The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  He felt extremely cheerful suddenly, and rather sexy. He phoned Briony, left a message on the answering machine telling her he loved her and that he was very sorry for his behaviour the day before and would like to take her out to dinner, and went to wash out his cup. The gadget that was supposed to warm water just didn’t work; he had thrown it away in disgust and tried to take to herb tea. So far, he told Briony, he hadn’t found a single one that didn’t taste like horse piss. She hadn’t seemed very interested. He was just putting on the very chic linen jacket she had given him for his last birthday when the phone rang. It was Kirsten Channing.

  ‘I just rang to say thank you for your message,’ she said, and sounded as if she meant it. ‘The whole of the rest of the world seems to have sent me to Coventry.’

  Her voice wobbled; Gray grinned into the phone and said he was just leaving, but he could manage a quick drink if she’d like to get a lift down from Coventry, and where exactly was she?

  ‘At home. In Fulham.’

  ‘Well, look, I belong to the Harbour Club, why not meet there?’

  She came in looking very pale and heavy eyed, wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt, drank two glasses of wine very quickly and then started to cry.

  Gray went to sit next to her and put his arm round her; he gave her his handkerchief.

  ‘This is silk,’ she said, looking at it after blowing her nose several times. ‘No use at all for tears. Or snot.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll try and have a box of double-strength Kleenex about my person.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, the tears starting to flow again, ‘you don’t understand, I was sorry about spoiling it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about my hanky,’ said Gray, ‘I have dozens of the things. And you mustn’t be so upset. You’d be amazed how fast people forget these things. Three weeks, maybe two, the Princess of Wales or Fergie or Madonna will have done something outrageous and no-one will remember anything about you and your undoubtedly difficult family.’

  ‘Not true,’ she said. ‘Certainly not my father. He never forgets anything. Except what he’s done himself. And no-one in my family is speaking to me. Except for Granny Jess. That’s my dad’s mother. She was really kind, had me to lunch today, and said she’d talk to my father. She’s very rigidly moral, you see; she thinks he should never have left my mother, that it’s all his fault anyway.’

  ‘I daresay she has a point,’ said Gray. ‘Honestly, Kirsten, I don’t think you should worry too much. Your dad will get over it, and since he’s fired you, and since you don’t live with him, he can take his time over it.’

  ‘It’s all very well,’ said Kirsten, ‘but I don’t have any money. I mean any. I’m a walking negative-equity situation.’

  ‘What do you really want to do?’ said Gray.

  ‘Oh I don’t know. I still like the idea of law, but – ’

  ‘What sort of degree have you got?’

  ‘A Third,’ said Kirsten, and started crying again.

  ‘You’re a bright girl. Why not better?’

  ‘I fucked about,’ she said briefly. ‘Didn’t work. Drank a lot. Did a lot of drugs. I was lucky to get a Third.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I can help you there, I’m afraid. Here, take my handkerchief again.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you could,’ she said, blowing her nose.

  Gray thought for a minute and then remembered a friend with a PR company. He would give his eye teeth to have Kirsten Channing sitting in his office. ‘He was saying only the other day he needed someone who sounded a bit like you.’

  ‘In what way?’ said Kirsten, slightly defensively.

  ‘I don’t think I want to spell it out, you might get above yourself. Or it might make you cross. Anyway, it would be quite menial, glorified receptionist really. And nothing smart like working for Channings. The accounts seem to be mostly household goods. But at least a job and a salary. Would that be the sort of thing?’

  ‘Anything would be the sort of thing at the moment,’ said Kirsten.

  ‘Well, look, let me see what I can do. It may be very boring and it certainly can’t compete with a pupillage in Lincoln’s Inn. But – ’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘I really, really don’t care. I don’t honestly think I’m up to that anyway.’ She looked at him and half smiled. ‘You’re so nice, Gray,’ she said suddenly, ‘really nice. A proper friend. I haven’t got many.’

  ‘Oh come off it.’

  ‘No really, I haven’t. And I behave so badly it’s not really surprising.’

  ‘If even half that garbage was true,’ he said, ‘I’m not surprised you behave badly. Was it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘it was much worse than that.’

  There was a silence, then she said, ‘You’ve got to go. Thank you again. For everything. The drinks. Listening. Saying you’d call your friend. I wish I could do something in return.’

  Gray, disliking himself just slightly, but knowing an opportunity when he saw one, paused briefly and then said, ‘You can. Actually. A couple of things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can tell me something. Douglas Booth’s new wife, is she called Teresa, do you happen to know?’

  ‘Yes she is. Terrible woman. We all had to go to their wedding, of course. Very flashy, overweight, blonde, too much perfume, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Do I get the impression you don’t like her very much?’ said Gray, laughing.

  ‘Not very much,’ said Kirsten, smiling again, sniffing. ‘And she doesn’t like us either. Not even my dad: well, least of all my dad.’

