‘The Duncans next door will have some,’ said Jasper helpfully, appearing in the doorway. ‘They always do, for their baby’s teeth, Mummy borrowed some once before.’
‘Oh. Oh, all right. You look after Hattie, Jas, all right?’
‘Yes, course.’
He went next door; he felt terribly confused. The door opened; Martina Duncan, who was an accountant, smiled at him brightly.
‘Liam! How nice. Come in, have a drink.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no really. I won’t. Nice idea but – better not. Er – Hattie’s not feeling very well, got a bad tummy ache, Jasper thought you’d have some Calpol. Naomi’s out, so I can’t. Go out I mean. To the – the shops. The chemist – ’
She looked at him sharply; she clearly realised he was drunk. ‘Yes I think so. Come in.’
He went into their hall, felt a wave of violent nausea; he got outside just in time, threw up on their steps. He looked down at it, and Martina looked down at it, trying to be civilised, trying to be polite.
‘Look Liam, don’t worry. Dicky will clear it up. You must feel rotten. I’ll just get the – ’ She vanished inside the house, closed the door.
‘Sorry,’ he shouted at it. ‘Sorry, don’t worry about the Calpol.’ Christ. Christ almighty, he thought, looking at the step, at his shoes, what a fucking awful mess. How on earth was he going to talk himself out of this one? Naomi would be furious. And he had to get the bloody Calpol. Whatever else, Hattie had to have that. He owed her that. But he wasn’t going to risk any more neighbourly encounters. He’d drive down to King’s Cross, there was a chemist near there open. Now he’d thrown up he’d be quite sober. It was only a five-minute drive anyway. He went back into the house, shouted at Jasper to stay with Hattie, grabbed his keys and a can of Coke and got into the car.
He was fine, he discovered, as he drove carefully down the street. Sober as a judge. He took several swigs of the Coke, opened the window. That was much better. Much better. Christ, what a mess though. What on earth – shit, that car was almost on the wrong side of the road. He swerved violently; the car hooted loudly and angrily. Silly bugger. They were so aggressive, drivers these days. What was it called, it had an official name, like everything else now. Oh yes, road rage.
He was going down the straight wide road towards St Pancras, into the one-way system, when it happened. A car was very close behind him, flashing its lights: bastard, why did they have to do that? He put his foot down, took the big bend just a bit too fast, he didn’t have any option, but that was all right, he’d been driving this baby for so long, it was like wearing a pair of running shoes, OK now, shit, the bastard was still flashing and – Jesus Christ, what was that moron doing in the middle of the road? He jammed on his brakes, skidded hard, hit a lamp post, somersaulted twice. His last thought as he lost consciousness, his last surprisingly lucid thought, was what the papers would say next day: ‘Tycoon’s unemployed son tested for alcohol after car crash.’
Chapter Nine
Francesca lay limply, gasping for breath, and hoped she wasn’t actually going to faint. She thought she might; she had all the symptoms, the dizziness, the sick clamminess, the ceiling above her was advancing and receding. She concentrated very hard on one of the lights, willing it to steady, breathing as slowly as she could; she felt desperately sick now, and wondered if she could possibly make it to the lavatory. Probably not. God she was stupid; this had happened once before, right there, in the middle of the gym, she had had to call for help, be half carried to one of the side rooms and laid down until she felt better, the nurse had been called and listened to her heart and taken her blood pressure. And then ticked her off, politely but very firmly. And quite right the nurse had been too. She really ought to know better. It was just that when she was really miserable, in that awful fretting, grinding way, pushing her body to its ultimate extreme was wonderfully cathartic. She knew that if she could only hang on now, not pass out, not be sick, and then make the shower and possibly the sauna, a wonderful cool peace would descend on her and she would look back at the frantic creature of an hour ago and scarcely recognise her.
