The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She lay in the bath for a long time, thinking about it: about the relief of having a real job, not just something to do, but a purpose in life, a sense she was going somewhere, getting something, the knowledge that she was using her talents, her brain, and (not to be sniffed at, this one) that she would be earning some money; her allowance from her father was generous, but it didn’t really begin to meet her considerable extravagances. And she also thought of the humiliation she would have to face, not only of apologising to her father for her behaviour at their past few meetings but of implicitly promising the behaviour would be good for the foreseeable future; of having to be at least polite to Francesca (and that terrible mother of hers should their paths cross, which she supposed would be fairly unlikely); of being made to exist in a state of permanent gratitude and dependence, inevitable she knew, however hard she worked; and – worst of all, much much the worst – of knowing that everyone would be saying she could only get a job because she was her father’s daughter. She had made such a huge issue of making her own way in life, of not taking the easy option (while taking such minor eases, of course, as the flat and the car), it would be extremely hard to be seen to be taking it after a period that had not been outstanding for its success.

  And then she thought about Toby, and how much his words had hurt; she wasn’t at all sure how much she cared about Toby, but he was – he had been – a most important factor in her life, not only a source of huge pleasure in her bed, but a stylish accessory, an amusing companion, and, perhaps most important of all, for she didn’t have many, a good and reliable friend. And a truthful one. She forced herself to remember, to listen again to what he had said: that she was spoilt, self-indulgent, lazy, hysterical, and wondered if he would think more or less of her if she went crawling humbly to her father, eating large portions of humble pie in his presence, and asked him after all to take her on.

  The bath was cold by the time she had made her decision; she dressed again, and wrote a letter to her father. It wasn’t a very long letter but it took her a long time; when she had finished she decided it was too important to entrust to the Royal Mail and that she might in any case change her mind if she waited until the morning to post it; she would drive to St James’s Square and deliver it herself.

  It was quite late when she got there, almost midnight, and she was sitting in the car, finding even the simple fact of getting out of the car and pushing the envelope through the door painful when she saw Hugh, the night porter, let someone out of the front door of the large and rather beautiful building that was Channing House and salute briefly. Whoever it was got into the car parked immediately outside, and started it up; someone working late, thought Kirsten, and as the car came towards her she switched her interior light off in case she was recognised. She wondered if it was someone she knew: Charlie Prentice, the company lawyer or Peter Barbour perhaps, but as the car (Jaguar XJS, silver, flashy) passed her she saw it was a female face, which made it doubly intriguing. A middle-aged (but very well preserved) female face, heavily made up, under a bouffant cloud of silver blonde hair: a face she recognised. Je-sus, thought Kirsten, what have we here: the terrible Teresa Booth. She had only met her twice, at parties at the London house; had thought she was a nightmare with her hard, brilliant blue eyes, her jutting bosom, her husky, ginny voice, pushing Duggie around, telling him what to do. She had got the impression her father loathed her, yet here she was, apparently quite a familiar visitor to Channing House, able to come and go so late, and with Hugh saluting her. How extraordinary, she thought, getting out of her car, walking slowly across to push her letter through the door of Channing House. Well, maybe her enforced spell there might be just slightly more interesting than she had expected.

  Rachel wasn’t used to feeling nervous. She sailed through life on a raft of self-confidence, never doubting that people would be pleased to see her, would be amused by her, if they were men would be attracted to her; even at her lowest hours, when her husband had quite clearly been heading his company and indeed his family straight into the bankruptcy court, when he had gone out into the barn of their house and shot himself, when she had been showing people round that same beautiful house she loved so much and was forced to sell, when she had to go out and work in a series of humiliating jobs with girls half her age and with a quarter of her brain, she had retained her innate courage, her high spirits, her ability to find in everything at least an element of entertainment, of fun. Her daughter was not, she feared, quite like her in this; Francesca was less intrinsically optimistic, more naturally fearful, than she. She possessed courage, great courage, but it was of a less joyous nature; it met demands and was found equal to them, but it did not go out to find them, standards flying.

