A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘She’s very beautiful. She was there the other night, made an amazing entrance in a white fur coat. Spoilt, though.’

  ‘Well, she’s a princess. She would be. She should have been allowed to marry Townsend. I would have done it anyway, whatever those old fogeys said.’

  ‘Do I detect a romantic here, beneath the cool exterior?’

  She was rather pleased about the cool. It was what she aimed to project, but rather feared she didn’t always come over that way.

  ‘I’m quite romantic. Sometimes.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m very romantic. That’s why I’ve had three wives. Keep falling in love.’

  ‘You don’t have to marry them, though,’ she said, intrigued. ‘I know,’ he said and sighed. ‘I just get – carried away. I’m quite a helpless chap really.’

  ‘You don’t seem in the least helpless to me,’ said Diana briskly. ‘Come on, let’s go dancing.’

  ‘Apparently, we should have come last week,’ he said, as they settled themselves at a table gratifyingly near the band. ‘Noël Coward was doing the cabaret.’

  ‘Oh, my God. How marvellous! I wish you hadn’t told me.’

  ‘Well, I’m here,’ he said, looking mildly put out.

  ‘I know. Sorry. But he is one of my all-time idols.’

  ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Please. The thing about champagne is it takes you back to where you started. Makes you feel the evening’s just beginning.’

  He laughed. ‘I think I know what you mean.’ A Sinatra sound-alike was crooning ‘Moonlight in Vermont’. ‘Come on. I want to express my horizontal desire.’

  He danced very well. So important, Diana thought: such a barometer of sexiness. Johnathan had been a terrible dancer, she should have taken heed of that fact. Although she’d known, of course, all along; no use pretending it had been a surprise.

  She looked around as they sat down again; you so often saw famous faces here. She couldn’t see any.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ he asked, amused

  ‘Oh, just someone famous. I like seeing them off duty, so to speak. It amuses me. Specially if they’re in a bad mood. I once saw Grace Kelly here.’

  ‘In a bad mood? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘No, just clearly bored. Goodness, she’s beautiful. She was with her beau, that French actor, Jean-Pierre something.’

  ‘Aumont.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I suppose you know hundreds of famous people?’

  ‘Met them, let’s say. Very few of them would say they knew me. Anyway, there’s no one here for you tonight, I’m afraid. Oh – yes. Billy Wallace. Over there, look.’

  Diana looked; Billy Wallace, one of the so-called Margaret set, officially acknowledged – by the press at any rate – as one of her suitors, was escorting a girl off the dance floor.

  ‘He gives new meaning to the term “chinless”, doesn’t he?’ said Diana with a giggle. ‘She can’t like him for his looks.’

  ‘No. But he has huge charm and he’s very, very nice. I’ve met him several times, over the years.’

  ‘What a glamorous life you do lead, to be sure, Mr Bennett.’

  ‘Yours can’t be exactly dull.’

  ‘No, it’s not. Actually, maybe you can advise me.’

  She told him about the New York offer. ‘Darling, it sounds a terrible idea to me. Don’t go.’

  She liked the ‘darling’, although it probably meant nothing. ‘Why not?’

  ‘For a start, it’s probably the loneliest place in the world. Anyway, what about your little boy?’

  ‘I’d work around his holidays. They don’t need me there full-time.’

  ‘Diana, you know as well as I do, that won’t work. There’ll be a crucial fashion shoot you’ve got to go to California for, exactly coinciding with his half term.’

  She looked at him with interest. ‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

  ‘Our esteemed fashion editor has children. I hear her constantly wailing about such dilemmas, in spite of what seems to be a fleet of nannies. And what do you think your ex-husband would have to say about your upping sticks and going to the States?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’d just see it as a way of seeing more of Jamie.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t mind that?’

  ‘Well, of course. But I just want to do this. And it wouldn’t be for long, I’ll be too old to model soon.’

  ‘Well, I think you’d find it hard for all sorts of reasons. Anyway, having just found you, I don’t like the idea of your moving to the other side of the Atlantic.’

  She liked that. As much as the ‘darling’.

