He made his coffee and sat down at the table meaning to go through last Sunday’s papers for jobs; but he could hear a baby crying in the garden next door and he suddenly thought of Francesca and the tiny, sickly Kitty. At least their children were healthy, his and Naomi’s, they had that to be thankful for. Liam was, if nothing else, a devoted father. The removal of the buffer of the nanny between himself and Jasper and Hattie had made them seem at once more exasperating and exhausting and troubling and more precious and important to him. He loved them as he had never loved anyone, with a fierce, possessive passion; he watched them sometimes as they played, or ate or even fought, their small beings intent on their task, and would feel quite overwhelmed with amazement that they were his: and with concern for the responsibility of them. It was not a tedious responsibility, rather a pleasurable one, coming from the sense of importance that they gave him, true importance, necessity even. He would like to know how Kitty was, he decided; and besides, Francesca had been so kind to him that day, so thoughtful, had been so patently willing to forgive his past rudeness and hostility. He owed it to her at least to make a phone call.
He picked up the phone, quickly, before he could change his mind, and dialled the house in Hamilton Terrace; Sandie, the housekeeper, answered. He had always rather liked Sandie; more importantly she had liked him.
‘Is Mrs Channing there, please, Sandie? This is Liam Channing.’
‘Liam!’ She didn’t quite say ‘Good God’, but the words hung in the air. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, pretty well, Sandie, thank you. And you?’
‘I’m fine, Liam, yes. But Mrs Channing is out at the – oh, no, here she is now. Just a moment, Liam, I’ll tell her you’re on the line.’
There was a pause; he heard Sandie say, ‘It’s Liam Channing,’ heard Francesca pause before taking the phone, heard her large earring go down on the hall table as she picked it up.
‘Liam! Hallo. This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘I’m pleased it’s pleasant,’ he said, and meant it.
‘Yes,’ she said, slightly awkwardly, ‘it – well yes, it is pleasant.’
‘I realised I’d never thanked you for the other day. You were very kind.’
‘I think the benefit was mutual actually,’ she said. ‘I’d have been arrested otherwise. Or at best crashed the car.’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway, thank you. And also, I wanted to ask you how Kitty was.’
‘Oh. How very nice of you.’
Her voice was lower, suddenly, disproportionately emotional. ‘Yes, well, we still don’t really know. We saw the paediatrician today, she has had tests. She’s – not too good. Although not too bad. She does have a hole in her heart, but it’s very small. We have to see the surgeon next week. That’s all we know.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘It must be a great worry for you both,’ he said carefully.
‘Yes. Yes, of course it is. Bard is – well, terribly upset. We both are.’
She sounded awkward; well, it was an awkward conversation. Then she said, ‘And how are things with you?’
‘Oh – filthy,’ he said, without thinking.
‘I’m sorry. What sort of filthy?’
‘Oh – you know.’
‘No, I don’t know.’
He’d have to tell her now, he supposed; or if he didn’t have to, he found he wanted to.
‘Naomi’s lost her job. We’re in a bit of a mess. Her being the major breadwinner and all that. Classic ’nineties problems, you know. Negative equity on the house. That sort of thing.’
‘Liam, I’m so sorry. Is that what you were seeing Bard about the other day?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was helpful? I hope he was.’
‘Not very,’ said Liam, and found he was enjoying it, enjoying telling, showing her what a bastard she was married to. ‘Not at all, actually, I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’ Another long pause; what could she say? ‘Oh, dear. I wish I could help. I don’t think I can. But surely Naomi can get another – ’
‘She’s working on it. It isn’t easy.’
‘No, I’m sure it isn’t. How is Naomi?’
‘Fine,’ he said briefly.
‘Good.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘Well, thank you for ringing, Liam. It was very kind. And – I can’t think what I can do, but I’m always here if you want to talk.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘How odd,’ she said suddenly, ‘that we should be having this conversation. How very odd. I must go. Goodbye, Liam.’
‘Goodbye, Francesca.’
Yes, he thought, how very odd.
‘So very kind,’ said Heather Clarke, looking up from a letter from Bard. ‘What a dear man he is. And even a private plane to take us to the island. And his staff to wait on us. How can we even begin to show him how grateful we are? It worries me sometimes.’
‘I shouldn’t let it,’ said Oliver. He was finding his mother’s attitude to Bard Channing increasingly irritating. ‘The house is there, the staff is there, why shouldn’t he lend it to us? Well, to you.’
‘Oliver, dear, that’s a very harsh attitude,’ said Heather disapprovingly. ‘None of that is the point, it’s thinking of it all, and of us, that makes it so kind.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Oliver. ‘I think he ought to think of you, I think he owes you a lot.’
‘Oliver, what does Mr Channing owe me?’ said Heather. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I agree with Mum,’ said Melinda. ‘I think Mr Channing’s really sweet.’
