‘Not necessarily. Not if we leave now.’
‘Well, I don’t want to leave now. I want to have a very long bath, have lots of orange juice and croissants and read the papers.’
‘I’m amazed you can bear to read the papers, after what they’ve done to you,’ said Toby.
‘Oh stop talking through your arse,’ said Kirsten cheerfully. ‘I have to read them, it’s part of my job. I want to see if the Mail magazine has mentioned a new suncream that I told the girl about.’
‘Such an important job, too,’ said Toby.
‘It is to me,’ said Kirsten earnestly. ‘I’m not fucking another one up. Anyway, it wouldn’t be fair on Gray.’
‘Who’s Gray? Oh, the chap that got it for you. I think you fancy him.’
‘Don’t be pathetic. He’s not for me at all. He’s quite old for a start, and – ’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘Well, he’s quite good looking, in a rather old-fashioned way. Brown floppy hair, big grey eyes, rather appropriately, tall, nice clothes. Very nice clothes.’
‘You do fancy him.’
‘I don’t, I swear,’ said Kirsten. ‘But he is nice, and I don’t want to let him down. OK?’
‘Or your granny?’
‘No, nor my granny. She’s been so good to me, rang me up the day after that story came out, said she knew I must have been tricked into it and that she’d speak to my dad.’
‘And did she?’
‘I don’t know. I expect so. She does everything she says she will, Granny Jess does. She’s great. And anyway, she’s a bit uspet today, about my stepbrother, Liam. He’s had a car crash.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yes, quite. He’s in hospital, I mean he’s OK but quite badly hurt, apparently, and I know she’s worrying about him.’
‘Is that the one your father doesn’t get on with?’
‘None of us gets on with him. He’s a bit of a nightmare. Cut himself off from us all. But – well, he is her grandson.’
‘Could I come too? To see your granny? No, no, forget I said that, I can see you’re about to say yes.’
‘You could if you liked,’ said Kirsten seriously, ‘and she’d be really nice to you, and want to know all about you. She wouldn’t approve of your background, she’s very left-wing. But you’d like her a lot and – ’
‘No honestly,’ said Toby, ‘sweet of you, but I’ll give it a miss. Look, I’m going to go and have a shower.’
‘OK,’ said Kirsten. He kissed her, rather slowly and sweetly, and then clambered out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom; she lay there thinking about him for a bit, about his body and the pleasure it gave her, that it had just given her, and suddenly felt a strong desire to follow him. Kirsten often felt most like sex when she had just experienced it, when the memory was still almost physical; sexual desire to her was self-generating, and the more violent, the more prolonged the pleasure, the more swiftly she wanted it again. A week or so without it, and she could shrug the idea off easily; it was something her boyfriends often found confusing. Not to mention difficult to cope with. But then Kirsten was altogether confusing and difficult to cope with, as she frequently acknowledged herself. She lay there for a little while, tensing and relaxing her body, wondering if the desire would pass, but it didn’t; she wanted Toby again and she wanted him badly. And she knew him well enough to know she could probably have him.
She walked into the bathroom; she could just see him, through the steamed-up shower door, his back turned to her, his head thrown back. He was quite tanned, except for the stark whiteness of his buttocks; his back was very muscular, his legs long and strong.
Kirsten opened the shower door, and he didn’t even hear her, so loudly was the shower thudding, at full power, full heat; she put her arms round his waist, pushed her fingers down over his flat stomach, reaching into his pubic hair, kneading, tangling at him, thrusting herself gently against his buttocks. They were almost the same height; it made standing-up sex much more comfortable and fun. For a moment nothing happened; then he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice, ‘Darling! Have you come to help me wash my back?’