  She smiled at him, leaned across the small table and gave him a kiss.

  ‘Let’s see. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go to the ladies.’

  She was sitting on the loo, holding her skirt round it with great difficulty, when she heard the door open.

  ‘Well, I see our Leo hasn’t wasted any time. How long since he finished with Celia?’

  ‘Oh, not long – two weeks? Maybe three. She’s still sobbing, poor creature. He really is a prime bastard. Just dropping her like that, without a word of warning.’

  ‘Well, to be fair, a warning would be as bad. Either a man’s madly in love with you as he professes to be, or he isn’t. But he’d more or less said he was going to propose. What a bastard.’

  ‘Especially when he’s still married to Baba, technically speaking. Mind you, she’s very beautiful this one.’

  ‘Yes. She looks familiar, don’t know why.’

  Diana sat frozen on her porcelain throne. She couldn’t go out now – could she? But it would be a long wait if she didn’t. While first one and then the other used the second lavatory, did their make-up, debating Leo and his sexual peccadilloes. Of course, she’d learn a lot.

  ‘Mind you, Anna’s got her revenge, scooped up Hugh Wyndham. She always did like a title.’

  This was too good to miss. Diana settled down more comfortably on the seat, eased her skirts gingerly downwards. The small tin bin in the corner labelled Napkins rattled loudly. The two women paused; one of them called, ‘You all right in there?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  A silence ensued; they had obviously decided not to say any more. There was nothing for it but to tough it out. She stood up, knocking the napkin bin again trying to straighten her skirts, realised she couldn’t do it in so small a space, and went out, her pants round her knees, her skirts held aloft.

  ‘So sorry,’ she said, smiling at them sweetly. ‘Jolly small space, that. If you could just excuse me.’ She pulled her pants up rather ostentatiously, re-fastened one of her suspenders, then started to rearrange her skirts. The women, clearly deciding the situation was irretrievable, smiled at her weakly and disappeared into the lavatories.

  Diana washed her hands, powdered her nose, dabbed on generous dollops of Arpège, and left the room, calling out ‘Bye’ as she went.

  Back with Leo, she smiled at him sweetly, accepted some more champagne and then said, ‘So, tell me, are you really divorced now?’

  ‘Not – not quite. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just heard two women talking about you in the ladies. Learned a lot. Poor Celia, she’s still very upset, apparently. And as for Baba …’

  ‘Look, Diana, I—’

  ‘Oh dear –’ she yawned ostentatiously – ‘I’m rather tired, suddenly. I might like to go home. Is that all right?’

  ‘Well – obviously I’d rather not. But if you’re tired …’

  ‘I really am. Oh, hello.’ Her two new friends were walking back to their table; she waved at them. ‘So – would you mind organising a taxi, sort of straight away? Thank you.’

  He insisted on accompanying her in the taxi: sitting in silence beside her, clearly pondering his next move.

  Just as they reached the mews, he said rather abruptly, ‘Look – can I come in for a minute or two? I’d lik
e to … well, explain.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Leo. I really am awfully tired and it would take more than a minute or two, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re so upset,’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘Obviously, I have girlfriends. What do you expect, that I’m some kind of celibate, waiting for the next Mrs Bennett to come my way?’

  ‘Only she wouldn’t be Mrs Bennett. What would she be? Anyway, of course I don’t mind the girlfriends. It’s the wife I take exception to. Not that she exists, that’s fine. But why did you tell me you were divorced? I don’t like being lied to, Leo. Being taken for a fool. I don’t like that one bit. Anyway, thank you for a very nice evening.’

  And she got out of the taxi, tottered across the cobbles on her high heels, and went into the house.

  Leo looked after her until she had shut the door behind her, trying to work out whether he minded never seeing her again or not. He decided he did mind, quite a lot.

  Chapter 61

  Diana didn’t take the Sketch, but she did take the Daily News and saw Josh’s article, headed, Principles or Politics? What would you choose?

