‘And in what precise way did you think this growing up should be manifested?’ he said coldly.
‘Getting a job,’ she said, setting down the tray on his desk, picking up one of the glasses. ‘Earning some money. Supporting me a bit for a change.’
‘Naomi, do we really have to go over all this again? We agreed that until I established myself you would – ’
‘Yes, well everything’s just changed, Liam. That agreement isn’t very relevant any longer.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve been made redundant.’
‘What?’ said Liam. He picked up the other glass, took a large slug of the whisky, waited for the room to steady. It didn’t. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. I’ve lost my job. As of – well, three months from tomorrow. Well, actually, tomorrow.’
‘But Naomi, nobody loses their job on a Sunday.’
‘I have. Dick just called, it was really good of him, he just got back from New York and said he didn’t want me to have to cope with the shock in the office. Rationalisation, it’s called. The Americans. You know? That old chestnut. Six of us are out. Including Dick actually.’ She smiled at him, slightly awkwardly, looked down at her own glass. He realised it was shaking, and managed to feel a touch of sympathy mixed with his own panic.
‘Naomi, I’m so sorry,’ he said carefully. ‘How awful for you. But – ’
‘Yes? But what?’
‘Well, I was going to say I’m sure you can get something else.’
‘Well, Liam, I’m not so sure, I’m afraid. It’s bloody tough out there. And anyway – ’
‘Anyway what?’
‘Liam, we’re in a mess already. Aren’t we? Even with my salary.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Liam heavily.
‘Of course we are. We have negative equity on this house, the children’s school fees are roaring up, you want Jasper to board next year, the overdraft is looking hideous, the bank are getting extremely edgy, you earned – what, about nine grand last year – ’
‘Naomi, I do know all this. You remind me of it quite often. Could I remind you, as we’re running through this rather familiar script, that when I establish myself – ’
‘Liam, you’ve been establishing yourself for almost ten years. I think it’s time you faced the fact it isn’t going to happen.’
‘Well, thank you for that vote of confidence.’
She ignored him. ‘And anyway, if I’m going to be out of a job, something drastic has to be done. And I think it’s your turn and it’s time you did it.’
‘Oh really? And what would you like me to do? Give up the Bar, go and work in McDonald’s perhaps – ’
‘I think you should go to your father.’
‘No, Naomi,’ said Liam. ‘I will not to go my father.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not. It is absolutely out of the question.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Naomi, ‘but I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Have you seen this piece in the paper today?’
‘No,’ said Liam.
He had, of course; had read it over and over again, tasting the old bitterness almost physically, filled with hatred towards them all.
‘Well, I’ll read it to you. “Kitty Channing, born last December to Francesca, ‘Bard’ Channing’s stunning third wife, will be christened in Sussex today, in the church near Stylings, Channing’s magnificent Queen Anne country retreat. Kitty represents the latest jewel in his already glittering crown, born as she was in a year that saw him move into the top third of the elite Sunday Times Richest People in Britain list. To mark Kitty’s birth, Francesca was given – ” oh I can’t go on, it makes me feel sick. You must get the drift. And meanwhile we have to cancel our summer holiday and I have to go crawling round again with my CV. It’s ridiculous, Liam, and I’ve been sitting up there thinking and there really there is absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t at least lend us some money to tide us over. Now are you going to go and see him, ask him for help, or shall I? That might be better, at least I won’t start hurling insults at him halfway through the conversation.’
She sat down on the sofa opposite his desk, her grey eyes very steely as she looked at him. She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt; her long red hair trailed over her shoulder in a plait. She had no make-up on. She didn’t look like a high-flying, international banker, Liam thought, and then with a lurch of his guts, realised she wasn’t one any longer.
‘Look,’ he said carefully, ‘look, let’s think about this a bit longer.’
‘Liam, we don’t have time to think a bit longer. I’ve been doing sums down there, even before Dick called. Carla has to go, immediately, whatever happens. It’s ridiculous, shelling out nearly two hundred pounds a week for a nanny when even Hattie is at school half the day. But if the bank get wind of this they’ll make us sell the house.’
