The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She left soon after that; she said she had things to do, and it was nearly supper time on the ward. She bent and kissed him again, pressed his hand. ‘I’d like to talk some more,’ she said, ‘some time,’ and was gone, leaving her heavy perfume hanging in the air. He was half relieved, half sorry to see her go. The conversation about his father had been hugely intriguing, even while it had been upsetting. She obviously had some bee in her bonnet about him, seemed to think he had something to hide, something about the Clarkes. Which was an interesting concept. God, it would be good to get something on his father. Add that to running off with his wife and he really would see him start to sweat. Well, not actually running off, probably. That would be too much like hard work. But getting into bed with. That was an expression used as much in a business context these days as in a personal, a sexual one. Very appropriate. Under the circumstances. Anyway, thanks to Nurse Karen Fisher, Teresa was on to that. Or rather the possibility of it. She was a very smart cookie; she had twigged instantly. Well, that didn’t matter: it could suit his cause very well. In the fullness of time, that was. The situation did need rather careful orchestration … Francesca was scarcely aware herself yet that she felt anything for him except sympathy and a rather happy friendship. But she would. She certainly would. And then, then Teresa could be handed a gun, and a great deal of ammunition which he personally would provide her with. It was all beginning to look rather promising.

  Liam suddenly felt tired; he decided to go back to the ward for a rest before supper. It really had been a rather exhausting day.

  If anyone had asked Oliver what he thought the odds were against this happening, he would have said a million, probably a billion to one. But here she was, Kirsten Channing was, sitting smiling at him in his car, and he had just kissed her, and that had been an amazingly interesting, not to say moving, experience; and they had had a really good evening, dinner at some place she’d suggested, Harvey’s Café in the Fulham Road, he’d been scared it would be some over-priced Sloaney place, but it had been nice, unusual and nice. And then they had walked back to his car, and on the way she had slipped her arm through his and when they had reached it, she had slithered swiftly in beside him, turned his head to her and kissed him very gently.

  ‘I really enjoyed that,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, and sat staring at her, almost in surprise; at her face, at her strange, beautiful eyes; surprised that he should be here with her at all, surprised that she should have kissed him, surprised above all that she was so nice, not really the brat he had always imagined: awkward possibly, difficult probably, spoilt certainly, but as well as that funny, interesting, interested, and – well, nice. And having thought it, found the courage to kiss her too: a little less gently, rather more determinedly indeed; and she had responded, also less gently, and all he wanted to do now was learn more of her. In every way.

  ‘I really like that jacket,’ she said, sitting back in the car, looking at him with great attentiveness. ‘It suits you. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Paul Smith,’ he said.

  ‘Oh really?’ She looked faintly surprised. He knew why; she wouldn’t have expected him to shop anywhere so expensive. It half amused, half irritated him.

  ‘I buy quite a few things there,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Yes I do. You’re surprised the poor relation – well, poor friend of the family – can afford such a posh shop.’

  ‘Well – OK,’ she said, grinning at him, pushing back her hair. ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘I like clothes. I always have. I do spend too much on them. But also I’m not really such a poor relation any more. I’ve got a house and a car and a – well, a sort of job – ’

  ‘You don’t like that, do you?’

  ‘Oh the job’s all right,’ he said. ‘I don’t like that I’m working for your dad. I told you. And it is very kind of him,’ he added hastily.

  ‘He doesn’t do kind things,’ said Kirsten, ‘only things that suit him.’

  ‘That’s a very harsh judgment.’

  ‘He’s a very harsh man.’

  Oliver left it at that. ‘What shall we do now? We could go to a club.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and shuddered, ‘I’m a bit off clubs. As I told you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘sorry,’ and laughed.

  She had been coming out of her father’s office the previous week, as he had been going to lunch, wallking down the corridor; he heard one almighty, albeit slightly muffled slam, and then a nearer, louder one, and she had emerged from Marcia’s office, her head very high. She was, he realised, looking at her more carefully, crying. She looked at him, and then away, brushing at her face, her nose with her hand.