‘You should work with him,’ said Oliver, ‘then you wouldn’t think he was so sweet.’
‘Your father worked with him. He never complained.’
‘Didn’t he?’ said Oliver, looking at her with interest. ‘Didn’t he ever?’
‘They had their differences, of course. But – ’
‘What sort of differences?’
‘Oliver dear, being in business is like a marriage. You father always said that too. It has its ups and downs, you have to give and take. There were things I’m sure that they didn’t see eye to eye on, but – ’
‘Yeah, and I bet Dad didn’t ever get his way. Old man Channing overrides everybody and everything. If you don’t do what he wants, God help you. Do you know he even wanted to stop you seeing Mrs Booth?’
‘He did? How do you know?’ said Heather.
‘Because he said so. Tried to pretend it might upset you, be bad for you.’
‘I think that’s quite sweet,’ said Heather. She went rather pink. ‘I suppose he thinks talking about the old days … Did he seem very bothered by it, Oliver?’
‘Well – not bothered. He just didn’t want you to. Don’t worry about it.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘I shall worry about it,’ said Heather decisively. ‘If it bothers Mr Channing that much, I won’t see her. I didn’t like her particularly anyway, so there’s really no point. I’ll ring her, Oliver, and tell her I don’t feel up to it. Mr Channing is much more important.’
‘All right,’ said Oliver. ‘Fine.’ He was very weary of the whole subject; it had got him into trouble with Channing, and now he could see there might well be trouble from Teresa Booth. ‘Now look, I think your passport’s expired, I’ll have to get you a new one. Or do you think you could do that, Melinda?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Melinda. ‘We’re awfully busy at the office at the moment.’
‘You always are,’ said Oliver shortly. ‘Unlike me, of course. OK, I’ll see to it.’ He was finding his womenfolk rather tiresome at the moment. Time he got another girlfriend. Only it was quite a while since he’d met anyone he really fancied. Really fancied, in the sense of liked as well. Maybe on the Greek island …
‘Oh Christ. Oh shit. Holy fucking shit,’ said Kirsten.
Her stomach heaved; she felt icy cold, then very hot, as if she were going to faint. She cl
osed her eyes, then opened them again, praying that she had imagined it, that what she had just read had been a delusion, the result of drinking too much red wine the night before.
It hadn’t.
‘Fuck,’ she said, and then again. ‘Fuck.’
‘Kirsten, what on earth is the matter?’ said Toby. ‘Or are you making some kind of a suggestion? Because I don’t think I could – not just yet.’ He looked at her, grinning over the breakfast table and his copy of the News of the World, his own favourite Sunday reading.
‘Shut up,’ said Kirsten. ‘Just shut up, Toby, will you.’ She forced her eyes back to the page, made herself go on reading it. She was going to spew, she really was.
‘Babe, are you all right? You look awful.’
‘No. No, I’m not. Look, Toby, read this.’ The paper, as she held it out to him, shook; she felt hot and cold at the same time. Toby took it, smiling at her slightly anxiously; a smile that slowly left his face as he read.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Holy shit. Where did this load of bollocks come from?’
‘Me,’ said Kirsten. Her voice was faint, shaky.
‘You? Don’t be insane. It can’t have done.’
‘It did.’
He read on, then: ‘You mean you talked to this woman?’
‘Yup. I did.’
He stared at her, then shook his head, smiling slightly doubtfully. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said finally.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry. But it’s true. When, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Last Friday. Well, the one before last. When you went to New York and I couldn’t come. You know – ten days ago.’
‘But why?’
‘Oh Toby, I don’t know. Well, I suppose I do. He’ll kill me, Toby. Absolutely kill me. Shit, what am I going to do?’ Tears of fright, of panic, welled in her eyes, started rolling down her cheeks. She looked at it again, lying there, in all its horror, irredeemable, inescapable. ‘Tycoon’s family’s hidden heartbreak,’ read the teaser flash on the front page of the Sunday Graphic. Women’s section, page 42. Page 42 showed a large colour photograph of Kirsten taken several years earlier in her Benenden school uniform; God knew where they’d got it. She looked very pretty, but rather strained. It was obviously a lucky photograph, thought Kirsten, dredged out of the cuttings library. The picture was underneath a headline which ran right across the two pages, and said ‘Kirsten Channing tells of her childhood hell’, Judy Wyatt Exclusive.
Next to it was a smaller picture of Kirsten, Barnaby and Victoria, taken at about the same time, with Pattie, sitting on a beach, captioned ‘The family Bard Channing left to sink or swim’, and on the opposite page, a very recent one of Francesca with Jack and Kitty taken for the christening in the drawing room at Stylings, Kitty in myriad frills, Jack in his sailor suit. ‘The new young family with everything.’