‘Oh stop this,’ he said wearily. ‘I get so extremely tired of it, of having my nose rubbed in how totally dependent we are on your income, your dazzling success. I’ve been doing my best, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, your best isn’t good enough, and my success seems to have dimmed a bit. Unfortunately for all of us. I’m sorry, Liam, and I know how much you hate him, or say you do, but I think you owe it to me and the children to go and ask him for at least a loan. And I warn you, if you don’t do it, I certainly shall. I’m going to read to Hattie now. I’ll see you later.’
Liam watched her go out of the door and then picked up the paper, looked at the picture of Francesca holding Jack at the last christening, looked at his father standing there with her, his arm round her, champagne glass in his hand, smiling at the camera, looked at the caption to the picture: ‘Channing and the jewels in his crown’, threw it suddenly, viciously across the room.
‘I hate you,’ he said, quite quietly, staring at where it had fallen. ‘Christ, how I hate you.’
Chapter Three
Francesca watched the Booths’ silver XJS coming round the corner of the drive with some foreboding. It wasn’t just the thought of the next few hours which depressed her, it was the effect that four hours of Teresa Booth’s company would have on Bard’s temper for the next twenty-four. For which much of the blame would be laid at her door, because it had been her bloody idea (as he had already told her three times that morning) to invite them. Which it had; but it wasn’t exactly something she was yearning to do. Easter Sunday would have been much nicer if they could have remained on their own. She had just felt that things were becoming potentially difficult, rather than merely awkward, with the Booths; that their lack of hospitality was verging on the rude, and that something had to be done about it. ‘They probably won’t be able to come anyway,’ she said, when she announced to Bard she thought they ought to ask them, and ‘Please God,’ he had said, but they were able to come, Duggie had accepted immediately, his voice rich with pleasure and something else – relief? – had said he knew they were free all weekend. Maybe they really were lonely; if so, she thought with a pang of guilt, Duggie at least didn’t deserve it.
Thank goodness her mother was there; not only to tease Bard out of the filthy mood, which she was extremely good at, but to take the edge off any awkwardness at the lunch table, to flirt with Duggie, which he always enjoyed. And there would be awkwardness; Teresa Booth would make sure of that. It was her speciality, the loaded remark, the barbed joke. Francesca tried very hard to be charitable about her, to tell herself it must be difficult to come into a family – well, extended family anyway, which is what Channings was – where everyone had adored her predecessor and not feel excluded, compared, criticised: but just the same they had all tried very hard – at first anyway. Except for Bard. Nobody could say Bard had tried at all.
But she certainly had, had given a party for them when they had first been married, so that Teresa could meet all the company people and the family – of course, Kirsten leaving after an hour rather pointedly had b
een unfortunate – and some of their closer friends. And she had asked Teresa if she would perhaps like to be on one of her charity committees – Teresa had smiled sweetly at that one and said she was a working woman and didn’t really have time for such things. ‘I’m afraid I see doing charity work as therapy, Francesca dear,’ was one of her particularly well-chosen phrases – had even (most determinedly turning the other cheek) invited her and Duggie for the weekend at Stylings, but it had all been in vain, and she might as well not have bothered, Teresa remained – what? Not hostile exactly, but the opposite of friendly. And treated her, moreover, as if she was not only her junior (which of course she was), but her inferior. And after a few months, Francesca had simply given up.
But now, guilty at not asking them to the christening, remorseful at the thought that she might have distressed Duggie, she was trying again, and was, she told Bard, determined to make a fuss of them. Well, a fuss of Duggie.
And Bard, who loved Duggie, who had shared every trauma of his life, both personal and professional, for almost twenty-five years (but who really could not quite forgive him for marrying Teresa), had agreed.