Yes, that was better; she was going to be all right. A few more minutes and she’d be able to make her escape: luckily no-one was there that she knew, no-one to fuss over her, ask her if she was feeling ill – guaranteed to bring the earlier feelings of unbearable stress and tension winging back. Slowly, carefully, she eased herself off the leg press machine, and walked gingerly across the gym; she sat in the changing room for a few minutes, trying not to look at herself in the merciless mirrors – the white face, the sweat-streaked leotard, the hair clinging to her head – and then went into the shower. And then realised she had done it, had managed what she had been working towards all week: a positive frame of mind. Able to tell herself that she loved Bard, that she had missed him, that the jagged rift that was widening so alarmingly between them was therefore unnecessary, a product of her own stubbornness as much as his, that she must begin again, make amends, show him she was sorry. As soon as he arrived home, that evening.
When she got home, it was still only half-past eight: good, she could take Jack to school. She loved doing that, loved seeing his evident popularity, his busy, cheerful little figure disappearing into a crowd of identically dressed small boys. Nanny was giving Kitty her breakfast and nodded to Francesca slightly coolly; she didn’t approve of her going off to the gym, called it her physical jerks, in a very distasteful tone.
‘I think Kitty’s a bit better already, you know,’ she said to Nanny now. ‘Her colour’s improved, and when I looked at her in the night she was sleeping less restlessly.’
‘Well, that’s possible,’ said Nanny, grudgingly, ‘but it’s very early days yet!’
‘Yes, Nanny, I know. But I’m allowed to be hopeful, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Channing, if you say so.’
She went upstairs smiling to change; it was a beautiful day, golden, warm, good tempered; and tomorrow they were going to Stylings, the four of them, and perhaps best of all, Nanny had asked for the weekend off. ‘If you can possibly spare me, Mrs Channing, I know with Kitty being unwell it must be very difficult for you, but my sister has particularly asked me to go, it’s her birthday, most inconvenient – ’
‘Nanny, I don’t think your parents could actually have been expected to foresee how inconvenient it might be,’ said Francesca, smiling at her sweetly.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Channing, I don’t quite – oh, well, yes, I see – ’ Nanny flushed a dark red, clearly deeply embarrassed by this oblique reference to her sister’s conception. That was mean, Francesca, she thought, but hard to resist.
Anyway, the omens were all there; it was going to be a good day.
She was driving back from delivering Jack at school when a well-bred voice on LBC News informed her that Liam Channing, the unemployed son of Bard Channing the property tycoon, was in intensive care following a serious car crash, and had been found to have four times the legal limit of alcohol in his system.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, and stopped the car. She was informed further that Mr Channing had a fractured leg, a punctured lung and had been seriously concussed, but was now out of danger, according to the hospital. His car had hit a lamp post after swerving violently to avoid a pedestrian on a zebra crossing, and then went into another car. That driver was unhurt but a Mr Brian Jessop who was in the car behind him said he had been driving like a madman, far too fast, and at one point appeared to be considering turning and driving back up the one-way system. ‘Relations between Mr Channing and his father are said to be strained,’ said the voice, before moving on to the weather and the cricket scores.
‘Oh God,’ said Francesca again. ‘Poor, poor Liam. What a nightmare.’ She felt very upset; and then thought of Bard and wondered if he knew. She would have to get hold of him, somehow. In spite of everything, she knew he cared about Liam, that he would be upset.
She drove home slowly, wondering what to do; she thought she would lik
e at least to send Liam some flowers, and then realised she didn’t even know which hospital he was in. She would have to ring Naomi and find out. Although she would probably be at the hospital.
Naomi wasn’t at the hospital; she was a home, and she sounded remarkably calm.
‘He’s perfectly all right,’ she said in her rather flat voice. ‘Out of danger. He’s at St Mary’s Paddington. In the men’s general ward. If you want to phone.’
‘Well, I thought I’d send some flowers,’ said Francesca.
‘I don’t suppose his father’s shown any interest,’ said Naomi.
‘His father doesn’t know,’ said Francesca, ‘he’s away. But I’m quite sure he would be very concerned, if he did.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Naomi. ‘Anyway, do send some flowers, that would be nice. And don’t worry about him, I’ve been to see him and he’s recovering. So Mr Channing doesn’t need to waste any of his valuable time or energy on him.’
