‘No, I’d better stay.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Tiffany.
‘Oh – nearest off-licence.’
‘Get me some cigars, would you?’ she said. ‘Just ten. Here’s some dough.’
‘Oh that’s all right,’ He waved it away. ‘Yeah, sure. See you.’
‘Your boyfriend?’ said Tiffany to Kirsten.
‘Yes, my boyfriend,’ said Kirsten.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Tiffany, and moved away.
And when Toby came back, he gave Tiffany the cigars, and Kirsten watched her offer him one and he refused, and then she said something and he laughed and said something back, and she went to fetch herself another drink and when she came back he was dancing with her: really dancing, her arms round his neck loosely (she was as tall as him), her large black eyes fixed on his mouth, her body moving sweetly liquid in perfect rhythm with his. She leant forward and whispered something in his ear and he put back his head and roared with laughter; Kirsten, angry suddenly, turned away. He must have seen her, seen the gesture, for he left the floor at the end of the track and came over to her.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You look a bit – off.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Kirsten irritably. God, what was the matter with her, why did she have to be so fucking jealous and insecure? She wasn’t even in love with Toby, for Christ’s sake.
‘Good.’
‘What did she say to you then? That made you laugh?’
‘Oh, she said I danced like a black man.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Big compliment, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Kirsten, ‘I do know.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes I’m perfectly sure.’
And then he said, ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Kirsten,’ and went back to the room where the dancing was, and in a very short time was dancing with Tiffany again. And that was when Kirsten went into the kitchen. And heard someone saying her name. And realised it was Gray Townsend and that she had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life.
‘Gray! Hi. Nice surprise. I didn’t think you were coming. How are you?’
‘Fine. I wasn’t coming, like I said. Then I thought I was being a bit of a wimp. So I did. But I’m on my own …’
‘That’s OK,’ said Kirsten. She looked at him, thinking it was actually perfectly OK. He was getting on a bit, must be mid-thirties at least, but he was very good looking with his streaky brown, floppy hair and his grey eyes, and he looked well, as if he cared for himself, tanned and fit looking; and he was wearing a really nice linen shirt and some extremely battered 501s. She didn’t usually like old guys in jeans, but he did have a nice body, and they were exactly the right size, not tight, not straining over a middle-aged arse; it was quite sweet really, he’d obviously thought he ought to dress young and very casual, and he’d slightly overdone it, but still …
‘Let me get you a drink,’ she said.
‘Thanks. This is for you.’ He gave her a bottle of champagne. ‘Not for now, probably. Maybe tomorrow. Nothing like champagne for hangovers.’
‘Gray. How lovely. Veuve Clicquot. My goodness. Come on in and meet some people.’
‘I really almost didn’t come,’ he said, taking the glass of wine she gave him. ‘Just settling down to a lonely takeaway, I was, in front of the movie channel. Then I thought I was being a bit chicken, and took myself by surprise.’
‘Did you and your girlfriend – well – is it permanent?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Gray with a sigh. ‘I think so.’
‘Sorry. You obviously don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Not now, certainly.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I hope we can improve on the movie channel. What was on?’
‘When Harry Met Sally.’
‘Oh yes. I think we can. Well, except for that bit – ’
‘Good. Now where is your nice boyfriend?’
‘There,’ said Kirsten briefly, indicating Toby. He was now dancing slightly more energetically with Tiffany, and had one of her cigars in his mouth. He was fiercely anti-smoking; he never let Kirsten have a single cigarette. She wanted to go and ram the cigar deeply down his throat.
‘Mmm. Who’s his friend? She must be feeling very warm.’
‘She’s a friend of Tory’s,’ said Kirsten, laughing in spite of herself. ‘My sister.’
‘And which is your sister?’
‘There. In the black and white.’
‘Oh yes. Very sweet. Oh dear, I feel very old suddenly. Maybe I should have stayed with Meg Ryan.’
‘No you shouldn’t,’ said Kirsten, putting his glass down, pulling him gently onto the dance floor. ‘You’re going to have a really nice time, I promise.’