‘Sort of,’ she said. She started moulding her body against his, bending, flexing, pushing at him, the snarls of desire uncoiling within her, feeling now his penis rising under her fingers; she started kissing, biting his back, pushed one hand between his legs, cupping his balls. They were very soft and heavy, in the heat; she heard him moan quietly. He turned to greet her, smiled at her through the water, lifted her slightly, held her against him; she sank slowly, joyously, down on him, easing herself onto his penis. The thudding water confused her senses; she felt at once languid and frantic, relaxed and desperate for him. He pressed her back against the wall, bracing himself, started pushing, thrusting into her almost at once; she felt herself gathering quickly, sweetly, could feel the apexes of pleasure forming within her, started riding them, each one higher, the fall deeper, climbing, climbing towards the height, the peak, the pinnacle, and there it was, there now, she reached for it, grasped it, had it now, now, in her hungry, grasping, giving, yielding depths, pushed hard, harder onto him, yelled out again and again with pleasure, with the strong, triumphant, glorious pleasure, always the same, always different, and then slithered, laughing, exhausted, shaking, onto the floor of the shower.
Her body was still savouring the pleasure when she drew up outside Granny Jess’s little house, two hours later.
‘You look very thin,’ said Jess severely, handing Kirsten a hugely piled up plate of rabbit stew and mashed potato. Suppose you’re not eating. It’s this living on your own, I really don’t approve of it. The place for a girl is in her father’s house, until she gets married. Then it’s in her husband’s.’
‘Granny Jess, don’t be silly,’ said Kirsten. ‘How could I possibly live in my father’s house?’
‘Yes, well, I can see that. And I blame him almost entirely for what’s happened, I’m afraid. He’s a spoilt, selfish, amoral man. I’m the first to admit it, much as I love him. Not that I spoilt him. Life’s done that. And he’s made an appalling mess of at least one marriage. And his relationship with his eldest son. You been to see Liam?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten, ‘you know he doesn’t like me. But I have sent him a card. And he’s all right, I spoke to Naomi.’
‘So did I. And it seems he might not have been. I’m afraid he’s a very misguided, mixed-up young man. Anyway, that’s another discussion, and nothing really to do with you. All I’m saying is that ideally your father’s house is where you ought to be. Not racketing round London, up all hours. I know what you girls get up to. I was young once.’
‘I know you were, Granny,’ said Kirsten, smiling at her, thinking what a very good thing it was she didn’t know what she actually got up to. ‘But surely you were living in your father’s house? So you couldn’t have got up to very much.’
‘Well, we didn’t have sex, if that’s what you mean,’ said Jess. ‘We waited for that, and a very good thing it was too. Made it all the better when it came.’
‘Granny! I’m surprised at you,’ said Kirsten, and she was. She had always imagined her grandmother lying and thinking of England, enduring her grandfather’s embraces, and that none too often.
‘What about? Me enjoying sex? Of course I did. Kirsten, you young people are all the same, think you’ve invented the whole thing. But you didn’t, and I can tell you, there’s a great deal of extra pleasure to be had, discovering it together, just the two of you, a purely private delight.’
Her gaunt old face was suddenly softer, her dark eyes distant. Kirsten put down her fork and stared at her, as astonished that she should discuss such a thing as that she had so plainly enjoyed it; Jess saw her staring at her and smiled, flushed a little.
‘Well, that’s enough of that. Now I daresay you’d like something to drink with that: lemonade? Or ginger beer?’
‘Oh – just water,’ said Kirsten. She had ho
ped, briefly, wildly, for some wine, but she should have known better. Jess’s disapproval of what she called strong drink was only matched by that she felt for the English class system.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘good girl. Adam’s Ale, wonderful stuff. You can’t beat it.’ She brought a large jug to the table, filled her own pint tankard and a more modest glassful for Kirsten.
‘I’ve talked to your father, as I said I would,’ she said, after eating in silence for a while, ‘and I think in time he’ll come round, forgive you.’
‘I don’t want him to forgive me,’ said Kirsten sharply. ‘I don’t deserve to be forgiven, and anyway, he’s totally impossible, we’re much better kept well away from each other.’
