A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  The morning had found her less principled. Tom’s behaviour still hurt, his sending Donald Herbert – or so it had seemed – to intervene for him still stung, and his public claims to be a family man enraged her. She had been influenced by Wendelien’s attitude, her concerns for Jamie, and to a lesser extent her own reputation; but revenge would be sweet and within her grasp, and it was a vision hard to relinquish.

  Just the same, she had decided against seizing it, in the moments as she crossed the restaurant. People always recognised her in such situations, smiled at her, pointed her out to their friends; admired her for her looks, her style, her fame. If she did give Leo Bennett Tom’s story, she would be recognised still more; but for less charming reasons. Wendelien was quite right; she would be the adulteress, the woman willing to break up a family and a young wife’s heart; and, indeed the destroyer of her lover’s brilliantly promising career. And she would, in many ways, be seen as the greater sinner; people always took the man’s side, found excuses for him, cast stones at the adulteress.

  She didn’t want that, she wanted to continue to be admired, smiled upon, regarded as Ned regarded her; all these things and more, she realised, in those moments on her way to the table. And then her knees went weak: and everything in the world was changed.

  ‘So,’ said Leo Bennett, ‘what shall we talk about? As you have no story for me.’

  ‘I – can’t imagine,’ she said, smiling first down into her drink, and then rather boldly directly at him.

  ‘How about you? As in you and your life?’

  ‘Not terribly interesting.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘Not really. How about yours?’

  ‘Fairly interesting, although I say it myself. But I can’t spend the next hour and a half talking about myself; how about we swap fact for fact?’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I insist you go first.’

  ‘No, ladies first. I’ll start you off. Are you married?’

  ‘Not any more. I’m divorced.’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Oh, the usual sort of thing,’ she said, unwilling to reveal the huge and genuine hurt she had sustained over Johnathan’s divorcing her.

  ‘Ah. But I am sure your husband was gentlemanly about it and did the right thing, lady in the Brighton hotel and so on …’

  ‘Of – of course,’ she said. ‘Now that’s enough of that; are you married?’

  ‘Like you, not any longer, but three times, I’m afraid. Children?’

  ‘Yes. One son. Aged eight. Love him to pieces. You?’

  ‘No, to my great regret. I have lots of godchildren, though. And I take my godfatherly duties very seriously, believe it or not. I like children.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like their honesty, the way they either like you or they don’t; I like the way the plainest child is attractive, given your attention; I like their clear view of things, the original things they say.’

  ‘You really do like them, don’t you?’ she said, rather charmed by this. ‘Most people give such stupid, false reasons.’

  ‘I know. I agree. Your turn. Tell me, what do you like doing? When you’re not working?’

  ‘Oh – goodness. I don’t have any interesting intellectual hobbies, don’t even like the theatre that much. I like horses and I love riding –’

  ‘Do you have a horse? Do you hunt?’

  ‘Yes, to both. My horse, a sweet mare, is a hunter, bit long in the tooth now to take out, doesn’t like big gates and things –’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not any more, to be truthful.’

  ‘Then she sounds ideal. I like horses too, though I don’t hunt.’

  ‘So what else do you like doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s not your turn. But I like good food and wine, pretty ladies – oh, and I love my work.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said with a fervour which surprised him. ‘Absolutely love it. Don’t know what I’d do without it.’

  ‘Nor I mine …’

  And so it went on. Until suddenly, Leo Bennett looked at his watch – gold, Patek Philippe, and said, ‘You know, I could sit here happily for the rest of the day, but if you are going to make your plane, I think you should leave in the next five minutes –’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said, looking at her own watch, telling her inexorably that it was quarter to three. ‘You’re right, I must go –’ She stood up, held out her hand and then dropped it again, bent and kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Thank you so, so much for the most wonderful lunch and for being so nice about it all, and I do hope you find something else to put in your column tomorrow,’ and ran out of the restaurant.