‘Naomi,’ said Francesca, ‘I really don’t think you should talk like that about Bard.’
‘Don’t you?’ said Naomi. ‘I’m afraid I do.’ And she put the phone down.
‘Silly bitch,’ said Francesca, quite shaken by this conversation.
She sent Liam some flowers and then phoned the hospital to see how he was and to tell him she would come and see him, possibly the next day. They told her he was comfortable and out of immediate danger but that he would be there for several days, if not weeks.
Then she phoned Marcia and asked her if she could get hold of Bard, and ask him to ring her. ‘His son’s been in a car crash. He’s all right, but he’s in hospital. I think Mr Channing ought to know.’
‘I will contact Mr Channing, certainly, yes. And ask him to ring you.’
There was a slight emphasis on the word ‘ask’. Silly bitch, thought Francesca again.
Jon Bartok, in an informal report to the other main board directors of the Konigstrom Bank, said that he had had a very satisfactory meeting with Mr Channing and Mr Barbour, and that after a most careful and thorough review of the affairs of the Channing Corporation, he felt that subject to certain restructuring of the loan, it should be continued for a further three months, subject to the usual reviews.
Bard finally phoned at three, from Arlanda airport.
‘Bard, hallo. I thought you ought to know Liam’s – ’
‘Yes,’ he said sounding impatient, ‘Marcia told me. How on earth did it happen?’
She told him, including the fact that Liam had been drunk. There seemed little point hiding it; he would find out sooner or later.
‘Stupid bloody irresponsible behaviour, getting behind the wheel in that condition. What’s the matter with him?’
‘Bard, I don’t know,’ said Francesca. ‘It’s not my responsibility what your other children do or what happens to them. He’s badly hurt, that’s the point, and I have to say you don’t seem very concerned about him. Perhaps that’s what the matter with him.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said, ‘don’t start lecturing me, Francesca. I’ve had it up to here.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, shocked at herself that they were quarrelling again. ‘I – I didn’t mean to lecture you. I was upset, that’s all. I’ve sent him some flowers from us both, anyway.’
‘Right. Look, Francesca, I’m afraid I’ve got to go out this evening, after all.’
‘Oh,’ said Francesca. Disappointment stung her; she felt cheated, foolish even. She had asked Sandie to cook Bard’s favourite meal – nursery food, fish pie and then trifle – and had even planned what to wear: a red silk dress Bard had bought her, with a split up the side, and the scent he liked best, Poison by Christian Dior. All a bit tarty, but then she’d been feeling a bit tarty, had thought herself into savouring being in bed with him. And now – ‘Why? I thought – ’
‘I’ve got a dinner.’
‘What sort of dinner?’
‘Oh, the usual. I’d missed it, in my diary, with all the events of the week. Can’t be helped.’
‘And you really have to go?’
‘Yes, I do. George Hardie is speaking, I’m on his table.’ Already she could hear the irritation at the question; she took a deep breath. Think positive, Francesca, don’t look for problems.
‘Oh I see. Well, never mind. There’s always the weekend.’
‘Ah yes, the weekend.’ A silence. Then: ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to go to Stylings. After all.’
‘Bard, whyever not? You promised – ’
‘I know I promised. But I – well, I have to a lot to do. As a result of this Stockholm trip.’
‘Surely you can work down there.’
‘Possibly. I’m not sure.’
She didn’t speak: she didn’t dare, knew she would say something damaging, something angry.
‘Kitty all right?’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, she’s fine. Slept all night again.’
‘Good.’ There was a silence; then he said, ‘Well look, I’ll see you later. If the traffic’s not too bad.’
The phone went dead; she sat staring at it, hating it, hating what it had done to her.
He was home before six; holding parcels, flowers. He was always good about presents.
‘A pity,’ he said, kissing her, stroking her cheek, ‘about this evening. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I’d much rather be here with you.’