Francesca was re-reading a story in the Sunday Times financial section headed ‘Bard Channing in crisis talks with bankers’ over a very strong cup of coffee. She was re-reading it because she had read it once and then asked Bard about it, as it seemed to imply there was some kind of problem with the Channing Corporation, and he had started shouting and saying there was absolutely no problem, it was just that when he had gone to Stockholm for a perfectly standard meeting with the bank to discuss the ongoing situation, a journalist had heard about it and the entire British press had now got the wrong end of the stick and smelt trouble where there was none, adding that they all ought to be put up against a wall and shot. ‘There is no problem,’ he had said, ‘absolutely none. I’ve just had some crowd of accountants in who could bear witness to the fact, no-one wants to report on that though, do they? There is no crisis to have talks about, Francesca, and I would be grateful if you wouldn’t join the press in inventing one.’
Francesca said she was glad there was no crisis, and (thanking whatever powers thanks were due to, that the article was not in the News on Sunday and nothing to do with Gray Townsend) thought she should read the article carefully anyway. It did seem (on second reading) to be about very little, although there was a quote from Pete Barbour about restructuring the loan which seemed slightly more serious and not what Bard had said; she wished now she hadn’t said anything to Bard, since it had clearly put him in a bad temper and what she really wanted to know were his plans for the afternoon. He had said at breakfast he had to go into the office: if he did she had thought she might go and see Liam. He was having such an awful time and had told her her visits were the only thing in the world keeping him sane; it was nice to be doing something useful. She had also intended to tell Bard she had been to visit Liam a couple more times, just so that it was all public and above board. Not that she was doing anything wrong, obviously, but she would just prefer Bard to know. But this was clearly not the time, and it didn’t look as if she was going to find out what Bard was doing either. She sighed and looked out of the window: Jack was working on his tunnel, his small bottom stuck in the air like Pooh in the rabbit hole.
She went out into the garden to join him. ‘How’s it going?’ she said. ‘Can I help?’
Funny thing, love, thought Rachel, watching Mary as she buttoned up her cardigan with infinite slowness. It took you by surprise, showed you things about yourself you’d never have suspected, turned your life over, saw you doing all kinds of things you’d never have thought of.
She who was so impatient, so worldly, so urban a creature, had spent over a week now with Mary, this sweet, loving, grown-up child, three days in hospital and the rest at the convent, caring for her, comforting her, watching videos with her (mostly comedies, but a few Hollywood musicals, most notably The Wizard of Oz, four times over now), reading to her (Mary liked poetry best), talking to the others; had become caught up in the routine, the careful order of life at the Help House, had helped with the laundry even (and she hated ironing above all things), changed wet beds, sorted out socks, had helped in the garden too, picked strawberries, cut lettuces, hoed weeds, and worke
d in the kitchen, although the food was scarcely her style, good, wholesome but very very plain, because the residents liked it that way. She had left home in such a hurry she hadn’t packed properly, left behind the most basic things; the nuns had lent her some underclothes, strange baggy pants, a voluminous nightdress and a pair of brown leather sandals, and after the first day or so she had simply stopped minding. The only thing that really bothered her was that she had left her absurdly expensive and complex skincare stuff behind, her moisturisers and skin foods and revitalisers and oils; she could feel the wrinkles furrowing more deeply into her face each day. She had mentioned it, laughing at her own foolishness, to Reverend Mother who had left a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream in her room and a little note saying ‘I find this excellent,’ and she had expressed great gratitude and pretended to use it, but did not, preferring to wait until she got home. If it had not been for the wrinkles and a growing worry about Francesca she would have stayed for another week, but she had decided that it was time she left.
‘Besides,’ she said to Reverend Mother, who had come to her room to try and persuade her to stay, ‘there is a lot to talk to Bard Channing about. The planning permission still seems a problem, we have to sort out an architect pretty quickly, and we aren’t yet formally established as a charity. I shall still be very much part of you.’