  Sitting in the taxi, she felt mildly remorseful; she had wasted hours of his time, pushed up his expenses by at least five, possibly six pounds – lunches at the Berkeley didn’t come cheap, especially when champagne and a bottle of white burgundy were on the bill – and his only words had been to thank her for her company and tell her to enjoy New York.

  In between fretting at the traffic on the Cromwell Road, she thought about him. He was not just absurdly good-looking and beautifully dressed, but also sexy and funny and fun. She felt slightly silly, he had affected her so much. Of course, it was extremely unlikely she would ever hear from him again. Which was a pity …

  ‘Here we are, madam –’ the taxi had swung into the entrance to the air terminal – ‘told you we’d make it easy. Let’s just get that case of yours out and find a porter –’

  ‘Diana, where the fuck have you been?’ It was Freddie, looking wild eyed. ‘We’ve only got five minutes to check in and find our bus. Come on, for God’s sake – I’ll get the cab, you go in, I’ve done everything, we won’t be able to sit together probably now, I tried to get them to hold a seat, but they refused. It really is too bad of you –’

  Diana made her way into the terminal; she always forgot how easily Freddie panicked and, as a result of it, lost his temper – it was his most disagreeable characteristic. Now if only Leo Bennett was going to New York, that really would be fun.

  Leo Bennett walked into his office, whistling under his breath. His secretary, Janey, looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Good lunch?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Good story?’

  ‘No story.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Janey waited for further instructions; usually an unproductive lunch was followed by an irritable instruction to her to trawl through the cuttings library at the very least. It didn’t come.

  Instead, a thoughtful pause, then, ‘Could you dig out all the stuff on the countess and the ballet dancer, darling? Quick as you can.’

  ‘Sure, but I thought you said it wasn’t worth a row of beans.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to find a magic one amongst them. Like Jack’s, you know?’

  ‘Er – yes.’ She stared at him; he was in a funny mood. Very funny.

  Chapter 53

  Oh, God, it couldn’t be. But it was. Him. Unmistakably, horribly him. Now what did she do? He was carrying two glasses of wine across the bar; if she was quick, bolted for the ladies, she might just—‘Darling. Look where you’re going. I think I’d better get our drinks.’ It was her mother; she had taken her to see The Diary of Anne Frank as a treat: ‘You look so badly in need of cheering up, darling,’ she had said, waving the tickets over the breakfast table. Hardly cheering-up fodder, Jillie had thought, having read the book, but it was kind of her mother and she was trying very hard to enjoy it. Now almost impossible, having discovered Julius and, she presumed, Nell was in the audience.

  He had rung her every day for a while, saying, ‘I think we should talk,’ or, ‘I’m missing you terribly.’ At first she said, ‘I don’t see the point,’ but as he persisted, she had moved on to simply putting the phone down on him; finally the message seemed to have got through.

  She felt terrible still; any virtuous glow that such strength of will might have rewarded her with, en
tirely eluded her, her only comfort being that she would probably never have to see him again.

  Now the worst had happened: had materialised before her eyes, and under the worst possible circumstances. Had she only been with some handsome, attentive man, at least her pride would have been saved; but she was with her mother. Who went to the theatre with their mother, for God’s sake? Lonely, friendless, certainly boyfriendless people, that was who – and almost worse, she was wearing the same shapeless dress she had worn all week, having come straight from the hospital. Julius looked as marvellous as always in a black velvet suit and pale blue shirt, and no doubt, if Nell was there, she would be looking equally marvellous.

  He had seen her and waved one of the glasses at her – looking, she had to admit, and how nice that was – totally delighted.

  ‘Jillie!’ he said, reaching her finally. ‘How very nice, how are you?’

