Harvest

by Celia Brayfield

  Now it seemed as frightening to merge into a larger group. He would need to move in fast and dominate his territory. Once more, he would be dealing with a hierarchy. He thought of the complex network of alliances in the Altmark group, of the relationships which needed constant monitoring and servicing if he was to prevail. Above all, he thought of Stern.

  Michael became fully conscious, and aware of feeling lousy. He had drunk too much: mistake. Stern was famous for his Lutheran intolerance. Drinking, smoking, business entertaining and divorce were not encouraged at Altmark. In the courtship phase of their negotiations Stern had been amiable, as he might have been expected to be. His negotiators had been tough, as Michael had expected them to be. The honeymoon would shortly be over – then what?

  With determination, Michael got to his feet and went into the bathroom, telling himself that he had laid strong foundations with Stern and all that was needed now was to raise a strong friendship upon them.

  He shaved with great care and dressed without enjoyment; casual clothing always made him feel vulnerable. Jane had brought out his new suit for the day, blue and black striped linen, cut loose, with a white shirt. Downstairs, the bustle in the kitchen irritated him and he disappeared into his study, where he sat over a cup of coffee, faced his memories of the previous night and worked through an hour of self-loathing. Then his attention flowed on to the day ahead, and he began to rationalize everything that troubled him; he had drunk too much, his actions would be forgotten. Jane was on edge before the party. He would go to her now and make amends. Essential that she should be smiling and content by the time Stern arrived. Important for the family portrait to be fully animated.

  If he was questioned, Michael always affirmed his respect for his wife, for her intelligence, for her success and for being a good mother. This was the only one of the many liberties he took with actuality in order to maintain his marriage which he admitted to himself was a lie. He did not respect Jane, he despised her. She sacrificed too much for him. Thus apologizing to her was difficult.

  He took a few more minutes to put himself in the right frame of mind, and before he left the room he found Serena’s number on a scrap of paper in his wallet and called it.

  ‘This is me,’ he announced. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ Her voice was muffled and, he thought, annoyed.

  ‘My office. My office in the house.’

  ‘Oh. Look …’

  ‘Have I picked a bad time?’

  ‘Yes … I …’ Confusion, maybe even panic in her voice.

  ‘I’ll try you again later.’ He used a reassuring tone.

  ‘Good. That would be fine. Take care now.’ And she hung up. Evasive, but he could not spare the energy to speculate on her reasons just then.

  Apart from the kitchen, the house seemed deserted. Debbie and the children kept to their quarters and the guests were not yet about. In Jane’s office he found an elegant woman of about fifty with sleek chestnut-brown hair tied back in a blue velvet ribbon. She greeted him brightly and he remembered that she was the calligrapher. Sitting at Jane’s desk with the final seating plan and an open bottle of dark red ink, she was preparing to write out the place cards and menu sheets.

  ‘Even more guests than last year.’ She dipped her head to one side with a smile to indicate that she was complimenting him. ‘Would you like me to begin with the name cards? I remember you like to take a look at the placement yourself, and anyway it seems there are one or two queries on it still.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he told her. ‘Let me see the plan.’ Nervously, Michael took up a pencil and began to look down the list of acceptances, needing to reassure himself that guests were expected. Even at his current level of eminence, he was not proof against the insecurity of a party-giver; he was afraid that no one would come, or that the Sterns would pull out at the eleventh hour.

  ‘I haven’t seen your wife,’ the calligrapher remarked.

  ‘Nor have I.’ The acceptance list was gratifying.

  ‘I will need to see her before I begin the seating plan.’

  ‘When you’re ready we’ll find her together. I want to congratulate her myself.’

  ‘This is always the great event of the year for us.’ With delicate care, the woman folded each square of card after writing it, and arranged them in a line for the ink to dry. The card was hand-pressed, with tiny green leaves and pink carnation petals. ‘We do bigger occasions, it’s true, but Madame Knight has such good taste …’

  Michael accepted the compliment.