‘You should come and live here,’ said Reverend Mother, looking at her and smiling. ‘It suits you. You look a different woman from the one who got off the train. You’ve even put on a little weight.’
‘I feel different,’ said Rachel, trying to accept this last comment as the compliment it was meant to be, ‘but I really don’t think that would work, Mother. And besides, I’m much more use to you up in London.’
‘I suppose so. And Mary is certainly perfectly all right now. She won’t mind you going at all.’
‘No,’ said Rachel. It was at once a source of pleasure and pain to her that Mary accepted her comings and goings with a calm, happy detachment; she was briefly sad when the car disappeared down the lane and then at once distracted by something as simple as laying the table for tea or collecting eggs with Richard.
‘And your daughter: does she know you’re here?’
‘No,’ said Rachel quickly. ‘No, she doesn’t. She thinks I’m staying with a friend.’
‘Supposing she rings the friend?’
‘She won’t. She doesn’t have a number.’
‘Rachel!’ Reverend Mother looked at her, shaking her head gently. ‘This can’t go on, you have to tell her. What are you so afraid of, will she really mind so much?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she will,’ said Rachel slowly. ‘She’ll find it very hard. She’s such a truthful person.’
‘Then you should tell her. Before she finds out for herself.’
‘She won’t. How could she?’
‘Very easily, I would have thought. And especially now. She, is after all, married to Mr Channing. I can see it will be a shock, Rachel, but it will be a worse one if she is not told carefully. I think you have to do it.’
‘Yes all right,’ said Rachel with a sigh, ‘I promise I will. Once we’ve got the planning permision and it’s all up and running. But until then – well, I don’t want a lot of emotion and drama. Anyway, I’ll phone her, I was thinking I must, and tell her I’m coming back, make sure she’s all right. Her life isn’t easy.’
‘No I’m sure,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘Come and use my phone, Rachel, if you like.’
‘Thank you, Mother.’
Reverend Mother had a copy of the Sunday Times on her desk. Rachel started leafing through it idly while she settled at the phone, and found herself staring at an article on the front of the financial section headed ‘Bard Channing in talks with bankers’.
‘Oh my God,’ she said aloud, ‘dear God,’ and then said ‘Sorry’ aloud, just in case the Almighty might happen to be listening, fearing such words uttered in the study’s pure and pious air might be deemed blasphemous. If the press had got hold of this story, it was serious. Not just because she knew that the Sunday Times at least wouldn’t publish it unless there was some real substance behind it, but also because the property business was, and especially at the moment, a game of poker. It was fine while everyone thought you had a handful of aces; you could stay in the game and if you were clever enough – and lucky enough, there was a lot of that – you could go on to win. But if just one other player suspected you had a duff hand, and wanted to make you declare it, you were done for. Bard seemed to be running out of aces.
But what the press had got hold of was actually a rather upbeat version of the story. Thanks no doubt in part to Sam Illingworth. God, that girl was worth her weight in five-pound notes. Channing had gone to Stockholm, but only to restructure the loan and to firm up on a tenancy offer for Coronet Wharf, and he was also looking at a new development in Leeds; meanwhile the share price which had been dipping slightly had not only steadied but rallied.
‘ “Everything is fine,” Peter Barbour, Channings’ Finance Director, was quoted to have said that morning, “we simply wanted to restructure the deal. We have several new projects in the pipeline and several parties extremely interested in leasing Coronet Wharf, and expect to announce a deal very shortly.” ’
‘Amen,’ said Rachel fervently, grateful at least in a small part on her own account, as well as Bard’s and Francesca’s; she dialled the St John’s Wood number.
The phone rang for a long time; finally Francesca’s voice answered.
‘Francesca? Darling, it’s Mummy. I’ve just seen the story in the Times. I’m so glad it seems to be all right.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Francesca sounded very cold and distant. ‘I would be the last to be told if it was or not.’
‘Well, hasn’t Bard talked to you about it?’