‘ “It was not unusual,” Kirsten Channing told me, her husky voice shaky with the memory, “for me to come home and find my mother sobbing helplessly. Life on her own, after my father had left, when I was only eleven, was a terrible struggle for her. She was lonely and very hurt, and she was trying to bring us up single-handed. As the eldest, I felt I had to do everything I could to help, and as my younger brother had been sent away to school at my father’s insistence, I found the burden very heavy. My mother depended on me totally, not only emotionally, but also in a practical way. She couldn’t afford much help, and she was often unwell.”
‘Kirsten loyally did not expand on the nature of her mother’s “unwellness”: Pattie Channing was in fact an alcoholic, and her small daughter had to bear the burden and the shame of that fact as well. An old school friend told me that more than once Kirsten came home to find her mother lying unconscious, once at the foot of the stairs, having fallen from top to bottom.
‘Was her father not available if Kirsten needed him? “He was always working. He’s one of the great workaholics of all time. He was never there, not even at weekends, although he used to come and take us out sometimes. But if my mother was in a very bad way, I never wanted to leave her. Then my father would get upset. I suppose that was understandable, but it was very difficult for me. I would stand listening to him shouting while my mother cried, trying to decide which of them I should spend the day with.”
‘Bard Channing undoubtedly had to work long and hard; he is a self-made millionaire in the property field. As well as a mansion in St John’s Wood, and a vast estate in Sussex, he owns a house in Greece, and a luxury yacht moored in the South of France, Lay Lady Lay, named after a Bob Dylan song.
‘He met the third Mrs Channing fifteen years ago; he has another son, by his first wife, Liam, from whom he is estranged. Liam, who is struggling to find work as a barrister, lives in a small house in North London.
‘Bard Channing proposed to Francesca on television, in front of millions. She in fact married another man and then divorced him before finally yielding to his charms. And of course, the luxury lifestyle.
‘She never speaks to Pattie Channing, has never been near her small Fulham home …’
‘You really are an idiot,’ said Toby again.
‘Toby, for Christ’s sake stop saying that. It doesn’t help.’
‘Sorry. Er – is there any chance he won’t see it? I mean surely he wouldn’t subscribe to this rag?’
‘Oh don’t be so stupid, of course he’ll see it,’ said Kirsten, her voice rising in agony. ‘He sees everything. Everything that’s written about him. If not today, tomorrow. Anyway, people will be ringing him by now, I’m sure. Oh God. Oh God, Toby, what shall I do?’
‘Don’t know. I really don’t know, darling.’ He was very serious now, obviously shaken by what had happened.
‘She promised me,’ said Kirsten, ‘she promised – ’
‘Promised you what?’
‘Not to write anything without showing me.’
‘Kirsten, when were you born? Really!’
‘I know, I know. But I was so angry, so upset with my father. He’d been foul to me, really bawled me out. Told me I was lazy, and taking him and everyone else for a ride, and that – ’
‘Yes?’
‘Disgusted him.’
‘Sounds a bit strong,’ said Toby.
‘Oh, that’s quite mild for him. Honestly, Toby, you have no idea. And then he said he was going to take Francesca to the country for a few days, that she was tired, and I wasn’t to start creating over the weekend. I know why now, their baby’s ill, something wrong with her heart, that makes it worse. Oh, God. But I didn’t then, I thought it was a fuss about nothing, And then Mum rang, and she sounded really really low, and I kept thinking of the difference between us and them. And then that slag phoned – ’
‘Which slag?’ said Toby. ‘I’m getting confused.’
‘The journalist slag. And she said how wonderful it must be for me to be working for my father and how lovely Francesca was and something – snapped. And I went for a drink with her, and – well, you’ve read the rest. I have been a bit worried, but the thing is, Toby, I didn’t say all this. Well, not as much as it sounds. I never said about Mum being an alcoholic – ’
‘No, it says you didn’t,’ said Toby, who was half-reading the article again as she talked.
‘And I did try to be – well, truthful, I said how he bought her the house and came at weekends and everything. But – well anyway,’ she said, her voice wobbling, ‘what do you think I should do?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Toby. ‘I’m really not sure. How about you ring your boss? Sam thingy. See if she’s got any ideas.’
‘Oh,’ said Kirsten, ‘oh Toby, that’s a good idea. The press is her area. She may be able to get this woman to tell my father I didn’t say all this, print a retraction, something – ’ Her voice, tearful, choky, was neverthless suddenly hopeful. ‘Yes, I’ll ring her now. Toby, you are clever.’
She rang Sam; Sam said she hadn’t seen the Graphic, but she’d read the piece and ring her back. Five
minutes later she was on the phone; Kirsten could tell by her voice, heavy, struggling against panic, that there wasn’t a lot of hope of a retraction.
‘Kirsten, this is awful. Terrible. Why on earth did you talk to that woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ wailed Kirsten, ‘I just don’t know. I was upset. I was drunk. Oh Sam, what am I going to do? What’s he going to do?’
‘Fire us both, I should think,’ said Sam, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
The Dilemma Page 18