  ‘I’ m – very well,’ she said primly, longing more than anything to hug him, kiss him possibly, tell him how wonderful it was to see him. ‘Is – er – is Nell here?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, she’s in the ladies.’ No hiding place there, then. ‘Jillie,’ he said then. ‘Jillie, I wanted to –’ but there was her mother, smiling, and worse, there was Nell saying, ‘Jillie, how lovely –’ and Julius was offering to get them all another drink.

  Then the five-minute bell went, which meant release and relief. Only then Julius said, ‘Look, have you eaten? We’re going to Simpson’s for supper afterwards, would you like to join us?’

  ‘How very kind, and yes, why not?’ said Geraldine. ‘Jillie, wouldn’t that be fun?’

  And Jillie was still trying to find an excuse, any excuse at all, when the final bell went and Julius and Nell disappeared, and Jillie looked at her mother and said, ‘Mummy, I can’t go to Simpson’s dressed like this. I simply can’t, and anyway, I’m awfully tired, you know I am.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late now,’ said her mother firmly. ‘It will seem appallingly rude to change the arrangement.’ Whereupon Jillie burst into tears, in the mercifully almost-empty bar and said, ‘You should have asked me, not just accepted for us both. I can’t go, I just can’t.’

  ‘Oh, darling!’ said her mother. ‘All right, I’ll get a note to them. Do you want to leave now?’ and Jillie, struggling to contain not just her tears but her grief, said, ‘If you don’t terribly mind, I’m so sorry …’

  ‘I don’t mind. The whole idea was to cheer you up – it’s backfired horribly, and I can see why. Let’s go and find a taxi and get you home.’

  She said no more until they were safely at number five; there, making hot chocolate for them both, she said only, ‘You should have told me, Jillie,’ embraced her daughter and sent her up to bed.

  Jillie lay awake for much of the night, alternately weeping and thinking that whichever of the good fairies had attended her christening had done her a great disservice in bestowing upon her such high principles, and reflecting also that, if things had been the other way round, Nell Henderson would probably have hesitated for no more than a moment before setting to work procuring Julius for herself.

  ‘The beef all right?’ Julius asked now.

  ‘What? Oh – yes, lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Good. My kidneys are superb.’

  And they then returned to their respective thoughts: Nell of Seth Gilbert, her rather attractive editor; Julius of Jillie Curtis in terms distinctly unsuitable for a couple who were planning their wedding to one another …

  The day with the cabinet minister had gone extremely well. He had been far more proactive than Josh had predicted, eager to meet the constituents, to ask them of their voting intentions, absorbing any hostile reaction with calm good humour. He suggested to Tom that he offered to drive supporters to the polling stations – ‘Never fails to please ’em, swung many a don’ t-know round’ – smiled obligingly at the press, and even – as Josh had predicted – kissed several babies, including Charlie, who didn’t scream in protest.

  He also took rather a fancy to Alice, who was looking inevitably tired, but very pretty in a white blouse and red skirt and jacket. He sat next to her at the lunch at the working men’s club, and insisted on asking for second helpings for her of the chicken on the menu, claiming she needed feeding up.

  He was clearly impressed by the number of people who knew both her and Tom, who made reference to things they had attended, the supermarket openings, the prize-givings, the concerts.

  ‘Bloody boring, most of them. You deserve to win,’ he said, pumping Tom by the hand at the end of the day. ‘You’ve obviously worked extremely hard down here, and even if you don’t win, I can tell you I’m not the only one to have you marked as part of the party’s future. I like the way you’ve hung your cap on the NHS and Nye Bevan too. It’s a way of standing out. If only he’d follow your example, rather than getting into a lather over the wretched bomb.’

  Tom was so overwhelmed by the concept of Nye Bevan following his example that he went completely white; watching him, Alice really thought he was about to faint.

  She discovered as they drove home, Charlie now giving up all pretence of being the good baby he had been impersonating all day, and screaming the entire way, that she had enjoyed her day out. ‘I’ll do this again,’ she said to Tom, ‘providing Mummy can have the other two. And if you really think it helps.’