  For more than one reason she had found it impossible to tell Francesca she was having her twice-postponed breakfast meeting with Bard next morning. It was one thing to flirt with Bard, to play the perfect mother-in-law, to sparkle at his dinner parties, to support his wife as and when necessary, and quite another to go behind that wife’s back and ask him for money. However excellent her motives.

  ‘Well now, Rachel,’ he said, settling at the table over a bowl of muesli piled high with apricots and prunes, a plate of croissants at his side, tucking a napkin into his neck, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘Go on a diet,’ said Rachel briskly. ‘I don’t want my daughter widowed.’

  ‘I had a health check only last week,’ said Bard. ‘All clear.’

  ‘You must be overweight.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Bard cheerfully. He never minded such comments; his self-confidence was such that personal criticism left him entirely unmoved. ‘Depends how you look at me. And I can’t stand people who are mimsy over their food. Like the dreadful Booth woman. Of course I weigh too much, but it’s mostly muscle. I’m very fit, you know, Rachel. Go to the gym at least three times a week, and sailing’s very good exercise. Not that I’ve done much of that, lately. I wish I could persuade Francesca to sail.’

  ‘She hates the water,’ said Rachel. ‘It frightens her.’

  ‘I know. But if she’d only – ’

  ‘Bard, she has tried. Believe me.’

  ‘I know, I know. Now let’s get back to you. What is it you want from me? Money?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rachel, startled into directness herself. ‘Money. But not for me, of course. For something very – well, something very important to me.’

  ‘And why did we have to have a meeting to discuss it? Why not just ask me, if you want a donation?’

  ‘It’s – it’s more than a donation,’ said Rachel. She felt the palms of her hand growing moist; she picked up a glass of orange juice, noticed it shook as she held it. Damn. She’d meant to appear so cool, so detached. If she wasn’t careful he’d start really quizzing her. Then she’d find herself in very deep water.

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’

  ‘I’m – well, I’ve got very involved in a charity.’

  ‘What sort of charity?’

  ‘A – well, I suppose in the loosest possible terms, it’s in the area of mental handicap,’ said Rachel carefully.

  ‘Really? Not the kind of thing I’d have expected you to be involved in, Rachel.’

  ‘Why?’ said Rachel. She hadn’t meant to sound so challenging, but the assumption he was clearly making irritated her. ‘Because I don’t appear to you the do-gooding sort? Because you’d imagined if it was a charity, it would be something rather more socially acceptable? Like Poppy Day? Or the Red Cross. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply, ‘that’s exactly it. There’s no need to look quite so indignant, Rachel, I can’t help my misconceptions. I see you as a highly sophisticated, highly amusing woman, very warm, very attractive if we are going to get personal; I don’t see you as a person who is going to show more than the most ephemeral concern for those less fortunate than herself. Except if it happened to be her own family. I’m sorry. I obviously malign you.’

  Rachel took a
deep breath, forced herself to smile, to look relaxed. ‘Well, I’m pleased you find me attractive and amusing, Bard,’ she said. ‘I could even return the compliment. But yes, you do misjudge me. A little anyway. Can I tell you about it? About my – this charity?’ The words ‘her own family’ echoed round her head; she tried to dismiss them.

  ‘Please do. There’s obviously a lot to talk about. Could you just hang on a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He got up, went over to the buffet, came back with a plateful of black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes and bacon. ‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning, seeing her face. ‘But I didn’t want to be distracted by hunger. I’m all yours.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rachel, ‘perhaps I’d better start with some background … There’s a Home, which I’ve been aware of for some time – ’

  ‘How?’ said Bard.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How have you been aware of it?’

  ‘A friend of mine had a daughter there. She’s – well, she’s died now. The friend, that is. But I went there a couple of times. To visit the daughter. And – ’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Devon. North Devon – Cornish borders. It’s run by some nuns, affiliated to a convent. It’s absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Well, the thing is they are under huge financial pressure. For many years they were supported by legacies, and of course the Church itself used to be much richer.’