  The piece was generally sympathetic, posing the age-old question about heart and head; but the journalist did finish by saying, For most of us there would be no dilemma, and we would take any dangerously sick child to a private doctor if we could afford it and thought it was in the child’s interests. It is unfortunate for him that Tom Knelston has hitched his wagon to Nye Bevan’s star, and is known to be one of the most passionate disciples of the National Health Service.

  Poor Tom: that was the end of his political career, certainly for the foreseeable future.

  Alice, who had crept out early to buy the papers, before Kit woke up, was sitting in the room surrounded by them, in a state of panicky misery. A third paper, the Sunday Express, had got the story, heaven knew how, and was thundering self-righteously about hypocrisy, clearly delighted to have caught another Labour man out: Ironically, Tom Knelston was once described as the heir to Aneurin Bevan, the paper stated. The headline, ‘What Price Principles, Mr Knelston?, was only the beginning of a long tirade. This was illustrated with a picture of her – goodness knows how they’d got hold of it, she thought, taken years ago, looking very young and pretty in her St Thomas’ uniform, Nightingale cap and all. Alice Knelston, the caption said, trained at one of London’s top teaching hospitals, where many of the girls are ex-debutantes.

  Somehow, in spite of all her angry, scornful words, Alice hadn’t expected it to happen; hadn’t thought Tom was important enough for his actions to merit such a lambasting, had seen it as all part of his arrogance. Now, staring at the headlines, she felt a pang of sympathy. Not remorse – to her the situation was still clear-cut, she had been acting for Kit, and had probably saved his life – but the whole business had probably seen off the political success that Tom had worked so hard for.

  Josh had been right; Tom, looking cautiously out of the bedroom window at six o’clock, saw a gathering of about half a dozen men and one woman in front of his house. He pulled the curtains more closely together, and leaned against the wall. Now what did he do? It was all very well Josh telling him not to go out but he really must go down to Purbridge, do whatever troubleshooting he could. Besides, it looked cowardly and an admission of guilt.

  He felt worried about Mrs Hartley, too, whether she would be nervous of the press: although it was hard to imagine Mrs Hartley being nervous of anyone. And he needed to ask her to have the children for the day if he was going to Purbridge. The Hartleys had no phone and the only way into the house, apart from the front door, was via the side passage to their back door. Charlie was now crying for a bottle. He would have to go down and the kitchen was in the front of the house; he could easily be seen.

  Sure enough, one of the crowd saw him and there was a surge down the front path, and a steady press on the bell. Upstairs, Lucy woke up and started crying, and Charlie screamed more loudly still. Angry suddenly, Tom picked him up and opened the door. Several flashbulbs went off.

  ‘Mr Knelston, how’s your little boy this morning?’ ‘Mr Knelston, can I have a word?’ ‘Any idea what your constituents will have to say about this, Mr Knelston?’

  ‘Would you all just go away, PLEASE!’ shouted Tom, shaking with rage and, he had to admit, fear as well. ‘You’ve woken and frightened both my children. I would appreciate some peace and quiet while I settle them, and I have nothing to say to you, whatsoever.’

  He slammed the front door shut, carried Charlie and his bottle upstairs to Lucy’s room, and, having comforted her as best he could, wondered what on earth he was going to do. It was exactly like being under siege; he was trapped, well and truly.

  He looked down into the back garden; the fence dividing it from the Hartleys was only waist-high. He could shin over that. They must be awake by now, poor things: on a Sunday morning, too, when Mr Hartley, who worked long shifts at the local canning factory, had his only lie-in of the week.

  The bell-ringing had recommenced; and going to the top of the stairs, he saw a note being pushed through the letterbox. He went down, picked it off the mat; it was scrawled on a page of a reporters’ notebook.

  Dear Mr Knelston, it said. Sorry about this. Given that you’re going to have to talk to one of us, can I introduce myself? Fiona Jenkins, Dispatch, and may I suggest you talk to me exclusively? In return, the newspaper will make a generous donation to your favourite charity, and I’ll try to persuade the others to go away.

  Tom, thinking things could hardly be worse, went down to open the door. More flashbulbs. God, it was relentless.

  Fiona Jenkins – or so he presumed – was standing at the front nearest the door; she smiled at him, a rather irritating, self-satisfied smile.