They always spent Easter at Stylings; it was a tradition almost as sacred as Christmas, which was always spent in London. Bard got up extremely early on Easter day and spent at least two hours laying the course for the Easter egg hunt; this was always far too difficult and complex for little Jack (who had that morning been found retired happily munching after the first half-hour and his only find), and fairly well beyond Francesca as well. Tory, who had been down for twenty-four hours, had left just after breakfast, saying she could remember the miseries of the hunt very clearly and didn’t want them revived. But Rachel, dressed in Barbour and wellies, had been still staunchly tramping through the vegetable garden in the middle of the morning, three shiny-ribboned eggs from Harrods clutched to her bosom. It was not only her pleasure in the hunt, Francesca knew (perfectly genuine, Rachel loved challenges of any kind); she did it to please Bard, and they would then sit in the study after lunch, picking over her finds, checking off clues, and he would lead her in triumph to any she had missed. Rachel always came for Easter Sunday; she said it was her favourite day in the year, even more so than Christmas, and she personally cooked a turkey and brought her lemon Pavlova, Bard’s favourite pudding, and an Easter cake from Fortnum’s for the children. All of which should give Duggie some pleasure at least, thought Francesca, as she took Jack’s hand and walked, smiling determinedly, towards the car.
‘Teresa, hallo,’ she said now, going forward, taking the small, plump beringed hand, kissing the air somewhere in the vicinity of Teresa’s well-powdered face, ‘it’s so nice to see you.’
‘Yes, it’s been a bit of a long time,’ said Teresa. ‘Hallo Jack, I’ve got a present for you.’
Jack surrendered his face (smeared with an interesting mixture of chocolate, mud and grass clippings from sitting on the mower with Horton while he mowed the lawn) for her kiss, before saying, ‘What is it?’ and then after a fairly brief pause and a nudge from Francesca, ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s a car,’ said Teresa, ‘and you drive it by remote control. Douglas, get it out of the boot, will you, darling?’
She always called him ‘darling’ in public, and she always went in for a great deal of overt physical affection towards him, taking his arm, kissing him, holding his hand when they were sitting together. Francesca had often wondered if it was different in private; she felt a great deal of it was cosmetic, designed to be noticed, designed even to embarrass, such as when she reached for his hand across the table, demanded a cuddle, made arch references to their needing an early night. It irritated Bard almost beyond endurance; he behaved in the totally opposite way, scarcely touching Francesca when people were around, passionately demonstrative when they were on their own.
Teresa moved on now, towards the house, clearly looking for Bard; Francesca went up to Duggie, who had his arms full of parcels, flowers, a bottle of champagne, and gave him a hug.
‘Darling Duggie, how are you? It’s so nice to see you.’
‘Bless you, darling, it’s nice to be here. Now these are for you, and this is for the old fella. Where is he, by the way?’
His voice, his expression even, were wistful; in the old days, Bard had always been out to greet him and Suzanne even before Francesca.
‘Oh, he’s in the shower,’ said Francesca hastily. ‘He’s been playing landowner all morning, planting some trees or something. He won’t be a minute.’
‘Good. Now here you are, young chap. Here’s something to keep you quiet.’
He handed Jack a huge, elaborately wrapped parcel; ‘Cool,’ said Jack, who had just learnt the word from watching Neighbours (which Nanny disapproved of and Francesca therefore let him watch with her whenever she could) and used it all the time. He started ripping off bows, shiny paper, shedding them on the drive. ‘This is really cool.’
‘Jack darling, don’t do that, pick up the paper and bring it inside. I’m sure Duggie and Teresa would like to see you open it.’
‘OK,’ he said, and started running inside, holding one very small piece of paper.
Francesca picked the rest up, laughing, and said to Duggie, ‘He’s absolutely so naughty, so strong willed. But so charming, as well, I find it terribly hard to get cross with him.’
‘He’s Bard all over again then,’ said Duggie, smiling at her. ‘You all right, darling?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Really. And you? You look well.’
