Gray saw Francesca smile quickly, gratefully at Bard; he smiled back. He would probably bid twice more, then back out just in time. His sense of timing was very good; it was, after all, how he had made all his money.
The bidding rose slowly but steadily; at fifteen thousand, Gray looked amazed round the room. Here they were in the middle of what was still considered a fierce recession, and people were bidding fifteen thousand pounds for part of a horse …
He had actually enjoyed the whole evening; there was nothing he liked more than observing such occasions and feeling no obligation to say a single word. He watched the women with particular fascination: sharply and clearly divided between the more earnest ladies, the chairs of various regional committees, county ladies in full-skirted dresses and pearls, and the London crowd, clearly friends of Francesca’s and of the Chairperson of Heartbeat. They were subdivided again; into the sliver-thin, icy chic English and Americans, dressed mostly in silk suits or slithery shifts and rather ostentatious fake jewellery, and the foreigners, Japanese and Arabs who, he presumed, had brought most of the money. They, or their husbands, were certainly the most in evidence at the auction.
But it was Francesca Channing on whom he was concentrating, and with considerable fascination: she really was extraordinarily attractive, he thought, beautiful even, and immensely stylish. She was wearing a long narrow Grecian-style dress in white silk, one slim shoulder bare, with an elaborate pearl choker round her slender neck; her dark hair was drawn sleekly back into a knot on the nape of her neck, and her make-up, pale and dramatic, emphasised her large dark eyes, her fine straight nose. She was very thin – almost too thin, he thought – but strangely graceful; he watched as she moved between the tables, bending over one person here, taking a hand of another there, kissing, smiling, carefully attentive as each person required. She must be beyond price as a high-profile wife, he thought: Bard Channing would be mad not to value her. He hoped he did; and fell to thinking too that were she to feel lonely, unhappy, neglected – as these women so often were – she would not lack for consolation, admiration, most fervent attention, indeed was probably in receipt of much of it already.
She had greeted him charmingly, taken his hand, thanked him for coming, introduced him to several people, including Tim Kennedy, and of course to Bard. Who had been friendly enough, remembered him even, but by no stretch of the imagination forthcoming.
The toastmaster had announced that dinner was about to start and Francesca had excused herself and said she would see him later. And now here she was, smiling down at him, apologising for not having been near him all evening. She really was, he thought, extremely nice. Not just beautiful, not just rich, but nice. A most rare combination.
‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a very good time. Met a lot of nice people.’
‘It was a huge success, wasn’t it?’ said Francesca. ‘Forty thousand, twenty for a bit of that horse. I can’t believe it. Tim is a genius.’
‘People will do anything to get in the papers,’ sad Gray, grinning at her. ‘I should know. But yes, Tim is. I’ve seen him in action before, actually. Marvellous. How long have you been working for Heartbeat?’
‘Oh – a couple of years.’
‘And you’re the – chairman?’ He knew she wasn’t, but it was important to go through the charade, to appear to be working on his feature.
‘Oh, goodness no, just a humble committee member. Miranda is the chairman.’
‘Oh, yes. The sparkly blonde. Very charming. Do you enjoy doing this sort of thing?’
‘Well – yes. Yes, of course I do.’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘Sorry. Bit tired.’
‘I don’t expect you’ve had an easy week,’ he said, ‘with your stepson in hospital.’
‘Oh – you read about that. Bit tough, yes.’
He could imagine how and why tough: Bard’s estrangement from Liam had been famous even before Kirsten had drawn further attention to it.
‘But yes, I do enjoy the charity work. And it’s nice to be involved in something as productive in cash terms as this auction. You feel you’ve really done something useful.’
The words ‘for once’ hung heavy in the air. Gray looked at her. ‘You know, you don’t strike me quite as a Lady who Lunches.’
‘Don’t I?’ She looked at him warily, as if debating whether she should talk to him or not, then visibly relaxed, smiled. ‘Maybe because I’m not. At heart. I was career girl once, you know. Before I married my husband.’
‘And you miss it?’
