The only one who really interested him was Hugh Cudlipp: God, he was amazing. The charisma crackled out of him.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said to Eden, as his turn came. ‘Hugh Cudlipp, Daily Mirror.’ Humour suddenly appeared on his face. ‘As you know, we are not among your chief flatterers.’

  Eden smiled in agreement.

  ‘But I have always had the greatest regard for your integrity.’ More smiles.

  ‘There are two sorts of Toryism,’ Cudlipp went on. ‘That of a small majority and that of a big majority. The Toryism of the small majority is what I would call a more humanitarian Toryism. The Toryism of a big majority, on the other hand, sees a neglected housing policy, broken-down slums and massive unemployment. If you are elected with a large majority on May the twenty-fifth what kind of Toryism will we see?’

  ‘Clever bugger,’ said Donald. ‘Straight for the jugular and so well phrased, you have to work out that he’s actually being very insulting about the Tory record.’

  Diana was more disconcerted by Wendelien’s reaction than she liked to admit, even to herself. What had started out as almost a jape, was turning into something much more serious and almost dangerous. Wendelien was quite right, Leo Bennett and his team would undoubtedly work out that she was the wicked adulteress in Tom Knelston’s story; it made it much more glamorous and exciting, and they would go to town on it. And while that could make her sound glamorous and exciting also, it could backfire badly and hurt Jamie. She really didn’t want that.

  And there wouldn’t be a single person in London who didn’t know about it. It might damage her professionally, although she doubted it. But socially? Her large and rather eclectic circle of friends would probably, for the most part, be amused by it, although some would definitely be not. She could live with that. To Tom she gave little consideration, either to his career or his family; he had used her and hurt her badly and he deserved everything he might get. Dressing for dinner with Ned, she felt irritable and almost depressed; as if she was being deprived of some huge treat.