  In the wood, Jane was thankful to have a task to keep her away from the house. Her mood was bleak as she watched the tables and chairs being unloaded from the caterers’truck. Another battle lost to Michael, and yet as she turned the events of the night over she could not see where her victory could have been seized. He would be furious, and frustrated because they had pledged themselves to spend the day smiling together in public and so his anger would have to wait.

  Added to that, Imogen was coming. Jane could picture her. She would wear something outlandish and draw everybody’s eye as she drifted into the gathering. That knowing half-smile would be slow-burning across her face, her eyes would be too wide and too innocent, the idiotic look she had when she had her father at a disadvantage; it threw Michael into such an agony of apprehension that even if she behaved perfectly he would be drained by the anxiety.

  ‘Coo-ee! Jane!’ With a mug of coffee splashing in one hand, Louisa in her bathrobe was rolling across the grass in her direction, every movement large with dissatisfaction. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She appropriated a rush-seated, green Van Gogh chair as it was handed off the truck and traped herself over it with a groan.

  ‘How did you sleep?’ enquired Jane euphemistically.

  ‘Oh God, don’t.’ The cranberry mouth pursed with distaste. ‘Antony just fell over. Fell over. He has not moved for eight hours.’ She sighed. ‘Do you think that women who don’t like sex have happier lives?’

  Nervously, Jane glanced at the caterers’ staff who were now unpacking tablecloths and cutlery. They were mostly students doing vacation work; she had asked for English-speakers, but fortunately their own conversation was absorbing and they were taking no interest in the client and her friend.

  ‘He always has liked his drink, Antony.’

  ‘Telling me. So, do you think they do? Would your life be easier if you didn’t like sex?’

  ‘It would be easier if I had a choice.’ Was there any chance that Louisa could understand?

  ‘What do you mean? That Michael’s such a sensational lover …’ Apologetically, someone explained that the chair was needed. Louisa flounced off it and lounged over the wheel arch of the truck. ‘Is that thing on?’ She pointed to the telephone in Jane’s hand.

  Smiling for the first time in twelve hours, Jane pressed the off button. ‘I don’t have so much to compare him with, but Michael’s not a great lover. I mean, technically he is …’

  Louisa raised her eyebrows. ‘Technically?’

  ‘He does all the right things, he plays me like a violin, he makes me come …’

  ‘And you’re complaining? Jane, this is a revelation!’ Fully awake at last, Louisa sat up and pushed back her hair as if to hear better. ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t call it making love, although he’s got all the dialogue. I wouldn’t call it lust, or passion, or sensuality or desire or hunger – I honestly don’t think he can feel those things.’

  ‘Jane! So why on earth does he screw around the way he does?’

  ‘Don’t you see that if it was all just for sex it would be easy?’ She dropped her voice and looked fearfully around, even up at the sky, as if retribution for publicizing the secrets of the marriage bed might strike from anywhere. ‘For me, it would be easy. I could say off you go, dear, have your fun, we’ll have separate bedrooms and a civilized arrangement. I wish to God he was a good old-fashione
d lecher, then we could have a good old-fashioned marriage.’

  Jane leaned closer to Louisa’s ear, leaning on the hot metal and speaking in a whisper the words which were now seething in her head. ‘What Michael does is the newest, most refined technique of modern sexual warfare. Michael isn’t a new man, remember. Michael is a new hero. He’s the founder of NewsConnect but his family comes first. Which is another way of saying he wants it all, including me, including the deepest, most private, most intimate parts of me, including my sexual satisfaction. Heart and mind, vagina and uterus. And talking about it. My God, does he talk about it. And about us. And he uses sex to fix everything. Like now, when he’s got a new woman. Or if he’s jealous because I’ve signed a new series – oh yes, he is jealous, but being Mr Perfect he can’t act jealous, so he stages another epic fuck scene with champagne in the bath or whatever to show he’s not jealous. And if I ever, ever even suggested that I didn’t like sex – my God, I think we’d have to talk about it so much that I’d be having multiple orgasms until my pelvic floor blew out.’

