‘No, you say. I’m the old-fashioned type, like to do what men tell me.’
‘You sound like a Ritz girl to me,’ said Gray. God, he hoped he hadn’t got to flirt with her. ‘The Terrace Bar at six?’
‘That would be fine,’ she said. She was clearly unimpressed. Not a pushover, then. Not at all.
Liam had drunk an awful lot of whisky; he hadn’t realised how much until he heard the doorbell and saw the bottle was almost empty. One of the other mothers from school was standing on the doorstep with Jasper.
‘He said you were supposed to come for him, Liam, but we waited for a while. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Liam, ‘thank you, how dreadful of me, I’m so sorry.’
‘Oh God, it’s easily done. So much to remember, isn’t there? Naomi’s working I presume? So clever isn’t she, so high powered, we’re all quite dazzled by her.’
‘Yes, yes she’s quite something,’ said Liam, articulating with care, and then remembered Hattie; where the hell was she? Christ, not outside her school as well? No, Naomi had said something about her being with her little friend down the road.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘would you excuse me, I have to go and get Hattie.’
‘Yes of course,’ said the mother, smiling graciously at him over her pie-frill shirt. Her eyes swept the hall, through to the kitchen (could she see the whisky bottle? she could probably smell it).
‘Thank you again,’ he said, anxious to get rid of her.
‘Liam, any time. Any time.’
He ran down to the house where Hattie was. She was playing happily, the nanny said, and told him to leave her.
‘She’s fine, Mr Channing. Honestly.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no I’d better take her.’
‘He forgot me,’ said Jasper cheerfully to Hatttie. ‘You’re lucky.’
Naomi arrived back at about five-thirty, in a taxi. He was watching Neighbours with the children; he had finished the whisky, was trying to sober up with coffee. It didn’t seem to be working.
She looked at him coldly. ‘Hallo.’
‘Hallo.’ He got up slightly shakily. ‘Good lunch?’
‘Yes, thank you. You look terrible,’ she said.
‘He’s been drinking whisky,’ said Hattie.
‘How responsible of him,’ said Naomi icily. ‘Did you manage to collect Jasper from school?’
It didn’t seem worth lying; she’d hear anyway. ‘No. I forgot.’
‘You forgot. Dear God. I can’t rely on you for anything, can I? You’d better pull yourself together; we’re supposed to be going out to dinner this evening.’
‘Oh really? Where to?’
‘The Macmillans’.’
The Macmillans lived in Hampstead: they were very high powered. She was a translator, he was a surgeon. The very thought of sitting round their table, being waited on by their Philippino maid, made Liam feel worse.
‘I’m not coming,’ he said.
‘Liam, of course you must come. It’s far too late to cancel.’
‘Naomi, I’m not coming. I don’t remember you asking me if I’d like to go, and I just can’t face it.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fine. I’ll go on my own. At least it’ll save on the babysitter. Could you manage at least to phone and cancel her? I’m going up to have a bath and change. I have to be there early, because Mary wants to discuss her investments with me before everyone else arrives.’
‘Yes, all right,’ he said. He put an arm round each of the children and they settled down luxuriously against him, sucking their thumbs, Home and Away now: Naomi didn’t usually allow them to watch either. He fell into a confused doze, woke to hear the familiar syrup of the music.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘teatime. What do you want?’
‘Can we have fish and chips?’ said Hattie hopefully.
‘Well – ’
‘Oh go on, Daddy, please.’
‘Well look.’ He smiled down at her, tapped the side of his nose. ‘All right. But it’ll have to be a secret. Mummy wouldn’t like it. We’ll go and get them when she’s gone.’
‘Cool,’ said Jasper.
Naomi came in. ‘I’m off now,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably be late. Don’t wait up.’
‘No, I won’t,’ he said.
They walked down to the fish and chip shop. On the way back, he bought another quarter bottle of whisky, all he could afford; he felt he deserved it. He felt quite different suddenly, oddly in command. In future he was going to do what he liked; there didn’t seem any point trying to please anybody else anyway.