‘Yes I do,’ she said suddenly. ‘I miss it quite a lot. I was in advertising. Quite good at it, too.’
‘I’m sure. You should go back to it.’
‘Tell my husband that. No don’t. Only joking.’ She smiled, rather too brightly, looked round his table for a glass. Gray took his cue, found her one, filled it with wine.
‘Thank you. So do you think you’ll be able to do something for us? About this, I mean?’
‘I’ll try, very hard,’ said Gray. ‘I think possibly, yes.’
Actually he thought he could; they had a Financial Diary page on the News, and the money raised at the auction had been considerable. Especially for the horse. It was worth a small item.
‘It would be marvellous,’ she said, ‘if you could. But I do realise it might not be easy.’
‘I’m surprised you’re talking to the press,’ he said, ‘after that little débâcle with your stepdaughter.’
Her face tautened. ‘That was – ’ She hesitated. ‘Unfortunate.’ ‘Very. But not entirely Kirsten’s fault, I think.’
‘No?’ She sounded cynically doubtful.
‘No. Really.’
‘Do you know Kirsten?’
‘Very slightly. But I do know the journalist in question. I would lay most of the blame at her door.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d like to think you were right. But – ’
‘I know I’m right, Mrs Channing. Honestly.’
She looked up at him and smiled. ‘You mustn’t be influenced by Kirsten’s appearance.’
‘Oh, I’m not. Although she is very beautiful.’
‘She is indeed. Too beautiful for her own good.’
‘Now there is an interesting concept. Do you think people can really be too beautiful?’
‘Yes, I do. I think it’s a dangerous commodity.’
‘Then you should take a look in the mirror, Mrs Channing. And see the danger there.’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said lightly.
‘So tell me,’ he said, ‘does your husband not approve of working women?’
‘Well, certainly not working wives. And most certainly not his wife.’
‘How very old fashioned.’
‘Yes. I mean – this is off the record, isn’t it?’ she said, suddenly anxious.
‘Of course it is.’
‘Because – well, I don’t want to sound rude, but I have to be careful.’
‘Naturally. And you don’t sound rude. But I have to say that although I admire your husband greatly, I don’t quite approve of his chauvinist attitude. I think you should fight that, Mrs Channing.’
‘Oh – I’ve given up.’ Her voice was heavy suddenly; heavy and sad. ‘It’s not something I even think about any more.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ he said.
This was perfect: really very good. They were on deliciously intimate ground and she had had just too much to drink; he could work on this. He was about to refill her glass when she said, ‘Oh God,’ and a quartet of women bore down upon her.
‘Francesca darling, we’re off. Can’t thank you enough, you’re an angel. Wasn’t Tim marvellous? Such a sweetie. Bye to Bard, lovely to see him. Bye, darling.’
They nodded coolly at Gray and moved off; Francesca met his eyes and grinned. ‘Ladies who lunch,’ she said briefly. ‘You see what I mean.’
‘Francesca.’ It was Bard. ‘I think we should g
o. It’s late and I have work to do when I get back.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, Mr Townsend, thank you again. And – ’
And then it happened. An ice-blonde woman, her face skull-like in its boniness, came rushing over to Francesca.
‘Francesca. I’m so glad I caught you. And you too, Bard. I wanted to speak to you about something.’
‘Diana, perhaps not now – ’
‘Francesca, of course now. When better? Now listen – ’
‘I am listening, Diana. Could I just introduce – ’
‘I was sitting next to a charming colleague of yours at dinner, Bard. One of your directors. Well, ex-directors.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes, Brigadier Forsyth.’
‘Ah yes. Yes, he resigned four years ago.’
‘He was telling me that. About his gout.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Bard.
She ignored this. ‘And I was telling him about my plans for later in the year, which include a charity golf tournament. Such a good idea, don’t you think? And of course he was most interested in that, used to play a lot, and he mentioned your having bought a golf course for development, well, something like that, a few years ago. And I thought well, that’s it.’
She looked at Bard expectantly; his face was blank, completely blank, oddly still. On the side of his forehead, Gray noticed, a vein throbbed.