He did; he looked tanned and slimmer than the last time she had seen him. He was an extremely good-looking man, tall and very erect, with thick silver hair, brilliant blue eyes and a heavy white moustache, always impeccably dressed; he looked like the popular conception of a retired brigadier.
‘Yes, well, we’ve just been to some health farm in Portugal, played a lot of golf, well, I did, Teresa lay by the pool. She said I had to get some weight off. Worried about my health, bless her.’
Ironic, thought Francesca, when Teresa herself was unarguably plump; good looking, in her flashy way, sexy even – the plumpness somehow contributing to that – but it was she who carried excess flesh, not Duggie. Well, maybe she really did want to look after him, was concerned for his health.
‘You look pretty good to me,’ she said, taking his arm with difficulty, round the parcels.
‘Sweet of you, darling, but I’m fifty-nine, you know. Five years older than that whipper-snapper of a husband of yours. Have to be careful.’
‘I think you look five years younger,’ said Francesca.
‘So how are things at Channing House?’ said Teresa, putting down her knife and fork after toying with a plate of mozzarella and tomato salad and pushing it aside. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca dear, I really can’t eat this. I’m not really allowed cheese.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Francesca, ‘very sorry. Shall I – ’
‘No, no, dear, you couldn’t have known. It’s not as if we often eat together. Yes Bard, how are things? You let that place in Docklands yet?’
As if she didn’t know he hadn’t, thought Francesca; bloody woman.
‘No,’ he said shortly, ‘not yet.’
‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? The interest must be rolling up nicely.’
‘Teresa, I really don’t want my lunch ruined by being told unpalatable things I already know,’ said Bard. Francesca kicked him under the table; he forced his heavy features into what she knew was supposed to be a smile.
‘Nothing could ruin this lunch,’ said Rachel blithely. ‘Teresa, why is it you’re not allowed cheese? Is it a reducing diet, or – ’
‘No, I have gallstones,’ said Teresa. ‘Extremely painful, if you irritate them. And any fat does that.’
‘Gallstones?’ said Jack. ‘What are they?’
‘Small deposits which form in your gall bladder,’ said Teresa.
‘In your bladder? So do they come out when you do a – ’
�
�Jack, that will do,’ said Rachel. ‘Why don’t you help Mrs Dawkins by taking out the dish? No, not the china one, darling, the big silver one. And tell her we’re ready for the next course.’
‘OK,’ said Jack.
‘And the Newcastle development, what about that? Proving up to your expectations?’ said Teresa.
‘Yes, thank you. Very profitable.’
‘Well, that’s something.’
‘Teresa, we are not on the breadline,’ said Bard. Francesca looked at him; the muscle at the side of his forehead that twitched when he was about to lose his temper stabbed warningly. She smiled at Teresa quickly.
‘Tell us about your trip to Portugal. That sounds fun.’
‘It was fun,’ she said, ‘great fun. Although Douglas spent a bit more time on the golf course than I might have hoped. Playing and networking as usual. I thought the idea was for us to spend some time together. He’s such a workaholic. Like you, Bard, of course. I sometimes feel I could cite Channings as co-respondent.’
‘Surely there’s no likelihood of a divorce?’ said Rachel, smiling radiantly at her.
‘No, of course not,’ said Teresa. She was sitting next to Duggie; she reached for his hand, and kissed it. ‘Couple of kids on honeymoon, aren’t we, sweetheart?’
He smiled back at her, clearly embarrassed, but equally clearly pleased. He really does love her, thought Francesca; he really does look happy. Remembering the raw grief on his face for weeks after Suzanne had died, the worry over his excessive drinking, she felt pleased, even grateful to Teresa.
‘Good,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘how very nice. And Teresa, you have a company of your own, don’t you?’
‘I do indeed. My timeshare company. We have some lovely properties.’
‘How interesting!’ said Rachel. ‘Where are they?’
‘Oh, the usual places. Majorca, Marbella, I’ve just bought a couple in Portugal.’
The Dilemma Page 6