  She scanned Louisa’s face for comprehension and did not quite find it. But there was sympathy. Louisa was at least distracted from her own problems. ‘I had no idea you two were so – messed up,’ she murmured.

  ‘Neither did I. Until you asked.’

  ‘Oh God. What a pair we are.’ Louisa heaved herself upright and came forward to give Jane a hug. It was awkward, because Jane had never liked being mauled by emotional women, but she needed it.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get dressed? You’ll be getting me a very interesting reputation with the waiters.’ She pulled Louisa’s robe decently about her.

  ‘Hadn’t you? It’s past eleven already.’

  They returned to the house through the pool garden, where a small bar had been set up under a candy-striped canopy and the white umbrellas shaded the terrace. The caretaker, a muscular, long-jawed ex-soldier who worked as a fitness instructor at Saint-Victor’s police college, was sweeping the pool while his wife dead-headed the geraniums.

  Michael was coming towards them with the calligrapher at his side. Her radiant animation suggested that he had given her the full benefit of his charm. Jane felt resentment at the sight of him, spruce and clear-eyed, behaving as if nothing of consequence had taken place the night before, but he immediately came forward and took her to one side, saying, ‘Forgive me, J. I was drunk I know, and I’m on edge over this Altmark business, but there’s no real excuse. I acted badly, I’m really sorry.’

  For a moment, she could not respond. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I can’t bear it,’ he went on. ‘If you can’t say anything right now, that’s fine. But I am sorry, really and truly. You must have been so angry.’

  ‘Yes,’ she managed, ‘but don’t say any more. That’s all right, I heard you.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes were searching hers intently but she had no intention of allowing him into her feelings, so she met his gaze blankly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. That’s very generous. I wanted to say what a wonderful thing you’ve done organizing today. I wanted to thank you.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek and since they were being observed by strangers she felt obliged to accept it without flinching. ‘The seating plan is almost finished – can you help us with one or two queries? Who are these two – Mr and Mrs Nicholas Nichols?’

  The name immediately relieved her chill distaste. In an unnecessarily loving tone, she said, ‘You remember Grace Evans, Michael. Wasn’t she one of your producers? She’s married now; Nick’s her husband, a friend of mine.’ Then she looked him squarely in the eye.

  ‘Wasn’t Grace a producer when you were with the network?’ To mask her interest in his response, Louisa found a plate of truffled canapés to sample.

  Michael reacted only with an eager, approving smile. ‘Grace Evans – good, good. That’s so typical of you, J, you’re so thoughtful. I’d love to see her again. It’s been years.’ All he did was make an alteration to the seating plan. ‘And would you like him near you?’

  ‘I don’t mind. He’s in AIDS research in Paris. Maybe he’d have a good conversation with Amina. Or Stuart. Or Morris.’ She wanted to kick him, or hit him: anything to crack open the pretence, but somehow he had put himself beyond reach of her emotions in a place she dared not follow.

  ‘I’ll take care of it. Are you going up to change?’

  Her self-control suddenly perilous, Jane was already walking towards the steps to the house. Louisa said, ‘Happy birthday, Michael dear,’ and kissed him on both cheeks. For an instant, he was surprised, having forgotten the cause of the celebration. Emma appeared from the house, with her tiny sister anxiously following, and Debbie at a distance behind. Between them the girls carried a long banner of lining paper daubed with birthday greetings. ‘And Sam says he’s doing you a picture on his computer but it will take longer,’ his daughter added with jealous disdain.

  ‘Great. Lovely. This is marvellous. Where are you going to put it?’

  Debbie had resumed her withdrawn front, but she knew what was expected in this situation. ‘Em, why don’t we go and stick it up by the gate, so all the guests can see it?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ The child was jumping with excitement.