They ate the fish and chips, and he put the children to bed; he sat down to watch the seven-thirty news on Channel 4 and to drink some more whisky. He knew everything that had happened in the world that day, had watched and heard innumerable bulletins, but he wanted to see it again. The familiarity was strangely soothing; he fell into a confused sleep.
Gray was sitting waiting for her, carefully early, when she came in. He knew who she was immediately, sat watching her for a moment as she looked round for him. She was tanned, dressed in a brilliant pink silk suit. Just too much brown bosom showed beneath the jacket; just too little skirt covered the admittedly shapely thighs. She had on a great deal of jewellery: several gold chains round her neck and wrists, a couple of diamond rings, a probably genuine Rolex watch; her shoes were black, very high heeled, her bag a large, bechained Chanel. She must be wearing a great many thousands pounds, Gray thought; either Home Time did extremely well (which he knew it didn’t, he’d looked it up, it had hardly broken even for the past two years), or Duggie was doing better than he’d thought.
He stood up, gestured to the chair beside him; she came over, smiling, took his hand and then sat down. She was very sexy, he thought, in a flashy way. She’d know how to make a man happy. Lucky old Duggie. Funny she’d gone for him though. He was hardly her style. A bit bumbling, not that rich. Well, she was mid, probably late, forties. Maybe it wasn’t so easy.
He’d ordered a bottle of champagne; a deferentially blank-faced waiter poured it for them both. Teresa Booth raised her glass.
‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘And what about telling me what you really want?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, taken aback by the swiftness of her attack, ‘this and that.’ He suddenly realised he was feeling better; he smiled at her. She smiled back.
‘Let’s start with this, then. And then we can move onto that.’
‘OK.’ He decided he should stick to his story; it was as good a starting point as any. ‘Tell me about Home Time. How did you start it?’
‘All right,’ she said, grinning at him conspiratorially, ‘we’ll play it your way. Started it in the early ’eighties. Did a bomb in ’86, ’87, made a lot of money. Lost a lot in ’89. When I met Duggie, it was failing badly. He put some money into it …’
‘Enough to keep it afloat? Or to make it profitable again?’
‘It’s floating.’
‘Why do you keep on with it? That genuinely intrigues me. Duggie can clearly keep you in the manner to which you’ve been accustomed. Or better.’
‘I like it,’ she said, surprising him. ‘Money isn’t everything. I get bored. My son’s got his own life. My daughter doesn’t talk to me – ’
‘Why not?’
‘I really don’t think we need to go into that, Mr Townsend. Anyway, my mother told me never to talk to strange journalists. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Of course not,’ said Gray, who minded terribly.
She got out a pack, offered him one, lit her own with a gold Cartier lighter.
‘Anyway, whatever the reason we fell out, she’s living in Florida. I have tried, held out the olive branch, but she’s stubborn. Like her mother.’ She laughed; she had a very sexy laugh.
‘And your son?’
‘Ah, now he’s different. We’re pretty close. Talk a lot. But he’s not based in London. He’s out in Marbella, looks after my properti
es out there.’
‘You ought to get Bard Channing to give him a job,’ said Gray lightly.
‘I might,’ she said. It was an odd response: she didn’t say she was working on it, or she’d like that, simply implied that it was her choice. He found it interesting.
‘So it’s the old thing?’ he said. ‘Bored housewife syndrome.’
‘You could say that.’
‘And golf with Duggie doesn’t appeal?’
‘No. I loathe golf.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘Oh, originally at a party somewhere. I was with my ex.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a widow.’
‘No, no, not me. The bastard left me – oh, four years ago. For some twenty-year-old piece of skirt.’ So it was Duggie’s money all over her, then.
‘And you – bumped into Duggie again?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Just happened to bump into him. His wife had died by then and – are you married, Mr Townsend?’
