by Simon Brett
‘In very good form.’
‘And the twins?’
‘Getting bigger every time I see them.’
‘Mm.’ He didn’t ask after the welfare of his daughter’s extremely boring husband Miles. Instead he took a substantial swallow of their favourite Sangiovese. ‘I’d like to see them.’
‘Nothing stopping you,’ said Frances drily. ‘You have a phone. You have their number.’
‘Yes.’ Another topic he should perhaps not have ventured on. The pang which Will Portlock’s talk of a father’s responsibilities had brought to him returned more forcefully.
Probably mentioning the ‘C’ word would be equally foolhardy, but he took the risk. ‘Will you be going to Juliet’s at Christmas?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Frances.
‘Only possibly? I thought that was a kind of regular annual fixture.’
‘I may be going to the States for Christmas.’
‘Oh?’ God, now Charles really wished he hadn’t mentioned the subject. Distantly, he remembered a time when Frances had had some male friend in California. He had never been told the level of intensity of that friendship, and he’d never asked for more information. Which had been sheer cowardice on his part. Charles Paris would always rather remain in ignorance of things that might hurt him.
Except, of course, that very ignorance actually hurt him. Why couldn’t he just come out with the direct question? Ask Frances if she was seeing someone else? Ask the identity of the person who she had a ‘lunch date’ with when he’d phoned her that Sunday from Marlborough? But he shirked the responsibility of all such enquiries.
Maybe that was the only thing in life Charles Paris had ever been good at. Shirking responsibilities.
‘Anyway, Frances …’ He topped her up with the Sangiovese. It was a mere gesture of politeness – her glass was nearly full – but a little ritual he had to perform before refilling his own empty glass. ‘We must do this more often.’
He knew, even as they came out of his mouth, that they were the wrong words. Once again, Frances responded with a cold, ‘Why?’
‘Well, just because we … because there has been so much between us.’
‘Has been,’ she echoed, without much intonation.
‘Mm.’ A silence, unlike other silences that had come between them over the years. ‘Oh, by the way, Frances … Did you hear that Milly Henryson’s pregnant?’
‘Yes, she texted me.’
‘Ah. Right. Of course.’
Their conversation for the rest of the meal was on general topics. Neither wanted coffee. They both even refused the complimentary glasses of sambuca which had been so much a ritual of previous visits to the restaurant.
Frances had her car outside – perhaps part of the reason why she hadn’t drunk much. They kissed chastely on the lips before she got in. Charles promised to be better about keeping in touch and said he’d ring Juliet.
As he watched his wife drive away, Charles Paris felt more desolate than he had at any time in his life.
He made his way to the tube. Back to Hereford Road. Back to the inadequate consolation of a bottle of Bell’s.
In time, they aired the series about the Civil War presented by the feminist academic with big breasts. Charles watched the episodes with great attention until he got to the one about the Battle of Naseby. Though he recognized small details of the costumes he had worn at Newlands Corner, the footage had been shot in such tight close-up that no one could have identified the actor or actors involved in the historical reconstruction. Had Charles Paris been the kind of actor organized enough to produce a show reel of his greatest performances, there would have been no point in including that one. He felt a sensation of guilty relief that he hadn’t urged any of his friends to tune in to watch his ‘latest telly’.
And so the months rolled on. The phone didn’t ring from Maurice Skellern’s office. Or from anywhere else much. Charles Paris, continuing to worry about such matters as an appropriate male response to the large breasts of feminists, drank too much Bell’s whisky. And kept meaning to phone Frances. And his daughter Juliet. But somehow didn’t.