  ‘Hey, chill out now, cool it down – you’re going to tear the thing.’

  Nick had named it Silence of the Lambs Corner. The communal abattoir stood at the junction of the Castillon road with the departmental highway. A complex of towers and ducts constructed of shining metal, it bore no name and operated all hours. Day or night, you could hear the pigs squealing from the road.

  ‘So what’s he like, this Michael Knight?’ Nick asked at last. He put his foot down as they hit the wide highway.

  ‘Michael? He’s extraordinary.’ It was a catechism Grace had said a thousand times; people always asked about Michael. ‘He’s a man who has everything. Mainly, he has vision – such vision. Whatever we were doing he had the concept in his head, perfect in every detail, and all he had to do was communicate it to us and it happened. He was inspiring, he really was.’

  They were in the MGB, with the top up for the sake of Grace’s hair. The road was empty and Nick, who considered that if a speedometer was marked in miles a speed limit in kilometres was inapplicable, had his foot on the floor and his eyes in the dusty distance. Poplar trees cast bars of shade over the tarmac, but hardly cooled the road or hid the garish warehouses and factories of the Saint-Victor industrial park.

  ‘When he started NewsConnect there was a great opening party and he just stood up and said something like, “This is more than a news agency, this is an ideal. We are here, all of us, at the service of the truth in the world. All we are here to do is take the news and tell it the way it is.” He has a magnificent voice, he should have been an actor. Then he said, “You may think that’s a simple thing, but I believe that when the people of this planet understand each other then there will be a worldwide outbreak of peace.” And then he quoted from the Bible, Isaiah, they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, he actually picked up the book, and then ran on to say, “And nation shall speak peace unto nation.” And people cried. Even people who knew he’d misquoted – it was the old BBC motto, dreamed up by the Governors in the Twenties – had tears in their eyes. And four hundred people gladly worked their backsides off for peanuts and the occasional herogram, because they were working for world peace. That was ten years ago, and I can remember almost every word.’

  There was no response from her husband. ‘Are you listening?’ she asked.

  He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. ‘Yes, but what’s he like?’ A tanker transporting unthinkable megalitres of yoghurt was ahead of them, farting fumes, maintaining a stately pace in the centre of the road.

  ‘Asshole!’ he yelled suddenly. ‘Get your stinking backside outa my face!’

  ‘Personally, what’s he like? He’s pleasing, compulsively pleasing – charming, terribly funny, the most caring man in the
world when he wants to be …’ She paused, recalling the exquisite illusion that she was Michael’s whole world. He wove it from a thousand tender threads, calls and notes, jokes and remembrances, silly presents, and above all his total concentration upon her in the moments when they were together. It was years before she noticed that he gave everyone else the same exalted attention, for the same fragments of time.

  The car lurched violently; Nick was trying to pull out, hazardous in a low, left-hand-drive sports car. The passenger’s duty was to be the driver’s eyes. ‘I can’t see the road,’ she told him, ‘there’s a blind bend coming.’

  He pulled back, but she could feel his irritation mounting. ‘Go on, I’m listening. Pillock! Go suck cocks in hell!’

  ‘I had no idea you knew such language.’

  There was an ill-tempered pause, then he said, ‘Just tell me when the road’s clear.’

  ‘No luck, there are three trucks coming down now.’ He kept the car’s nose dangerously close to the tanker’s rear, ready to pull out as soon as he could. She went on, ‘Michael does have great intelligence, but more than that, great concentration, that’s his real gift, I suppose. He’s insecure – much more than you’d imagine. He can’t bear anyone to have a bad opinion of him. He was always asking what people are thinking, what they’re saying …’

  Again, Nick swerved violently, to avoid a double-rig cattle truck thundering past in the oncoming lane, a drool of manure trailing from its tailgate. ‘Now, you fucking moron, let me out willya?’ He pulled out again, slammed down a gear and screamed past the yoghurt tanker yelling, ‘Eat shit and die, fuckface!’