‘What? Oh – no. Well, not exactly. Bit of a long story, that one.’
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No, I wouldn’t inflict it on you.’
‘I’m a good listener,’ she said. ‘You’d be surprised.’
Gray looked at her, at the brilliant blue eyes, oddly concerned beneath the heavily mascaraed lashes. ‘I don’t think I would be actually,’ he said. ‘Surprised, I mean.’
She smiled at him. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘back to you and your questions. That’s about all I can tell you about Home Time. It’s doing OK. It keeps me – ’
‘Out of mischief?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, laughing, ‘I wouldn’t say that. What was the other thing you wanted to know?’
Gray put on his most ingenuous expression. ‘I’m researching an article on the whole commercial property business, Channing included. How soon, if ever, it’s going to pull out of the recession. How all the big firms are surviving. And the slightly smaller ones, like Channings. And I’m talking to as many people as I can. I was waiting to speak to Duggie and then I stumbled on you. Figuratively speaking of course.’
Teresa Booth looked at him in silence for a moment or two and then she laughed. ‘Mr Townsend,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to do better than that. Come on. Try again. What do you want to know?’
‘All right,’ said Gray with a grin. ‘I want to know why you called me that day. It intrigues me. It was you, wasn’t it?’
Teresa lit another cigarete, drew on it hard, blew the smoke out again. ‘Yes,’ she said finally, ‘yes it was.’
‘And why did you ring?’
‘Let’s just say,’ she said, ‘I was thinking of giving you a story. Well, not a story exactly, a lead. And then I decided against it.’
‘A story about Channings?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Do you want to give it to me now?’
‘No. No I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well – things have changed.’
‘Mrs Booth, you certainly know how to torment a guy,’ said Gray in his best American accent.
‘I’ve been working on that a long time. And please call me Terri. With an i at the end.’
‘All right. Thank you. As long as you call me Gray. With an a in the middle.’
The waiter poured some more champagne; the bottle was almost empty. ‘We’d better have another,’ said Gray, ‘or are you in a hurry?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not in a hurry. I’m enjoying myself.’
She moved imperceptibly nearer to him; her left leg, crossed carelessly over the other, was just touching his. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now tell me, is there any question of your coming back to me with this story? The one you phoned about?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. Not that precise one, anyway.’
‘Right. Well, maybe another one. What does Duggie think about the way Channings is going, do you think? This new development up in the north is a bit rash, isn’t it? And there is talk of – well, of problems. The Docklands development is still losing big bucks. That waterfront complex in Cardiff has been a disappointment. And – ’
‘You’ll have to ask him that yourself, Graydon.’
‘I’d like to. Very much. Maybe you could ask him to ring me.’
‘Oh I’m not doing that for you. You’ll have to ring him yourself. Of course Duggie doesn’t think too much, anyway,’ she added cheerfully, ‘which is not to say he’s not bloody clever. He has instinct, does Douglas. Goes for money like a pre-programmed missile. But I don’t talk business to him that often. Not about Channings anyway. He doesn’t like it.’
‘Why not?’ said Gray.
‘Oh per-lease,’ said Teresa Booth. ‘Because he likes to play his cards close to his chest, that’s why. That’s how he’s been so successful all these years. Right from way back. He’s just kept quiet and brought home the bacon.’
‘And then Bard Channing fries it up into nice crispy little bits?’
‘That’s about the size of it. Yes. Very nice little partnership. Big one, rather.’
‘Yes indeed. But you reckon Duggie knows where a few bodies are buried? Is that what you’re saying?’
She looked at him, the brilliant blue eyes instantly and absolutely blank. ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it. But you could say that, yes,’ she said.
Gray smiled at her, his most engaging smile. ‘And have you got a whiff of any bodies?’
‘Oh, now that would really be telling, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it would. But that’s what I’ve got you here for.’
‘Yes, and you’re not doing very well, are you?’ she said, grinning at him, leaning forward for him to refill her glass, displaying more of her brown cleavage.