‘No of course not.’
‘Is this story in all the papers?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
Why was she being so unfriendly? It couldn’t be just because Rachel had failed her the other day when she had wanted to talk. She felt a sudden pang of panic. Something had happened.
‘I see. Well, I’m coming back to London now. Joan has been greatly cheered by my visit, I can’t think why, and – ’
‘Mummy, can we stop this silly game? I know you haven’t been with Joan Duncan, I rang her. And I saw you in your taxi that morning going in the opposite direction after I’d dropped you at Euston. If you’ve got a new boyfriend or something I can’t think why you couldn’t tell me about it. He must be very unsuitable. Anyway, I’ve got to go now, I’m busy. Goodbye.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Rachel, looking at the receiver as Francesca rang off. ‘Oh dear, Rachel, now what have you done?’
Gray woke up at midday, feeling very unwell indeed, with a headache that seemed to come from the depths of his body, and a strong sensation of nausea, wondering where he was. He opened his eyes cautiously; found himself gazing into a tangled mane of red-gold curls, found his arm resting across a narrow back, his hand curled tenderly round a full, firm breast. And remembered. Remembered all of it.
He moved gently, pulling away from her; she shifted slightly, smiled in her sleep. He looked at her for a while, exploring his feelings, then turned onto his back. The pain in his head moved, resettled; the nausea churned, then mercifully settled too. It was bad, but at least he knew he wasn’t going to throw up. Everything hurt; even his toes. Even his cock. Yes, certainly his cock, he thought, concentrating on it briefly. Well, not exactly sore, but weary, old. He felt like a very old man altogether. Which was no doubt how Kirsten saw him.
The worst thing of all was knowing he’d made a complete fool of himself. First he had been the object of some curiosity by being at the party at all, a good ten years older than anyone else; then he’d got extremely drunk and allowed himself to smoke that bloody grass – or rather a spliff, as they called it these days – and danced uninhibitedly and rather badly with Kirsten, and
then he’d started pouring out his troubles to her, telling her how much he loved Briony and how he missed her, and then she’d had a fight with her boyfriend, and ordered him to get out with the black girl (who had started laughing at her and telling her to chill out, which hadn’t made matters any better), and then he had joined in and taken Toby forcibly by the shoulders and pushed him out of the door. He hadn’t behaved in so adolescent a manner since – well, since he’d been an adolescent.
And then, when everyone else had rather swiftly departed, Victoria in tears, he had sat down and tried to comfort Kirsten and, without having much of an idea how, had found himself in bed with her. And it had been fantastic. Bloody fantastic. She had taken possession of him, used him and his body through a long, long night, and he had loved every fucking minute of it. Looking back, every minute did seem to have been spent fucking. Obviously it could not really have been, but a hell of a lot of them were. The energy, the imagination, the lack of inhibition Kirsten put into her activities in bed were astonishing. Her body seemed inexhaustible, fathomless; he seemed to grow literally into it, into its greed, its powerful, grasping depths. Not once but twice he had thought himself entirely spent; twice she began to work on him, with her mouth, her hands, her legs, her breasts, urging him, teasing him, drawing him on. She talked to him, talked wonderfully, savagely sexy, savoured him, enjoyed him with a raw, seductive lack of inhibition; he felt himself bewitched, enthralled. Every so often, and despite himself, Gray thought of Briony, of her sweet, tender lovemaking, of the soft, yielding opening to him, the fluid movings of her body, the gentle lapping of her orgasm surrounding his, and even as he mourned her he marvelled that he could have found it enough.
‘You make love like a man,’ he had said to Kirsten, lying exhausted finally beside her, winding the long lion’s mane of her hair round his fingers, smiling into the sea-green depths of her eyes, and ‘Yes,’ she said, just slightly complacent, ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
‘You’re lovely,’ he said, kissing her neck, her breasts (thinking even in his pleasure that she meant she had been told so before, setting the thought determinedly aside). ‘Quite extraordinary.’
The Dilemma Page 31