‘Well, never mind, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, trying to sound warm, forgiving, knowing she didn’t. ‘You shouldn’t have wasted time coming home, you could have gone straight to the office.’
‘I know. But I wanted to see you.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes of course I did. Very much.’
‘What about Liam?’
‘Oh, I’ve spoken to Marcia, who’s rung Naomi. He seems fine. He’s just a fool. I realy haven’t got the time or energy to worry about Liam.’
‘Bard, he’s been in intensive care,’ she said, shocked at his attitude, in spite of everything.
‘Yes, and now he’s out of it. Where are the children?’
‘In the nursery,’ she said, making an effort to sound normal, ‘Jack’s watching The Jungle Book.’
‘Again? We watched that the last night I was here.’
‘Again.’ Jack was addicted to The Jungle Book, could recite it word for word along with the characters, sang all the songs with them too, in his loud, tuneless little voice. ‘He obviously didn’t hear you come in or he’d be all over you. He’s been looking forward to you getting back.’
‘Glad somebody was.’
‘Bard, that’s not fair. I was – ’
‘I know. But I swear I won’t be late.’
‘I expect you will,’ she said lightly, ‘but it doesn’t matter.’
‘Why don’t you go to bed early? You look all in.’
‘I might. But then you’ll wake me up.’
‘I’ll try. Wouldn’t you like that?’
Francesca looked at him. She did like it usually: it was one of her delights, from their earliest days together, to be asleep and to be awoken by him, wanting her; she would surface, sweetly confused, to feel his mouth on her, on her face, her neck, his hands on her breasts then moving down her, and she would turn to him, tumbling into desire, her body softening, moistening for him. She would come quickly on those nights, leaping, curving deep within herself, her arms entwined round his neck, crying out with pleasure, and he would follow her almost immediately: a swift joyful pleasure, stolen from sleep, and then they would lie together, she now wide awake but not caring, he settling heavily into sleep, telling her several times before he was finally lost to her how much he loved her.
But tonight, tonight she could not, would not want him (her earlier mood quite lost); she felt her face close, even as she managed a small smile, said no, she was really so tired, that if she got Kitty settled she would prefer not to be disturbed, would he mind sleeping in his dressing room?
‘No, that’s fine,
’ said Bard, turning away from her, ‘absolutely fine. Of course. Look, I’ll change in the office I think, probably easier, I want to catch Marcia.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Good idea.’ He also had a dressing room at Channing House where he kept a complete wardrobe (its care controlled by Marcia): suits, shirts, dinner jacket, shoes, changes of underwear; he had a bed there too, where he slept occasionally, and a shower which he used sometimes twice a day. Marcia kept all that pristine too, saw the sheets and towels were changed, that it was supplied with all his favourite toiletries (Egoïste by Chanel, so appropriate Francesca had said, laughing when she first found it there). She thought again that evening, as she often had before, that he had no need for a real home or indeed a real wife at all.
‘I’ll just go up and get a couple of things,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll go. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Yes, fine,’ she said.
She heard the door slam; sat in her small sitting room for a while thinking, and then went upstairs feeling bleak and physically cold, to the nursery bathroom where Jack was in the bath. His small solid little body (Bard’s body, she thought) was clean, but his cheerful face under its thatch of dark hair was still filthy, smeared with tomato sauce, and what Nanny Crossman called good honest dirt from where he and a small friend had been digging in the garden that afternoon (they were making a tunnel, they said, from St John’s Wood to Primrose Hill, so that the rabbits could come down it), and something else, some strange flaky substance that looked hideously scab-like.
‘Jack, what on earth is that on your face?’
‘Goldfish food,’ he said.
‘What’s it doing on your face? Didn’t Nanny give you any tea?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Nanny sternly, appearing in the doorway. ‘He had chicken and fruit salad.’
‘And tomato sauce, I see,’ said Francesca lightly.
‘Mrs Channing, I was about to – ’
‘Nanny, I don’t give a fig if he has tomato sauce on his face. He’s obviously had a lovely day. How’s Kitty? I thought I might – ’
The Dilemma Page 23