‘I would doubt both those statements,’ said Jess. ‘I think you’re very fond of your father actually, and I certainly think you deserve to be forgiven. The reason your father was so angry, you know, was that there was more than a small grain of truth in it all, it hit home … It was a terrible time for you, and he had no business to leave you there with your poor mother. When you weren’t off at one of those dreadful schools,’ she added, ‘mixing with those terrible people.’ She spoke as if Kirsten had been at an inner-city comprehensive, rather than first Benenden and then St Paul’s. ‘Just the same, you have been extremely silly, and I’m sure you can see that now.’
‘Yes, yes, I can,’ said Kirsten humbly.
‘Does he know that?’
‘Well, I told him so, of course I did, but – ’
‘He wouldn’t listen?’
‘No. He said such awful, terrible things – ’
‘Kirsten, he will come round,’ said Jess, ‘he always does. He’ll want you back in the family with him.’
‘What family?’ said Kirsten, and to her great irritation found her eyes filling with tears. ‘I don’t want to be part of that one, that precious little one of his, with Francesca – ’
‘Francesca is an extremely nice girl,’ said Jess severely, ‘and the sooner you can admit that the better. Your father’s marriage to your mother was long over when he met her, she should bear no responsibility for any of it. Should she?’ she added rather fiercely, as Kirsten sat silent.
‘No. No I suppose not. But she’s got so much and Mum’s got so little and – ’
‘Your mother has a great deal, actually,’ said Jess. ‘Your father has been very generous to her. That house, all her bills paid – ’
‘Yes, except she never has any money,’ said Kirsten, feeling her colour rising, angry suddenly.
‘Kirsten, if she had any money, she would only spend it on drink. You know she would. And in any case, none of that is Francesca’s fault. And she has had her own crosses to bear.’
‘Like what?’ said Kirsten sulkily.
‘Like your father’s bad temper, for one thing. And now the baby being ill. So you should think before you speak badly of her next time. Now the best thing you can do, in my opinion, is get back to your studies. I never thought it was a good idea to go and work for your father. I don’t approve of nepotism in any form. You got a boyfriend at the moment?’
‘Yes. Yes I have,’ said Kirsten. ‘I nearly brought him today, only I don’t think you’d terribly like him.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Oh, his background. Eton, Granny, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, he can’t help that, I suppose,’ said Jess. ‘I’d blame his father, not him. Is he clever?’
‘Yes, quite.’
‘You going to marry him?’
‘Good Lord no. Of course not. I’m not in love with him. I don’t believe in love anyway, I’ve told you that before.’
‘You will one day,’ said Jess. ‘Now look, I want you to phone your father, say you’re sorry – ’
‘Granny, he’d put the phone down on me.’
‘He might not. Go on, Kirsten, do it for me. And for him. He was very hurt you know, as well as angry …’
Kirsten looked at her; she had been very generous about it, overgenerous really. And she shouldn’t have talked to Judy Wyatt, no matter what her father had done.
‘Yes all right. But it’s only for you.’
‘Doesn’t matter who it’s for. It’ll start building a bridge. That young Oliver’s a nice boy,’ she added suddenly. ‘He phoned me the other day, coming to see me soon.’
‘Oliver who?’
‘Oliver Clarke. Heather and Nigel’s boy. You know.’
‘Oh, I can’t stand him,’ said Kirsten, ‘he’s such a creep. Although I must say he is rather good looking these days. I don’t usually like fair-haired men but he’s not all wishy-washy like they normally are. I suppose it’s the dark eyes. And at least he’s tall. Granny, can I have just a tiny bit more stew? It’s so delicious.’
‘You must come here more often,’ said Jess, smiling at her, ‘get a bit of flesh on you. And he’s not a creep, he’s a charming, well-mannered young man. I’d be very proud if he was my grandson.’
‘Well, he’s not,’ said Kirsten. ‘Thank goodness.’