  ‘Want a hanky?’ he said, smiling at her gently, and she had smiled, awkwardly through her tears, and shaken her head, fishing in her large, satchel-like bag for one of her own; then lifted her head, shaken back the great waterfall of hair, and said, sniffing loudly, ‘Oh well, maybe yes, please. If you’ve got one.’

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing it to her, waiting patiently, tactfully not looking at her while she blew her nose, and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Has my mascara run?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said truthfully, looking at the huge black smudges, ‘a bit.’

  ‘I’ll go and see to it in the bog,’ she said. ‘Can you wait?’

  ‘Yes of course. I’m not going anywhere. Well, only to get a sandwich.’

  When she came out, she’d looked more cheerful, although still pale, clearly shaken, and ‘You wouldn’t fancy a drink, would you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said, slightly startled, but nonetheless pleased, ‘yes, all right. Just a quick one. There’s a nice wine bar just off Albemarle Street. Would that do you? Or did you have something grander in mind?’

  ‘What, like the Ritz you mean? No of course not. I’m a working girl. No allowance even. Thanks to darling Daddy.’

  He found that slightly hard to believe, but he smiled in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and walked along beside her to the wine bar in silence.

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’ he said, having struggled back to her in a particularly crushed corner, with two glasses of warm and mediocre Chardonnay. ‘You don’t have to, but – ’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. We were just having one of our cosy little chats, me and my dad. About my misdemeanours. One in particular.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Oh – something so minimal you wouldn’t believe anyone could make a fuss about it.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘No you don’t. All I did was go clubbing with Barnaby when he was ill and the police picked us up because he was collapsing, and took us to Casualty. You’d think I’d been found with a hundred grams of coke on me. That’s what he thinks, I know.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said again.

  ‘I hope,’ she said suddenly, ‘you don’t think that. That I do a lot of drugs.’

  ‘No of course I don’t.’

  ‘Because I don’t.’

  He was silent; he felt uncomfortable.

  ‘Oliver, look at me.’ He looked at her. She was wearing a beige slub silk jacket, a very short black linen skirt, and her legs were bare. Bare and golden brown. Her hair was hanging round her shoulders, and she wore no make-up, apart from what was left of her mascara. He thought again how he had never known anyone even nearly as beautiful, and the very fact made him feel insecure, less confident.

  ‘You do, don’t you? Oh, God. Oliver, I want you to believe me very much. It’s important. Not because I give a – a toss if you think I do drugs a lot, which actually I don’t, I used to, but not any more. I want you to believe me because it happens to be true.’

  For some reason, and quite suddenly, he did believe her. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, clearly feeling better at ha
ving cleared this up. ‘He’s pathological about it. Questioned me, cross-questioned Barnaby – separately, of course, that’s one of his brain-washing techniques – oh, it was awful … He’s such a nightmare.’

  He couldn’t imagine what to say that might be helpful or comforting: punitive parenting was not something remotely within his experience. ‘I suppose,’ he said finally, ‘he’s still pretty upset about Mr Booth. Everyone is. So maybe that’s made him – well, extra unreasonable.’

  ‘No,’ said Kirsten briefly, ‘he’s always the same. Honestly. I mean, obviously he is upset about Duggie, but it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. He’s always like this. And the thing is, in my more rational moments, I really can’t blame him. Not too much. I am a running sore in his side. Everything I do turns out wrong. And I’ve done some pretty stupid things lately. What hurts so much though, is that he goes on and on making excuses for Barnaby, whatever he does, and Tory, well, there’s nothing to make excuses for there, she’s such a goody-goody, and he never gives me even the smallest benefit of the doubt. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Well, maybe really you’re his favourite,’ said Oliver. ‘Isn’t that what the shrinks would say?’

  ‘They might say it but they’d be wrong,’ said Kirsten. ‘If he has a favourite, it’s Barney. Out of us three. But really now, I suppose those two brats. God, it’s all so unfair. Sorry. Won’t talk about it any more. Can I get you one now? Oh and look, there’s a table. Go and grab it.’

