‘Quite all right,’ said Marcia. She did not like the press, and she deeply disapproved of Bard’s easy relationship with them.
‘Fuck,’ said Gray Townsend. ‘Fuck it, Sam, why? That was all settled, I thought, I’ve even got the piece scheduled, it was one of a series about the property guys – ’
‘Gray, I’m sorry,’ said Sam Illingworth. ‘I just work here, I just got this directive. Mr Channing is terribly busy and doesn’t have any time at the moment.’
‘Well, it’s very sudden,’ said Gray, ‘his busy-ness. And I mean he’s obviously in bullish mood, I’ve just been reading about Channing North in The Times; I can make a lot of that, if it would help – and obviously it would – ’
‘Gray, I’m sure you would. But Mr Channing just says no. No interviews at the moment. And I’m sorry it’s such short notice, I really am.’
‘Is it the Docklands business? Is he feeling sensitive about that? I know he’s had quite a lot of adverse publicity about it – ’
‘No. Honestly, it’s not that. I told you, he’s just too busy.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Gray. ‘Well, look, I’ll just have to shunt everything round a bit. I’m doing a whole load of these things, so if he changes his mind – ’
‘Yes of course. I’ll be right in touch. I’m sorry, Gray. For myself as well; it would have been great.’
‘Yes, it would. Never mind. Cheers, Sam.’
‘Bye, Gray.’
‘What are you on about?’ said Tricia Thorpe, Gray’s assistant, hearing the expletives. ‘Gray, could you please either OK that headline or come up with another one, I’ve already had one bollocking from Dave because we, as he puts it, have been sitting on it, and …’
‘Yeah, just give me a few more minutes. I just think it looks a bit tabloid, now that it’s right across three columns.’
‘I’ll give you five more minutes,’ said Tricia briskly, ‘and then I’m setting Dave on you. Anyway, what are you cursing about?’
‘Oh, Bard Channing’s pulled out of that series I’m doing. Bloody shame. He’s much the most interesting person in it. Or would have been.’
‘Why?’ said Tricia. ‘I thought he loved publicity.’
‘He does. Usually. Says he’s too busy. That’s like Branson saying he’s too shy. I don’t get it.’
‘Maybe he’s in trouble. Doesn’t want to broadcast the fact.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. The last figures were very good. Although if he doesn’t let that building in Docklands soon, he will be.’
‘Really? Do you mean he’ll go bust? Well then, that’s the reason – ’
‘No, it’s not that bad. He’s more soundly based than that. I think … But that place is a positive black hole for swallowing up money.’
‘Well, I’m disappointed too,’ said Tricia. ‘I was looking forward to meeting Mr Channing.’
‘Why did you think you were going to?’
‘Oh, I’d have made some excuse. Hidden your tape recorder and come rushing in with it. I think he’s terribly sexy.’
‘Do you really?’ said Gray. ‘How extraordinary. He looks like a gorilla to me.’
‘Very nice-looking gorilla. Anyway, he’s got that lovely wife. She really is all over the papers. There was a picture of her greeting some minor royal to a charity do in the Mail on Sunday. What’s her name, Frances or something – ’
‘Francesca. You are well informed. Yeah, I wonder if I could get at him through her? Write a feature about her and her charity work or something – ’
‘You could try,’ said Tricia. The phone rang; she picked it up. ‘Financial Editor. Oh, Dave. Yes, just a – ’ Gray shook his head violently at her, gestured at the door, mouthing ‘not here’, started tapping furiously into his computer; Tricia looked at him, grinned. ‘Dave, he’s sitting here making strange faces at me. I hope he’s all right. He looks a bit as if he’s having a fit. Or – what was that, Gray? Oh, sorry, Dave, apparently I was meant to tell you he’s gone out …’
Having rejigged his headline for his lead article for Sunday’s paper (‘Major’s Minus’; he was very pleased with that one), Gray sat and thought again about Bard Channing pulling out of the interview and his series. It intrigued him and he wasn’t sure quite why. It was so totally out of character, he had been extremely enthusiastic before, offered him almost limitless access, through Sam Illingworth. The whole thing was a mystery. But there had to be an explanation, and it was worth trying to get it. He picked up the phone, called Sam, asked her to meet him for a drink one evening that week.