‘I’m afraid not. What do you think of Channing, can you tell me that? Channing the man, that is.’
He expected some bland answer, but: ‘I don’t like him very much,’ she said, ‘not very much at all. And actually I don’t like his wife either. But we don’t want to get into that one at this precise moment. Want to tell me about your – how did you describe her, your “not exactly” wife now?’
Greatly to his surprise, encouraged by rather more than half the second bottle of champagne, Gray found he did. She listened carefully and didn’t interrupt him; when he had finished, she sat back in her chair and looked at him. Her eyes were very probing; she had a way of exploring with them, moved reflectively from his eyes to his mouth, up again to his hair, then took in the whole of his body. It was oddly disturbing, even interesting.
‘I have to tell you,’ she said, ‘that I think you should tell your nice girlfriend – who you obviously love very much – the answer’s no. My ex-husband didn’t want children either, I went ahead and had them, and it was very bad for our relationship. He couldn’t stand it. I tried, God I tried, to keep them out of his hair. But it doesn’t work. They’re there and that’s it. They’re magic, Graydon, absolute magic, if you like them. If you don’t, they’re a turn-off. They really are.’
‘But,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid then I’ll lose her.’
‘Yes, well,’ she said, and her voice was surprisingly gentle, ‘and if she has them, I think she’ll lose you.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you for listening. It’s been fun.’
‘I’ve liked it too,’ she said. She stood up. ‘I’d better go now. Places to go, things to do.’
‘Me too,’ said Gray with a sigh. ‘I’ve got to go to Glasgow tomorrow.’
‘Really? You’ll pass Duggie on the way. He’s been playing golf up there.’
‘You know,’ he said, ‘we should pool our information. We’d do a lot better.’
‘Well, maybe. I might consider it. If things get more interesting.’ She smiled at him. ‘Goodbye, Graydon. Thank you for the drink. It was fun.’ She was quite a
tall woman; she had to reach up only slightly to kiss him on the cheek. She was very warm, and she smelt of something heady and strong. She might be a million miles away from being his type, thought Graydon confusedly, but she really was extremely sexy. Lucky old Duggie. She deserved all those diamonds.
He got a cab not home (because there was no point really), but to the office. Teresa Booth’s words ‘right from way back’ had intrigued him. That was what he should do: go right back. Right back. He switched on the machine, called up Channings, began patiently trawling through all the old stuff. But they only had ten years’ worth on disk. It would mean going through the real files, and he couldn’t get at them now. So there was nothing for it but to go home. To an empty house.
He sat in the conservatory for a long time, watching the sky deepen and darken, listening to a blackbird singing importantly in the tree facing him on the common. He wondered if the blackbird’s girlfriend had pestered it to let her have babies. Of course the blackbird wouldn’t have had a lot of choice. Maybe it was better that way. But he did, and it was an absolute sod. He fell asleep in the chair, hearing Teresa Booth’s voice saying he should tell Briony no, and wondering if he had the courage. And alternatively, if he had the courage to tell her yes.
Liam woke up to hear Hattie calling him. He looked at his watch; it was still only ten.
‘Daddy, I’ve got a tummy ache. It’s really bad. I want some medicine.’
She suffered from stomach cramps: the doctor had diagnosed infantile migraine, prescribed Calpol.
‘I’ll get you some. Want some warm milk?’
‘Yes please.’
There wasn’t any Calpol; he remembered the last time she’d had it, the bottle had been nearly empty. He’d promised Naomi to get some, and forgotten. As usual. He took the milk up to Hattie’s room.
‘I’m sorry, darling, no medicine. Try just the milk.’
‘It won’t work. I know it won’t.’ She started to cry, doubled up. ‘It’s bad, Daddy, it’s really hurting.’
‘Well – ’ He knew he shouldn’t drive to the chemist, wasn’t safe behind the wheel.
The Dilemma Page 22