  The table was pushed right against the window and there was very little room; Oliver found himself pressed very close to her, his thigh against hers. He could smell her; a strong raunchy fragrance. He liked it.

  She smiled, raised her glass to him. ‘I bet you think I’m a frightful brat myself,’ she said.

  ‘No I don’t. I used to think so, to be honest, but I don’t any more.’

  ‘Well, you’re allowed to. I am really. God, I’m sick of myself. Let’s talk about you.’

  ‘Not a lot to tell. Certainly not a lot you don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there is. I’m sorry I always hated you before. I was always quite rude to you, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Quite,’ he said, and smiled again.

  ‘It was having you rammed down our throats, about how hard you worked, how well you did, how polite you were. Granny Jess especially dotes on you.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ said Oliver.

  ‘No, not your fault. Tell me about yourself, Oliver, what do you like doing?’

  ‘I like,’ he said, reluctant to lose her, the closeness, the smell of her, but realising what the time was, ‘I like sitting in wine bars, talking about myself. But I have to get back to work.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said staring at the clock on the wall, jumping up, ‘so do I.’

  ‘Do you really?’

  ‘I really do. You don’t believe it, do you, about the allowance? It’s true. But we could talk about you another time. We could have supper one night. Would you like that?’

  ‘I would,’ said Oliver, feeling the same sense of disorientation as he had experienced briefly at the funeral, ‘yes.’

  ‘And then I could give you your handkerchiefs back. Thank you for the second one.’ And she had bent down, kissed him briefly on the cheek and gone.

  ‘So what would you like to do now?’ he said, looking at her across the car. He supposed, strictly speaking, he could just have taken her home, but he was reluctant for the evening to end.

  ‘Well – I’d like to see your house. I like seeing people’s habitats. Where is it?’

  ‘Ealing.’

  ‘Oh. Bit of a long way.’

  ‘Yes, and Melinda will be there.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you could come and see my flat. Have a coffee. A brandy. And I’ve got some really good coke we could line up … Don’t look like that, Oliver, I’m only teasing you. And it’s not a proposition either. I’d just like to talk a bit more.’ She sat studying his face thoughtfully, as if she might read something in it, and then smiled suddenly, clearly pleased by what she saw. ‘It’s been so nice.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, smiled back, and started the car.

  He liked her flat. It was a typical Sloaney flat, he supposed, big mansion block, lots of Mummy’s furniture, a few old-fashioned-looking pictures, dozens of photographs, underwear all over the bathroom, but it was homey and comfortable.

  ‘Dad bought it for us. He’s just bought one for Tory, as well. He doesn’t want us sharing any more, he thinks I’ll be a bad influence on her. Probably right.’ But behind the quick smile, he could see resentment, hurt.

  ‘That was quite – kind of him, wasn’t it?’ said Oliver.

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. Guilt money. He just wanted me off his conscience.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least he hasn’t turned you out.’

  ‘Not yet. Give him time. Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?’

  ‘I’d love some hot chocolate.’

  She came back with two steaming mugs and a plate of HobNobs – ‘My favourite, real nursery supper this, isn’t it?’ – and put some music on: Simply Red, which surprised him. He said so.

  ‘Oh I get so sick of that house music. Would you kiss me some more, Oliver? I really liked it.’

  He started to kiss her, self-consciously at first, then relaxed. She was interesting to kiss; exploratory, responsive, oddly careful, as if she didn’t want to appear too assertive. She smelt gorgeous, she was warm, her hair was everywhere; she pulled him closer, began to push her body, almost imperceptibly, at his. And he at hers, feeling his erection begin, feeling its heat and its hunger, kissing her harder, harder, his tongue probing, working at hers.