‘Gray, if it’s to try and twist Mr Channing’s arm, through me, it won’t work. He’s made up his mind.’
‘Oh no,’ said Gray untruthfully, ‘nothing like that. I’d just like to see you, Sam, buy you a drink, and maybe find out more about this northern thing. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Sam, ‘but I hope you won’t feel you’re wasting your time.’
‘I’m sure I won’t,’ said Gray, ‘now how about next Monday? You free?’
‘Next Monday’d be fine.’
‘Good. See you then. American Bar at six.’
Graydon Townsend considered himself a very fortunate man. He was often heard to say that he had a job, a house, a lifestyle and girlfriend all of which he loved ‘and not in that order, either’. The job was that of Financial Editor of the News on Sunday (which he famously described as the ‘best of the broadsheets, Sunday Times excepted’, which pleased the editor of the Sunday Times and ensured Gray the possibility of a job there one day and infuriated all the rest); the house was a very pretty Victorian semi near Clapham Common; the lifestyle was stylish, expensive and interesting; and the girlfriend was pretty, talented and (he was frequently also heard modestly to say) as much in love with him as he was with her. She was called Briony and she was a photographic stylist, quite a bit younger than him; indeed, he liked to call her his child-bride. Gray was thirty-seven, tall, slim with rather streaky, floppy brown hair and (appropriately) grey eyes. He was not good looking in the classical sense; his face was just too long, his nose slightly hawklike, but it managed to convey exactly what he was: intelligent, amusing and charming. He dressed extremely well (and expensively), knew a lot of interesting people, and was very good indeed at his job. He was also rather engagingly good natured; it was unusual enough for him to be out of sorts for Briony to notice it immediately. Which she did that night.
He was sitting in the conservatory reading the Evening Standard when she came in; he looked up at her and only just smiled.
‘Hi, Gray. You’re home early.’
‘Nothing to stay in the office for,’ said Gray gloomily.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Oh – just a bit pissed off. Had an interview with Bard Channing, you know, property guy, all lined up for today, and the bugger cancelled it at the last minute.’
‘I’m sure he’ll re-schedule.’
‘Hope so.’
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea. Or are you ready for something stronger?’
‘No, tea’d be good. Thanks.’
Briony came back into the conservatory with a large cup of extremely weak tea. That was how Gray liked it made: with a teabag barely waved across it, and hardly any milk. The greatest trial he had to endure in his working life was the tea machine at the News, spewing out as it did rich, almost bright brown liquid with blobs of barely dissolved powdered milk in it. Since the paper had moved into the high-tech world and the days of the kettle in the secretary’s office were merely a sweet memory, Gray had tried a great many remedies for the tea machine, including a large Thermos which he made up every morning, but even that developed a stewed taste after about midday; he acknowledged that there were worse things in life to be endured, but he nevertheless suffered from it. Gray’s love of alcohol – especially of Australian wine – was considerable, but he had frequently gone on record as saying that given a straight choice between the wine and the tea, the tea would have to win; that he could
not live, and certainly could not work, without it. He chain-drank through the day, from a jumbo-size teacup, refilling it as soon as it emptied.
‘Thanks, darling. That’s perfect. Listen to this, what do you think about this, it’s in one of these invention catalogues. It’s a kind of plug-in wand you immerse in a cup of cold water to make it hot. Could be the answer to my tea problem. Shall I get one?’
‘You could try,’ said Briony. ‘I don’t know why you don’t just take a kettle into the office and be done with it.’
‘I tried twice, and it really wasn’t worth it. It’s against the rules, so every secretary in the floor was borrowing it, and it was never there when I wanted it.’