‘What is “it”, Diana?’ he said. His tone was extremely mild.
‘Well, obviously, that we could have it there. The tournament, I mean. The venue is so important, and of course most places would charge a lot of money and I imagine you would let us have it for nothing or certainly at cost, and – ’
‘Diana,’ said Bard, ‘I do assure you there are two misconceptions here. One, I have no golf complex. As such. Two, if I did, I would have no control over whether or not it could be used for an entire weekend free.’
‘Oh. Oh I see. Not even for charity?’
‘Not even for charity. I really think you people make too many assumptions.’
‘Oh. Oh I see.’ She was clearly totally nonplussed. Gray could see it didn’t happen very often. ‘Well, we shall have to find some other source of help. Another venue.’
‘I’m afraid so. Goodnight, Diana. Mr Townsend.’
Gray smiled, shook his hand and Francesca’s and watched them leave; then he looked back for Diana. She was, as he had known she would be, talking earnestly to a rather stiff-backed red-faced gentleman and gesticulating across the room to where Bard had been. He waited until she had left him, and then moved across to him himself.
‘Brigadier Forsyth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brigadier Forsyth, my name is Graydon Townsend. Please forgive me for approaching you, but I’m a financial journalist, on the News on Sunday, and I believe you once worked with Bard Channing?’
‘Indeed I did,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Had to come to a halt though, not well, you see. Only non-executive of course, but still I enjoyed it. Fascinating business that.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gray. ‘Now, I’m preparing a piece on the property scene, and I wondered if I might phone you one day next week? Just for background information, you understand.’
‘Well, you can,’ said the Brigadier doubtfully,’ but I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help you. I had to resign that one, oh – four years ago now.’
‘Well, that’s exactly the period I’m interested in,’ said Gray, ‘the end of the big boom. I’d love your overview on that.’
Brigadier Forsyth was clearly delighted at the prospect of giving his overview on anything. His life was probably a desert of tedium, thought Gray. ‘Well, of course you’re very welcome to it. Very. I suppose I did get a pretty clear view of it. Look, here’s my card, ring on Tuesday, that’s the best day.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Gray. ‘It’s been a nice evening, hasn’t it?’
‘Very nice. Well, I’ll look forward to your call. Goodnight, Mr Townsend.’
Gray took a cab home, and had a very large whisky to help him sleep; he found the large empty bed disturbing. But the whisky didn’t help, and he lay awake for hours; thinking about Briony, wondering how he was ever going to recover from the parting; but thinking also about the evening, and about Bard Channing and the expression on his face when he had been denying the existence of his golf complex; and perhaps most interesting of all, the expression on Francesca’s lovely face too – sharp, wary, as she looked at him, and then carefully, almost instantly blank.
There was no doubt about it, Gray thought, as he fell finally asleep as the birds on Clapham Common announced the arrival of dawn; Bard had been lying. About something which didn’t seem remotely important, but which clearly actually was. Worth investigating. Without a doubt.
‘Bastard,’ said Kirsten, ‘bloody poncy bastard. What a load of total shit – ’
‘Kirsten?’
She jumped, turned round; she’d been standing at the sink, viciously rinsing out glasses. It was better, anything was better, than watching Toby making a total fool of himself with that creature. It had been all right till then, her party; really quite a good one. A bit grown up of course, but that was what came of having a boyfriend who was twenty-six. With a lot of friends who were also twenty-six. Or even older. On the other hand, he’d seen to the wine, which was not half bad, and insisted she had proper food, not just hacked-up French bread, and so she’d got the Thai place down the road to bring a whole lot in, she certainly wasn’t going to do a lot of cooking and that was really nice. Everyone was drunk, but not disgustingly so, and a few people were smoking dope, but Toby who was famously anti-drugs in her circle had made her tell everyone not to bring anything else, and she didn’t think they had. If they had, well, it wasn’t her fault. He was a bit of a pain, old Tobes, but he was nice. And a good laugh, most of the time. And very good looking; she’d watched him chatting up two of her girlfriends who obviously thought he was gorgeous, making complete idiots of themselves actually, and felt a pang of proprietory pleasure.