  And then suddenly she pushed him away, sat up straight, smiled at him, rather embarrassed, and reached for her cocoa mug.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, miserable, sure he had offended her. ‘I didn’t mean to – ’

  ‘Oh Oliver, don’t. I meant to, and I wanted you to mean to. But I’ve promised myself, no more sudden sex. It’s my mid-year resolution.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, trying to calm himself, shifting on the sofa, crossing his legs gingerly. He wasn’t sure he was happy with that; it seemed to imply an endless promiscuity.

  ‘I keep doing it,’ she said, ‘and it’s wrong. Next time, the very next time I have sex, it’ll be because I really really know I like the person.’

  ‘Or love them?’

  ‘Well – I don’t think I believe in love. I used to say I knew I didn’t, but I’m not quite so sure now. Do you?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Have you been in love?’ she said, looking at him interestedly.

  ‘Well – yes. Yes I have.’

  ‘And do you have a lot of sex?’

  ‘Not a lot. Well,’ he added hastily, not wishing to be written off as cold, or, worse, a wimp, ‘only when I really like the person.’

  ‘I wish I did believe in love’, she said. ‘But – ’

  And then the phone rang. Oliver looked at his watch. Only just after eleven. He’d thought it was later.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling at him over the receiver, and then slightly more warily, ‘oh, hi Gray.’ Gray. The journalist guy at the funeral. Smooth sod. Hadn’t liked him. ‘Yes, fine thanks. How are you? Yes I enjoyed it too. It was nice.’ An awkward silence. What was nice? thought Oliver, startled by a stab of rather fierce hostility to Gray Townsend. Jealousy? Already? How ridiculous. After a first date!

  ‘How’s work?’ Kirsten was saying. ‘Oh really? Oh I see. What? My gran? What on earth do you want to talk to her for? Well, I could ask her. I doubt if she would. She mistrusts the press.’ She laughed. ‘Can’t think why. Yes, course I will. Yes, I’ll tell her. That’d be good. Bye, Gray. I’ll get back to you.’

  She put the phone down, curled her legs under her, looked at Oliver. ‘Bit weird. That was a guy I know, he’s a journalist – oh, you met him at the funeral, didn’t you, he knew Duggie. Anyway, he wants to meet Grann
y Jess. Says it’s a feature he’s writing on socialism.’

  ‘Socialism?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose it’s not quite as odd as it sounds, what with her job at the Walworth Road and everything. And she’s a great character, as we both know. But – oh well, I can ask her. He said he’d buy us both lunch. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’d be a bit suspicious if I were you,’ said Oliver.

  ‘You’re the best,’ said Jack. He was sitting looking consideringly at his mother over the breakfast table, in between spreading lemon curd extremely thickly on a piece of Shredded Wheat. This was his latest culinary passion, consumed not only at breakfast but at tea, and at lunchtime as well, if Nanny was away and he nagged Francesca enough.

  She smiled at him, kissed his sticky yellow face rather gingerly. ‘Thank you, darling. You’re pretty good yourself.’

  ‘I think you’re the best too, Francesca.’ Barnaby was eating his own rather idiosyncratic breakfast: a banana, a Diet Pepsi and a cup of hot chocolate, to be followed shortly by a cigarette smoked on the front steps. This was his way of telling the world how harsh was the regime under which he lived; he could have perfectly well sat in the garden, but that would have been too discreet.

  ‘Thank you, Barnaby.’

  ‘Don’t I get a kiss too?’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘God, you’re a hard woman. No wonder I have such constant crises of confidence. Francesca, as it’s raining, do you think I could have a cigarette in here? Just this once?’

  ‘No Barnaby, you couldn’t.’

  ‘But I’ll get wet. And I might have a relapse, I’m only just recovered from dysentery after all.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Barnaby, honestly. And you could stay dry and go without your fag. Horrible things.’

  ‘You’ll be dead soon, if you go on smoking them,’ said Jack.

  ‘I’ll be dead soon anyway, of pneumonia,’ said Barnaby. ‘Francesca, could I possibly borrow the little car this morning?’

  ‘OK by me. You’ll have to ask Sandie, she might want it.’