  ‘Interesting. I wonder why not.’

  ‘Oh well, you know, we’ve all known Duggie for ever, we were fond of Suzanne, I suppose she’s jealous. Or something.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And does she have a timeshare company or something like that?’

  ‘Well, she’s got a company. Never stops talking about it. I don’t really know what it is. I try not to listen to her. I tell you one quite odd thing. I saw her leaving Channing House really late one night. On her own, without Duggie. Bit odd.’

  ‘Really?’ The slug came again, the slug of excitement. ‘Is she often in the office?’

  ‘No. I’ve never seen her there since. I suppose she was picking some papers up for Duggie or something.’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly all very interesting.’

  ‘What’s the other thing?’

  ‘I’d like to meet your stepmother. The lovely Francesca.’

  ‘I thought you had.’

  ‘I have. But only very formally, at a reception. I want to meet her by accident. Get to know her a little.’

  Kirsten looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let’s call it research.’

  ‘She’d never talk to you. Not the press. Specially not after my little faux pas. And she’s very upset at the moment, apparently.’

  ‘Oh really? Any particular reason?’

  ‘Yes, their baby’s ill. Something to do with her heart. That’s made me feel worse, I didn’t know at the time, I meant the time when I talked to Wyatt.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ he said soothingly, ‘but it does sound as if they all have enough on their plates at the moment. Is it very serious? The baby’s illness?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Quite serious, I think.’

  ‘How very sad. Well – forget that one. For now anyway.’

  ‘What are you researching?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said lightly, ‘my big piece on the property market, that’s all. Since your dad won’t see me, I have to do a profile by remote control, so to speak.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘But I’m interested in the Booth ménage. Sounds fascinating.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re not up to anything really bad, are you? I’ve got very nervous about – well, about – ’

  ‘The press,’ said Gray. ‘Of course you have. But no, I’m not up to anything rem
otely bad. As you put it.’ He smiled at her carefully. ‘Now don’t cry any more. OK?’

  He leant forward, kissed her gently on the mouth. He meant it to be friendly, almost fatherly – didn’t he? – but her mouth was soft and very fluid, and despite himself his lips moved on hers, parting them just slightly, and then he drew back, looked at her. Her eyes were very dark, the pupils very big; he could see she was as moved, however lightly, as he was.

  ‘I’d like to do that again some time,’ he said. ‘And now I must go.’

  But he didn’t go home: he went back to the office for a while and made some phone calls.

  In Stockholm, Jon Bartok, Senior Director of the Konigstrom Bank, decided, after a long afternoon studying some figures, that the time had come to involve himself rather more closely with one of his major clients.

  ‘I would like to talk to Mr Channing in London,’ he said to his secretary. ‘Could you get him on the phone, please?’

  ‘Personally?’

  ‘Yes, personally.’

  The secretary buzzed through to him five minutes later. ‘I’m afraid Mr Channing is not available just at the moment,’ she said, ‘and Mrs Grainger, his personal secretary, is unable to say exactly when he will be able to call.’

  ‘That woman is a disaster area,’ said Bartok. ‘Would you be kind enough then to send Mr Channing a fax asking him to call me urgently.’

  ‘On the general number?’

  ‘No, I have a number for his dedicated machine. I fancy that will bring us a result pretty quickly.’

  Five minutes later, Bard Channing was on the phone; Bartok listened carefully to what he had to say and then said he would like to hold further discussions with him and Mr Barbour within the next few days.

  ‘It is not so much your account with us I am concerned with,’ he said. ‘It appears to be in good health, but there are a few things I would like clarification on. Perhaps it would be a good plan if you came over here so we could talk personally.’

  Bard Channing said he thought it would be an excellent plan and that he would instruct his secretary to talk to Jon Bartok’s secretary to find a suitable date and make the arrangements.

  ‘I think I would like the date to be very soon,’ said Jon Bartok mildly. ‘I have, for instance, a window in my diary late tomorrow. It would suit me very well if you could possibly make yourselves available then. Failing that, the following morning.’

  His secretary was in the office during this conversation, placing letters for signature on his desk. Mr Bartok did not often, she reflected, call a meeting at quite such short notice. Especially not with international clients. He had to be quite concerned to do that; really quite concerned.

  ‘You are still coming tomorrow, aren’t you?’ said Francesca to Bard. He had come in for a sandwich at nine and now was disappearing upstairs to his study, his arms full of files; he looked distracted, exhausted even.

  ‘Yes, of course I am. Although I have to fly out to Stockholm in the afternoon. Unless of course the news is – well, unless I decide I should stay. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh – don’t know. I thought perhaps with all this about Kirsten – ’

  ‘Kirsten has been dealt with,’ he said shortly. ‘I don’t intend to waste any more time or emotional energy on her.’

