‘It’s a wormery,’ said Jack proudly. ‘There’s lots of worms in there, Dad, and you can watch them, while you’re having your supper or something. They eat the earth, you see, and poo it out again, it’s really clever – ’
‘That is a great present,’ said Bard solemnly. ‘I shall keep it always.’
‘You can’t keep that exact one always,’ said Jack, ‘cos the worms ’ll die. But you can put new ones in, I’ll help you catch them.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bard, ‘thank you very much.’ He turned to Francesca, smiling. ‘And do you have some breathtaking present for me, that you made yourself?’
‘Well – not made. Well, sort of made, I suppose. Here – ’ She handed him an envelope. This already felt wrong, wasn’t at all the joyful occasion she had imagined two months ago.
‘What’s this? A pair of roller skates?’ This was a family joke. ‘No, envelope’s too flat. Bus pass? My God, airline tickets. Just what I always – oh Francesca. How lovely. But – ’
‘Yes?’
‘When do we go?’
‘In about an hour and a half. From the house. All fixed.’
‘Francesca,’ said Bard, and there was just a touch of tension, of — what ? reproach, even? – in his voice; reproach that she should not have thought of such things, should have assumed he could simply leave, walk away from everything, ‘I can’t just drop everything, you must realise that, I have meetings, appointments – ’
‘No you don’t,’ said Francesca, determinedly blithe. ‘All cancelled.’
‘But – ’
‘Ask Marcia. She’s been, I have to say, an absolute brick. Rescheduling furiously, lying away. All you have to do is pick up your bag and follow me.’
He looked at her, and she could see for just a moment he was still resistant, still half inclined to feel he had to refuse; and then he smiled, a little reluctantly to be sure, but still did smile, visibly gave in, relaxed.
‘Good God! Well, in that case, I suppose I can only say yes – ’
‘Bard,’ she said, unable to hide her hurt, ‘Bard, I thought you’d be – ’
‘I am. Very. Whatever it was you thought. I am seriously chuffed, in fact. As Barnaby would say.’
‘Good. Now look, I have to go and see to Kitty and so on. See you for breakfast in – half an hour?’
‘Half an hour, yes,’ said Bard slightly absently. He was already rifling through some papers that he had been looking at in bed. Francesca sighed and went out of the room.
Halfway through breakfast, the phone rang; it was Victoria.
‘Sweet of her,’ said Bard. ‘Dear little thing.’
Jess – who had been in on the Irish plan – phoned too; cards arrived from friends, from Teresa Booth – ‘My God, that is unexpected!’ – from Oliver and Melinda and Heather Clarke, from Rachel, and one he looked at, jaw taut, and pushed beneath his paper. Francesca recognised the writing, predictably huge and sprawling. Kirsten.
Barnaby appeared, looking slightly dishevelled, holding out a card to his father. Francesca looked at the slightly tacky envelope and knew exactly what had happened: he had, unusually for him, failed to buy one until this morning, in spite of her innumerable reminders, and had dashed out to the nearest garage to get what he could.
‘Hi, Dad. Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks, Barney. I must say I’m being very spoilt. Everyone remembering.’
‘Dad! As if we’d forget!’
‘As if you would,’ said Bard, looking at the card; it showed a man holding a set of golf clubs, and said ‘Happy Birthday to a good Dad’ in gleaming gold letters. ‘Very appropriate. Thank you.’
‘That’s OK. I’ve — well, I’ve got your present on order. It’ll be here when you get back.’
‘Fine,’ said Bard, ‘thank you. Very thoughtful of you. Back from where?’
‘Ireland,’ said Barnaby patiently. ‘Oh shit, shouldn’t I have – ’
‘Yes of course you should,’ said Francesca quickly.
‘God, how many more of you were in on this?’ said Bard. He smiled at Francesca, determinedly cheerful. ‘Well, I’d better go and pack. How long have I got?’
‘Half an hour,’ said Francesca. ‘Horton’s coming for us.’
‘OK, I’ll be ready.’
He went out of the room. Well, at least he was coming. Nothing had intervened. He might not be over the moon, but they were getting away together on their own, and once they were on their way he would probably relax and start to enjoy it.
She looked out of the window: a perfect morning. Blue sky, sun shafting down onto the garden. Kitty’s pram was already out, its sunshade up; Francesca could see two small brown feet waving beneath it. Jack was driving his pedal car round and round the kitchen, making Brands Hatch noises; he grinned up at her.
‘Hi, Mum. Don’t get run over.’
‘I won’t,’ said Francesca, looking down at him, at his face already filthy, at his shock of shining dark hair, his sturdy little legs pedalling furiously, and felt her heart turn over with love.
‘Good luck,’ said Barnaby, bending to kiss her briefly, ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you. You off somewhere?’
‘Yeah, got some sleep to catch up on.’
‘Good,’ said Francesca absently. ‘Bye, Barney.’
She rummaged under the paper when he had gone, pulled out Kirsten’s card. ‘Happy birthday and I’m really, really sorry. Love Kirsten.’ Poor Kirsten. Bard ought to forgive her. She was still very young and she needed his support. She would try and make him. Once he had relaxed, once they were closer again.