‘What a tragedy your life is, Graydon,’ said Briony briskly. ‘Shall we go to the cinema tonight?’
‘If you want to,’ said Gray, ‘but I thought we agreed we’d stay home, and I’d cook something. In fact I’ve already mixed the pasta dough, and I’ve bought that eye-wateringly expensive wild asparagus, it won’t be nearly so nice tomorrow. And …’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, and there’s a bottle of Hardy’s in the fridge,’ said Briony easily. ‘It’s all right, Gray, I won’t disturb your little plans.’
‘They’re not plans,’ said Gray, smiling at her. ‘Just – well, plans. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does,’ said Briony, ‘to you. Don’t worry about it. We’ll stay in. We can see the film tomorrow.’
Her voice, light and even tempered, her smile, quick and friendly, made Gray feel guilty. Much more guilty than if she had made a fuss. Just the same she was right; he didn’t want to go out, having decided to stay in, he hated having his plans changed. He liked to look at an evening, or a day, its arrangements neatly in place, usually with one of his favourite activities contained within it, cooking or reading, or indeed – if it had been planned – a cinema or a concert, and then to proceed through it, in an orderly, pleasing manner. His professional life was so chaotic that in his own time he craved order; it was another expression of his acute tidiness, his love of method, of systems.
‘Honestly Bri,’ he said, not really meaning it, knowing he was safe, ‘it doesn’t matter. We can go out.’
‘No, no really. I’d love to eat in, as long as you cook. And I’ve got an early start anyway. Huge session for Ideal Home.’
‘All right, darling. If that’s really all right.’
‘It is.’
He picked up the paper again, then put it down, studied her, thinking how pretty she was, how lucky he was to have her. She was small and thin, almost skinny, with a heart-shaped, rather serious face, long brown hair and very beautiful dark blue eyes. Gray got up suddenly and went over and kissed her.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Briony, just slightly briskly. ‘Can I borrow the Standard ?’
‘Sure.’
‘I saw Francesca Channing last week,’ she said suddenly. ‘I was working for Vogue, and they’d been photographing her along with some other high-profile women in the charity business. She’s awfully pretty. And she seemed nice as well.’
‘She is,’ said Gray, ‘and extremely bright and very charming. A touch neurotic though.’
‘You seem to know a lot about her.’
‘I don’t actually. I only met her once, at some dinner. It was fairly early in the marriage, she’s probably hardened up a bit now.’
‘Why should she have?’
‘Because she’ll need to, that’s why. Bard Channing is not very good to his women. Shit.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Bloody Shields has done that piece in The Times that I’ve been talking about for ages, about over-gullible investors. Fuck. I’m an idiot, Bri.’
‘That’s true,’ said Briony agreeably.
‘That’s not what you’re meant to say,’ said Gray.
‘I know,’ said Briony, ‘but it’s true.’ She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then she said, ‘Gray?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Gray, I want to ask you something.’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Gray, how would you feel about us having a baby?’
Panic ripped through Gray, hot, bright panic; it took him by surprise how bad it was. He sat quite still, staring at her, trying to appear calm, trying to establish how serious she was, how much she really meant it, not trusting himself to react in any way.
‘Well,’ he said finally, relieved to hear his own voice sounding level and reasonable, ‘well, I don’t know. I mean I really hadn’t thought about it.’
‘Not at all? Not ever? I can’t believe that.’
‘I don’t know why not,’ he said. ‘Why should I have? It’s not the sort of thing I would think about. Is it?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Briony. ‘You’re thirty-seven. Past the sort of age people normally start to think about such things. Well past it, actually. I’m twenty-eight. The sort of age you begin to hear the clock ticking. The biological one, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Gray, and he could hear his own voice sounding dull, ‘yes, I do know.’
‘And we’ve been together for almost four years. The sort of time that – well, it’s quite a long time. You keep saying you love me. I love you. We have a lot going for us. We’re very happy together. Surely you must think there’s more to life than making the right sauce for the right pasta and going to the right restaurant and going to the right off-the-beaten-track place twice a year with the right clothes in the right luggage.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Gray lightly. It was what he actually meant, but he was trying to make it sound like a joke; he could tell by her face he had failed.