  ‘How very orderly of you,’ said Francesca. She knew she should have simply accepted what he said, been grateful he was coming, but the remark irritated her disproportionately.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means how clever of you to put your family into compartments and divisions, just like your company.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  ‘Francesca, I’d like to know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh God, Bard, I just meant the company is all sliced up, Channing UK, Channing European, the shopping malls, all that sort of thing, all with their percentage share of your attention. And so is the family: Kirsten now exiled, nought per cent, Pattie parked in Fulham, five per cent, Kitty currently allotted quite a large percentage – ’

  ‘That’s a filthy thing to say.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be. It just suddenly struck me.’

  ‘Well, you should keep such thoughts to yourself. I’m doing my best, Francesca – for everybody.’

  ‘Yes, Bard, I know. I’m – I’m sorry.’

  She was; this was the third violent quarrel they had had since seeing Mr Lauder. Frightening, swift, damaging, all seeming to gather momentum from almost nowhere. Of course it was because they were distressed and very tired; but even so, each seemed to lead to the next with alarming speed.

  He nodded at her curtly, disappeared upstairs. She sat, trying to concentrate on what she was reading: an article in the Sunday paper about the Labour leadership race. It seemed monumentally unimportant.

  ‘Gray you’re not listening to me.’

  ‘Briony, I am listening to you.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ said Gray irritably. He was sitting in the conservatory, drinking a glass of extremely good white port with which, as he had said to Briony, he was going to wash down the Mozart piano concerto. Well, the Mozart clearly had to go. He switched off the stereo, sighed and said, ‘All right, maybe not to every word. Start again. And I’ll listen now, whether or not I was before.’

  ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ said Briony. ‘To stay with my parents actually.’

  ‘Oh. A bit sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. A bit. But what it’s about isn’t sudden.’

  ‘I presume,’ said Gray, ‘it’s the baby business?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is. Only I don’t quite see it as business, as you put it.’

  ‘Oh, Bri, you know what I – ’

  ‘Yes I know what you mean, Gray. Look, I don’t want to get into a long discussion now. But I’ve been very patient and it’s over three months since I told you I wanted – well, what I wanted. I’ve tried and tried, but it won’t go away, Gray. And I think you owe it to me to give me an answer. Not an “oh Bri” answer, but a proper one. I need to know.’

  ‘Need to know exactly what, Briony?’ He could hear his voice sounding weary; he struggled to lighten it. He realised the port had all gone from his glass, and had no recollection of drinking it.

  ‘What you think. I mean if you say, yes, OK in a year, even in two maybe, but it’s a definite something, then I can wait. If you can’t even say that much, then – then I have some very real thinking to do.’

  ‘Briony, can’t we discuss it properly? I really don’t want to be pressurised like this – ’

  ‘Gray, there’s nothing more to discuss. And I’m sorry if it feels like pressurising, but I have to know. It’s too important to leave unresolved. Just let’s not talk about it any more, OK?’

  ‘Yes, Briony. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It’s not exactly what I want. But I think it’s what we ought to do.’

  Gray was silent, his mind churning; he felt sick, cornered. He drained a second glass of port and looked at Briony, as she stood looking down at him; she was wearing black linen shorts and a white T-shirt, her legs were tanned, her face, completely bare of make-up, was lightly freckled. She looked so lovely, and he loved her so much it hurt. Why couldn’t she understand that? That he simply loved her, he wanted her, all to himself, he didn’t want to share her, to share their life with anyone, anyone at all: certainly not someone small, noisy and demanding who from all the evidence available to him would wreck not only their social and professional life, but their sex life as well.

  She came over to him, bent down and kissed him lightly. She smelt gorgeous, sweet and summery; he caught her wrist, tried to pull her down towards him.

  ‘No Gray, I’m late already.’

  ‘You’re going tonight?’ He felt shocked, already bereft.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s best. Having decided. I told Mum I’d be there before e
leven, and she worries so much. And I really don’t want to have any more to do with you until – well, until. Bye. I’ll see you – well, shall we say in a week? That should be long enough.’

  And she picked up her big canvas satchel and was gone.

  ‘Shit,’ said Gray. ‘Shit shit shit.’

  ‘I’ve been shortlisted for a job in Edinburgh,’ said Naomi. ‘If I get it, I think I’m going to take it.’

  ‘Oh really? That’s extremely interesting. Do I get asked for my opinion?’

  ‘I can’t see that it would be relevant.’

  ‘Well, have you decided what the rest of us will do? Do we accompany you to Edinburgh, or stay here, waiting for visits?’

  ‘Well, obviously you’d have to come. We’d all move up there.’

  ‘I see. Suppose I don’t want to go and live in Edinburgh?’

  She shrugged. ‘Frankly, Liam, I don’t think you have a lot of choice.’