  ‘Come in. Quickly,’ said Tom. He slammed the door shut again behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and her voice was surprisingly posh. She was quite attractive altogether, he noticed now, mid-thirties, nice figure, dark red hair, good legs, wearing a fairly short skirt and tight sweater. It was obviously a uniform carefully designed for getting into people’s homes; men’s homes, anyway.

  ‘Coffee?’ said Tom. He wouldn’t have offered it, but he was desperate for one himself.

  ‘Yes, thanks. Black, please, plenty of sugar.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tom shortly, ‘let’s get this over. What sort of money are we talking about for charity, by the way?’

  ‘Fifty pounds,’ said Fiona Jenkins coolly.

  Tom had expected something far less. But, ‘Make it sixty,’ he said. ‘Pay it to the Great Ormond Street Hospital, and I’ll answer your questions. Most of them, anyway.’

  ‘Done,’ she said, opening her notebook. ‘First of all, how is your little boy?’

  ‘Better. Thank you. At least, he was last night, I haven’t had a chance to ring this morning.’

  ‘And your wife’s with him? Staying at the hospital.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, ignoring the implied criticism. ‘Now, just let me explain how he happens to be in a private hospital and then you can go.’

  ‘Fine. Only I think your constituents will most want to know why you said it was nothing to do with them. I’d have thought everything an MP does was his constituents’ business. I don’t suppose many of them could afford a private hospital.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Tom, ‘that was taken out of context. I was trying to explain to the reporter how it had happened. Kit was desperately ill. The GP was out on his rounds. He’d seen Kit before and diagnosed a grumbling appendix. My wife is a nurse and she wasn’t satisfied. His temperature was almost a hundred and two and he was in dreadful pain, screaming and writhing about on the floor. She spoke to a family friend, a paediatric surgeon, who agreed to see him at once, and then, having seen him he diagnosed a problem with the gut, very rare, called intussusception. He said immediate surgery was essential or Kit could die, and he could operate that afternoon. What would you have done?’

  �
��What you did, obviously,’ said Fiona Jenkins.

  ‘Exactly. My remark about the constituents was taken completely out of context. I was trying to make the point that this was a private, family matter. Although I admit it does sounds harsh. Lucy, not now, darling –’

  The little girl was enthusiastically trying to show the reporter her treasured doll.

  ‘She’s all right. I like that doll’s dress, Lucy, very pretty. Now, look, let me make us another coffee, I’ve just a couple more questions and then I’ll be away.’

  She sent the other reporters packing, got a message to the Hartleys, helped get Lucy dressed, and then left, having given Tom her card, with her direct line on it, so he could chase up the sixty pounds if necessary.

  In another life, Tom thought, he would have married her.

  Mr and Mrs Hartley had rather enjoyed the drama of the morning, particularly Fiona Jenkins’s visit.

  ‘Pretty girl,’ Mr Hartley said, ‘and well mannered too, you wouldn’t think that was her job.’

  ‘Well, and nor would we have thought Mr Knelston was a Labour politician,’ said Mrs Hartley. ‘Both so nicely spoken, specially Alice. I’d have put them down as Conservatives, both of them. Just goes to show.’

  Mr Hartley agreed that it did, and drew her attention to the article in the Dispatch, delivered first thing by a now overexcited paper boy, telling anyone who cared to listen that the Hartleys had a great crowd of reporters on their doorstep.

  Mr and Mrs Hartley read the article, which, as lifelong Tories themselves, they usually took as gospel.

  ‘Well, I think that’s most unpleasant of the paper, calling him a hypocrite,’ said Mrs Hartley. ‘I’d like to give them a piece of my mind. It seems to me the reporters didn’t bother to check their facts.’

  Mr Hartley said they never did, far as he could make out, otherwise how come all the papers always had different versions of the same stories.

  ‘Yes, but if they had, they’d have known Kit was dangerously ill, poor little scrap. I blame that Dr Redmond, not knowing what he was doing. Remember when he said my friend Iris had bronchitis and it turned out to be pneumonia, and she ended up in hospital for weeks?’