  ‘I thought the Catholic Church was still pretty rich,’ said Bard drily. Rachel looked at him; she had forgotten that Pattie had been, no doubt still was, a staunch Catholic.

  ‘The Church may be. This convent certainly isn’t. Of course it’s very hard for these places to pay their way anyway, and with a whole lot of terribly expensive regulations coming through from the EEC the house just isn’t suitable any more, and it soaks up money in a way you wouldn’t believe …’

  ‘I probably would,’ said Bard. ‘I know about money being soaked up.’

  ‘Well, anyway, a very big house, an old priory ironically enough, has come up for sale, about three miles away. If we – if they bought it, it would be marvellous. It has quite a bit of land and so they could have a market garden there, keep chickens, perhaps a goat, that sort of thing, and generally be a lot more self-sufficient. Best of all it has a lot of outbuildings, including a pair of wonderful greenhouses. And there’s another place that could be a bakery. So – ’

  ‘And who would fund the purchase of this place?’ said Bard. His eyes were very bright, very fierce, as he looked at her; Rachel returned the look steadily.

  ‘A charity. A new charity. We’ve – they’ve applied for Charitable status. The thing is, if we can show that what we are doing incorporates some kind of rehabilitation, we might very well get that. And it would be so very much better for the – the residents. I mean the nuns are wonderfully kind, but – well, with the right people in charge, and some backing, it could become a sort of small community. Not completely self-sufficient perhaps, but certainly helping to pay its own way.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bard, ‘and where do I come in?’

  ‘Well,’ said Rachel, ‘well, you see, one of the requirements for a charity is trustees. Three, actually. Three trustees.’

  ‘And what do these three trustees have to do?’

  ‘Well – they have to – that is, the requirement is – as you probably know – ’

  ‘Come on, Rachel,’ said Bard. He sounded impatient. ‘As presentations go, I’ve seen a lot better. I’m disappointed in you.’

  ‘They have to underwrite all the losses,’ said Rachel quickly. She drained her coffee cup, signalled to the waiter to refill it. ‘I mean, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Yes indeed. And manage the land, run the bank accounts, see to the annual reports. I know, Rachel, I know very well. I’ve been involved in charities before.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rachel. She looked at him and her eyes were much harder suddenly. ‘So why did you ask me, then?’

  ‘Because I wanted to make you say it. I didn’t see why I should make it easy for you,’ said Bard lightly. ‘You’re asking a very great deal. And perhaps now you’d like to tell me why I should do this. Why I should expose myself to possibly huge financial risk, get involved in something with which I have no connection whatsoever…’

  ‘There shouldn’t be a financial risk,’ said Rachel, ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if there was. The house alone is worth a great deal of money. It’s simply a matter of – well, providing guarantees, I suppose.’

  ‘And do you have the other two trustees?’

  ‘No, not yet. We have approached a couple of people, but so far no-one has actually agreed.’

  ‘I wonder why. And I suppose there’s a degree of urgency?’

  ‘Well – well, yes, there is. Quite a big degree actually.’ Damn, she wasn’t handling this at all well. ‘There’s a developer after the priory, he wants to split it into units, sell them off and – ’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said Bard. ‘He should make a lot of money. That sounds a much more attractive proposition to me.’

  ‘Oh Bard, don’t,’ said Rachel. ‘Let’s for heaven’s sake keep to the subject.’

  ‘I thought the priory was the subject.’

  ‘Not really, no. The subject is the community, and the need to establish the charity.’

  ‘And how is it exactly you’re so very involved in all this?’ said Bard. ‘The connection seems quite tenuous to me. I don’t understand.’

  Rachel looked at him, struggling to keep her gaze steady. ‘Not really. I told you, I went there – ’

  ‘With your friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have I met this friend? Was she at the wedding, perhaps, or – ’

  ‘No, no you haven’t. I told you. She’s died.’