Chapter Ten
Francesca awoke to the sound of gunfire, mingled with the telephone ringing; surfacing confusedly from sleep, she realised it was after midnight, and there was a most unpleasant death taking place in front of her, a man writhing on the ground, clutching at his stomach, from which was issuing a great deal of blood. She winced and switched the television off, and then groped for the telephone.
‘Hallo?’
‘Francesca.’ It was Bard: Bard sounding, as he always did when he was guilty, knew he should apologise, disgruntled and short.
‘Bard, where the hell are you? Where have you been? I’ve been so worried, so – ’
‘I’m in a hotel.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh – near Manchester.’
‘What on earth are you doing there?’
‘I wanted to look at the new development. I thought I might as well do that today.’
‘I see.’ She struggled to keep calm, not to start reprimanding him, to make things worse.
‘Francesca, I’m – well, I’m sorry if you were worried.’
That was as near as he would get to a proper apology; from Bard it was a lot.
‘Well – at least now I know you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine. You all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘And the children?’
‘Yes. Yes they’re fine.’ No point even mentioning Liam.
‘Good. I’ll be down in the morning. About midday.’
‘Fine. How will you come?’
‘Oh – I’ll get a plane.’
‘Shall I meet you?’
‘No, no. I’ll get Horton.’
‘Bard, not on a Sunday! He is allowed a life of his own. I’ll come. Ring me when you know a time.’
‘Yes, all right. Well – I’ll see you tomorrow. We can talk then.’
From Bard that was another form of apology: an acknowledgement that there was something to be talked about. She forced some warmth into her voice.
‘Yes. That’ll be nice. Um – are things OK up there?’
‘They’re fine. Yes. Why shouldn’t they – ’ There was a loud crackling and she could hear him swearing: then the phone went dead.
He rang again a few minutes later. ‘Bloody thing. That was my mobile. Keeps losing power … I told Marcia to get it fixed and she said there was nothing wrong with it, it’s too bad – ’
‘So what are you speaking on now?’ said Francesca, feeling a most unusual pang of sympathy for Marcia and what she would have to endure on Monday morning.
‘The hotel phone. So yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’ A long silence.
Then: ‘Well, good night, Francesca.’
‘Good night, Bard.’
And he was gone; after a conversation, she thought, that hardly acknowledged what she had been through, what he had put her through.
Gray was eating his b
reakfast – brioche, figs with warm honey, and a large steaming bowl of milky coffee – and trying to convince himself that life on his own was not all bad, when the phone rang. Briony, he thought, reaching for it, knocking over what was left of his orange juice: Briony ringing, saying she missed him.
It was Briony: only not to say she missed him.
She wanted to know if he had made up his mind, and said that she would like to come over later that morning and see him, to discuss things. Gray said he’d love to see her, and then put the phone down, feeling more frightened than he ever had in his life. And still not knowing what he should say to her, or what he was going to do.
Bard phoned mid-morning; she thought he must already be at Heathrow, but he wasn’t, had called to say he wouldn’t be back until early evening after all. ‘I’m sorry, Francesca, really sorry, but I had to meet John Waters first thing, and it dragged on a bit and now there isn’t a flight I can get on until after three.’
‘I really don’t know why you’re bothering to come at all,’ she said, and put the phone down. And burst into tears.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Jack, who had come in to her sitting room, holding what looked like a very dead bird. It was a very dead bird.
‘Oh – nothing. Sorry, darling. I was disappointed because Daddy won’t be back till this evening. Why have you got that bird?’
‘It was in my tunnel. I think it must have tried to get down it and got stuffocated. Sorry,’ he said to the corpse, stroking it tenderly.
‘Darling, I don’t think that’s what happened. I’m sure it’s not your fault the bird died. Birds don’t really go in tunnels.’
‘Well, it might have thought it was a short cut for it to take.’
‘It might, but I really don’t think so, I think it’s much more likely it’ – she sought for a comforting answer – ‘it was very old and it died in its sleep. In your tunnel. So you did it a good turn, not a bad one.’
The Dilemma Page 26