‘Darling Briony,’ he said quickly, ‘darling, darling Briony, of course there’s more to life than that. But our life is so perfect just now; why not enjoy it for a while? And you’re doing so well with your career, the best stylist in London according to Arena, do you really want to give all that up yet? And if I take my three-month sabbatical this autumn, we can go to India, like we always said, surely you don’t want to – ’
‘Oh no,’ said Briony, and her voice was heavy suddenly, ‘of course I don’t want to. That’s why I mentioned it. I didn’t mean it. Who could want a baby more than all that crap? No-one in their right minds, Gray, could they? So how long do we have to go on with all this perfection? Five years? Seven? Till it’s too late for me to have a baby at all? Gray, I don’t want to – ’
‘Bri, it wouldn’t be too late. You’d still only be thirty-three. Loads of time.’
‘Not necessarily. The fertility clinics are full of people who thought just that, who waited and waited and said right now, and then suddenly it wasn’t quite so easy. It worries me, Gray, it really really does.’
‘Look,’ said Gray, going over to her, taking her hand. She pulled it away, sat staring out at the darkening garden. ‘Look, darling, I can understand you’re worried. But we really do have lots of time. I do think it’s a terrible mistake to rush it … A terrible mistake. I mean, surely you’d want to be married first: you know I do, and you don’t, or say you don’t …’
‘It’s a much smaller decision,’ said Briony, her blue eyes very large in her small pale face. She looked not much more than a child herself, thought Gray, sitting there in her leggings and her big jumper, her light brown hair caught back in a ribbon. ‘You know it is. It doesn’t really matter. You just want it because it’s romantic – ’
‘No I don’t,’ said Gray, mildly indignant, ‘I want it because I love you. I want it very much.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Briony, ‘sorry. It just doesn’t seem very important to me. But a baby, that is important.’
‘Well, I agree with you there,’ said Gray, and he could hear something close to panic in his own voice. ‘Very, very important. To both of us. Life-transforming. And we both have to feel – well, absolutely ready for it.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘No
,’ he said, ‘no, I’m sorry, I don’t. I – well, I can’t even begin to imagine it.’
‘But why not? I don’t understand why not.’
‘I suppose,’ he said, simply, ‘if you really want to know, because I don’t like children. I can’t help it, I just don’t. It’s nothing to do with you, with us. But I will think about it. Think about getting to like them. Carefully. I promise.’
Briony sat looking at him. She looked more herself suddenly, calmer, He felt a slight easing of the panic: maybe it’s just talk, he thought, maybe she just wanted to see how I felt.
‘Darling,’ he said tentatively, ‘darling, shall we – ’
‘No, Gray,’ said Briony, ‘we won’t. Whatever it was, whatever diversionary tactic you think you might embark on, don’t. I just wanted to see how you felt, that’s all, and now I know. I have to assimilate it, that’s all, think what I’m going to do.’
‘What do you mean, do?’ said Gray sharply. ‘What can you do? I don’t understand – ’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Gray. I’m not going to flush my pills down the loo without telling you, nothing like that. But you must be able to see that if you feel this way, it affects how I feel about you. You must. And – ’
The phone on the table rang sharply; Briony picked it up. ‘Seven-four-three-nine,’ she said, and her voice was colder than he had ever heard it, even more than when they had had one of their blazing, epic, bi-annual rows. ‘Yes, he’s here. Can I say who’s calling? Right. Hold on.’ She turned to Gray, her face absolutely blank. ‘It’s for you. A woman. Teresa Booth. Mean anything to you?’
Gray shook his head violently; the last thing he could face now was a conversation with some stranger.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Briony into the phone, ‘I was wrong, he’s actually just gone out. Could you call him tomorrow at the office? Yes, fine, any time after eleven. Goodbye.’
The Dilemma Page 9