Everyone had seemed very happy, in spite of being grown up, about a third of them dancing, the others sitting and chatting. It struck her suddenly that the music (Happy House mostly) was a bit loud for chatting, and she’d just been thinking maybe she should turn it down a bit, and then remembered the old joke about if the music was too loud, you were too old, and had grinned to herself, decided to turn it up.
And then Victoria had arrived, Victoria looking very sweet, in a black silk shift over a white T-shirt, clutching a couple of bottles of wine and some flowers, followed by her new boyfriend, John, an earnest redhead studying anthropology, and another couple. Neither of whom Kirsten had liked the look of at all. The man was pallid, almost pasty, wearing a black leather jacket and leather trousers – God, he must be frying in those, thought Kirsten – with fair hair pulled back in a ponytail and rather blank, very light blue eyes, and the girl was black, Jamaican, very tall, taller than she was even – that always annoyed her for a start – with close-cropped white-bleached hair, and as near naked as it was possible to be in clothes. She was wearing red silk shorts that just covered her buttocks and a boned black top which hung perilously off the edge of her nipples and ended about three inches above her navel, and very high platform red sandals. She looked, in Kirsten’s opinion, perfectly ridiculous and as she came in, every man in the room stopped what he was doing or saying and stared at her.
‘Hi Kirsten,’ said Victoria rather breathlessly, depositing the flowers in her arms, and the bottles on the table. ‘I took you at your word and brought a couple of friends. This is Martin, who’s at college with John, and this is Tiffany’ – indicating the black girl, who nodded at Kirsten rather briefly, and then looked pointedly round the room clearly casing it for talent.
Tiffany, thought Kirsten, nodding at them both, forcing a smile, how corny, how predictable. ‘Do get yourselves drinks,’ she said, taking the flowers. ‘I’ll try and find som
ething to put those in, Tory. You OK?’
‘Yes thanks.’ She followed Kirsten out to the kitchen. ‘Sorry about those two,’ she said. ‘We met them in the pub this afternoon. John seems to think Martin is wonderful. He’s in the music business.’
‘Yes, well, all the men in that room certainly think Tiffany is wonderful,’ said Kirsten coolly.
‘She’s all right,’ said Victoria staunchly, ‘honestly. She works at some rape crisis centre.’
‘Yeah? I should think she’d cause a few rape crises herself. Hasn’t she heard of clothes?’
‘Oh Kirsten don’t be cross. I’m sorry.’ Tory’s face became anxious, ‘I’m really sorry. Anyway, you’re not wearing that much yourself.’ This was true; Kirsten had spent much of the afternoon selecting and rejecting clothes and finally settled on a red shift, not a lot longer than Tiffany’s shorts and very little higher cut than her bodice. Nevertheless there was a huge difference and she knew it and Tory knew it; her dress had class and style, and was designed to charm and flatter, not provoke. But she managed to smile and say ‘sorry’ and take Victoria back into the room, where Tiffany had already been dancing with Martin, a glass of red wine in one red-taloned hand, a cigarette in the other.
‘Tory!’ It was Toby. ‘Nice to see you. And your friends.’ His dark eyes roamed over Tiffany briefly, then came back to Tory. ‘You’re looking lovely. Easily outshining your big sis tonight, I’d say.’
‘Oh Toby, don’t be silly!’ said Victoria, blushing; Toby always flirted with her and flattered her, he had told Kirsten she needed it. Normally she liked to hear it, thought it sweet, but tonight she felt a sudden stab of irritation.
‘Toby, we’re running out of beer. Want to go and get some?’
‘Not specially. But I will. Mr Nice Guy, that’s me.’
Tiffany walked past him, looked at him rather pointedly, and then grinned. ‘Is that right?’ Her voice was deep, almost hoarse, with a South London accent; sex on the vocals, thought Kirsten irritably.
‘Yes it is,’ said Toby lightly. ‘Coming with me then, Kirsten?’
The Dilemma Page 30