  Tom said there was no think about it, it did help enormously; and the household went to bed that night in a rare state of peace and harmony, Alice deciding that from tomorrow, screams or no screams, Charlie was going on the bottle.

  Tom’s last thought was that he had, with a dollop of good luck and a degree of cunning, navigated some fairly stormy waters. His constituents seemed pleased with him, and wherever possible he told them that he had been offered an alternative, but had turned it down out of loyalty to them. Alice actually wanted to move to Purbridge, or rather Sandbanks, and Diana seemed to have decided not to do her worst – whatever that might be.

  Chapter 54

  ‘You know, of course, the top floors of the Pierre are modelled on the Royal Chapel at Versailles?’

  ‘I – didn’t actually,’ said Diana, ‘but that is completely fascinating.’

  ‘And did you know that the gala opening dinner was prepared by Escoffier himself?’

  ‘No! How incredible,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Yes. And of course he was guest chef here in the early years.’ The voice of the public-relations officer charged with the task of showing Diana and Freddie round the hotel was growing chilly.

  ‘I had imagined you would be more au fait with the facts.’

  ‘We only heard yesterday – while we were still in England – we were to shoot part of this feature here,’ said Diana. ‘The whole thing has been a huge rush, as you can imagine.’

  The PR officer, whose unlikely name was Metro, looked slightly mollified. ‘Of course. Well, you must decide for yourselves where you will be doing the photographs – but I would imagine the ballroom would suit you best.’

  ‘Marvellous idea, and thank you for the suggestion, but of course we are very much in the hands of the fashion editor,’ said Freddie, who had already decided that Diana tumbling temptingly out of a silk negligee, and leaning over one of the Pierre’s floral-painted basins, doing her make-up in the magnifying mirror above it, would be the Pierre’s contribution. It had transpired that they were staying there free as a quid pro quo for using it in one of the shots: always a tricky situation, with both sides determined to get their pound of flesh.

  ‘Oh, really?’ The tones became chillier still. ‘We were very much given the impression that we would have carte blanche – more or less – on the feature.’

  ‘Well, perhaps a touch of crème, I fear – there will have to be a little give and take,’ said Freddie, and then seeing that this piece of verbal whizzery was wasted on Metro, added hastily, ‘But do please show us the ballroom, so we can start to plan our pictures.’

 
; Mollified, Metro led them to the vast acreage of the ballroom, with its twenty-three-foot-high ceiling, a fairy-tale forest of chandeliers and windows that would not have disgraced a cathedral.

  ‘Marvellous,’ cried Diana, taking her cue from Freddie. ‘Just perfect. But – as Freddie says, we mustn’t get carried away.’

  ‘And now, darling, we must go,’ said Freddie to Diana. ‘We’re going to be late for dinner. Thank you so much, Metro, for your time and all the fascinating information.’

  ‘My pleasure entirely,’ said Metro. ‘Now, I’m having a complete information pack sent to your rooms; anything else, you have only to call. May I ask where you are dining?’

  ‘Oh – with friends,’ said Freddie carefully. ‘At the Oyster Bar at Grand Central.’

  An hour later, happily settled in the tiled vaults, wrapped in a plastic bib and halfway through her dozen Maine oysters, Diana had only to argue with Freddie over which precious hour of their day the place should occupy.

  ‘One vital advantage this has,’ said Freddie, ‘is it could be noon or midnight. The light never alters.’

  ‘We can’t waste noon light,’ said Diana.

  ‘Of course not. I think small hours. Oh, no – shit – it closes at midnight. OK, then, how about rush hour?’

  ‘Rush hour’d be good.’

  ‘Only thing is, light’s nice enough then for Central Park.’

  ‘You did say dawn for that.’

  ‘Yeah, I did. OK, we’ll pencil in six p.m. Then seven for the yellow cab. Good thing we haven’t literally got to do it in twenty-four.’