  ‘I see. How sad. Go on.’

  ‘Well, I was just so impressed with it, that’s all. I saw how much the nuns were doing for these people, how hard they worked, I – well, I hate to see anything like that go under. For lack of funds. When they’re all prepared to work their butts off, not just the nuns, but the residents as well, that’s so important, to keep going, to remain at least to a degree independent. I would have thought that would appeal to you, Bard. It’s one of the reasons I thought of asking you.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he said. He had finished his plate of black pudding now, was piling honey onto a croissant; he took a large bite, then sat back in his chair looking at her. His eyes were very hard. He’s going to refuse, she thought, and it will all be my fault for handling it badly. She should never have even tried; now she had exposed herself to a lot of worry for nothing. Fool, stupid stupid fool …

  ‘Well,’ he said cutting into her thoughts, ‘well, it does sound – interesting. Very interesting indeed, actually, Rachel. I might very well be persuaded to help.’

  Rachel didn’t even take in his words at first, so sure had she been he was going to refuse; then she stood up, knocking over the sugar bowl, leant across and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Bard, you are wonderful. I do promise you you’d never regret it. I – ’

  ‘Rachel, hold your fire. I didn’t say I would. I said I might. But I’d want to know a lot more about it.’

  ‘Of course. Of course you would.’

  ‘And the first thing I’d want to do is forget the cock-and-bull story about your friend and her daughter and hear the real reason you’re so involved with the place.’

  Careful, Rachel, don’t let him panic you; she sat down again and looked at him very steadily.

  ‘It’s not a cock-and-bull story, Bard, it’s – ’

  ‘Oh come off it, Rachel. You’re up against a veteran here, when it comes to lying. Takes one to know one. If I’m going to take on what is a very considerable risk, despite what you say, I think I deserve to know the truth.’

  ‘Bard, I’ve told you – ’

  ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s forge
t the whole thing, shall we? I’ve got quite sufficient claims on my charity budget. And I’m already extremely late for my nine-thirty meeting. So – ’

  ‘Bard, let me just show you the place. The convent and the Help House, as the nuns call it, and the priory. I’m sure I can change your mind. Absolutely sure.’

  He looked at her, drained his cup and then stood up and smiled his sudden, brilliant smile.

  ‘All right. If I can possibly find the time, I’ll come on an odyssey to Devon with you. It’ll be a fun day anyway. Ring Marcia and fix it.’

  Rachel sat staring at his broad back, lit the cigarette she had been longing for (Bard was an obsessive anti-smoker) with shaking hands. She should never have started this. She must have been mad to think she could get away with it. But the alternative was just too awful to think about.

  Marcia Grainger was waiting for Bard when he got in, her back particularly rigid. Most people’s disapproval could be read from their eyes or the set of their mouths, Marcia’s from the set of her back. And she was a tall woman, tall and statuesque; there was no ignoring that back.

  ‘Ah, Mr Channing,’ she said now, rather unnecessarily, ‘you’re here. Your nine-thirty appointment has been waiting for some time.’

  ‘Won’t do him any harm,’ said Bard cheerfully.

  ‘Alas no. It has, however, done me a little,’ said Marcia. ‘He has been extremely ungracious and says he can only be here until eleven. Which he assures me he made plain to you yesterday when you spoke.’

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Bard. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the boardroom. I have naturally made him coffee. Perhaps you should go straight along there now.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I should. Any messages? Urgent ones?’

  ‘Only two. One from the Swedish people, can you phone them, and one from a Mr Townsend. A journalist. He says you are seeing him at two-thirty this afternoon, and he wanted to confirm it.’

  ‘Tell him I can’t see him,’ said Bard. ‘He’ll have to re-schedule.’

  He was halfway out of the room when he turned back to Marcia. ‘On second thoughts, I want the whole thing cancelled. Tell Sam to do it. And tell her I want any interviews cancelled. For the foreseeable future. All right?’