And then she heard the phone ringing. Bard’s phone. In his study. Heard him running down the stairs to answer it; heard him ring off, quite soon, heard a long, chilling silence. And then he came into the kitchen. His face was pale, very set. He had his jacket on and he was holding his briefcase; he looked at her and there was something like anger in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, briefly, ‘I can’t come.’
‘What! But Bard – ’
‘Francesca, I’ve said I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why, why not?’
‘It’s very – complex,’ he said. ‘I can’t go into it now. I’ll phone you later if I can.’
‘Bard, you can’t just – just go like this. I understand if you can’t come, but you have to tell me why. I think you owe me that at least.’
There was a silence; he looked at her, as if trying to decide if he could still avoid it, avoid telling her what he so clearly did not want to. Then finally he said, speaking slowly and painfully, every word hurting him: ‘There’s a problem with – with one of our bankers.’
‘What do you mean? What sort of problem?’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said, ‘I told you it was complex, I simply don’t have the time to go into it, to explain. Look, I’ll talk to you about it later, if I can.’
Francesca sat there for a moment, staring at him in total silence, trying to work out precisely how she felt, how she could and should react, and then suddenly lost her temper. It wasn’t so much the trip being cancelled, not the waste of all the arranging and planning and the careful consideration. That was disappointing, but it didn’t really matter. What did, what mattered very much, was that this was yet another rejection, that not only was he not prepared to spare the time, any time at all, to tell her what had happened, but he was also making it very plain that it was none of her business, that it was part of his other life, the one he would not share with her, that she was not allowed even to try to understand.
‘If you can,’ she said, her voice heavily ironic. ‘Well, that’s very good of you, Bard. If you can. Just forget it. Don’t bother. I’d hate to think you had to give up any of your valuable time and attention to me.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ he said, ‘don’t be so bloody childish.’
She was silent.
‘Look,’ he said again, ‘l
ook, I said I was sorry. I’ll get Marcia to cancel the Dromoland, she can book it for some other time. All right?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘not all right. Not some other time. I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for it. You’d better go. Goodbye, Bard.’
He left and she looked after him, and mingling with all her other emotions came the now familiar thud of unease, and more than that, the suddenly certain knowledge that there were things that she was not to know, not allowed not to know, things she would do best to turn away from. She hesitated, and then, making a conscious effort and because the alternative was too painful, too dangerous, she managed it. She turned away.
She was sitting in her room, trying to calm herself, to make some sense of her own thoughts and feelings, when her phone rang. It was Liam.
‘Hi,’ he said, cautiously, ‘bad time? When are you off to Ireland?’
‘I’m not,’ she said, ‘and it’s not a bad time.’
‘Really? What’s happened? Want to tell me about it?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I think I do.’
Oliver had collected the documents, and was standing on the corner of Broadgate and London Wall looking for a taxi when he saw Bard’s car pull up outside Trenchards and Bard himself leap out and disappear inside very swiftly. Oliver was mildly intrigued; Trenchards was one of the more successful American investment banks that had arrived in the City with Big Bang. It had recently attracted a lot of publicity, due to the arrival of a new Chief Executive from New York who had stated it as his personal ambition to build his own small corner of Wall Street in the heart of the Square Mile, ‘and I don’t care what it costs.’ What was Bard Channing doing there? Some new deal, no doubt; God, the man never stopped. Most people would have thought he had quite enough problems already.
He found a taxi, got to Channing House with the files just in time, to Jean Rivers’ intense relief, and was sitting having a coffee and studying the markets in the FT, when his phone rang. It was Kirsten.
‘Hi. You OK?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Oliver.
‘Want to go to the movies tonight? Everyone says Four Weddings is the best film ever.’
‘Yeah, why not. As long as I don’t have to work late. Things are a bit hectic here.’
‘Oh really? But my dad’s in Ireland with Francesca, it ought to be really nice and peaceful.’
‘He’s not in Ireland,’ said Oliver, ‘I saw him myself, going into Trenchards half an hour ago.’
‘Really? That’s funny. What’s Trenchards anyway?’
‘Merchant bank. Very high profile. Into high-risk loans. If you care.’
‘Not really. Anyway, we’ll do the cinema, yes?’
‘Yes. Thanks for calling.’
‘My pleasure,’ she said.
‘No, mine, actually,’ said Oliver. He put the phone down and sat staring at it, a faint smile on his face.
Gray decided to call Kirsten. He really felt he should. It seemed just a natural, friendly thing to do, to say hallo, to see if she was all right. He still felt uneasy about cutting off from her completely. It wasn’t – well, it wasn’t polite. After two false starts, he dialled her number.
‘Hi.’
‘Oh, hi, Gray.’ She sounded slightly awkward.
‘I just – thought I’d say hallo. Make sure you were all right.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘Good.’
There was a silence.
‘How’s everything, then?’
‘Oh – good. Yeah.’
‘Enjoying the job?’
‘Yes, I really am. Thank you again for it, Gray. It beats working for my dad, I can tell you that.’
‘How is your dad?’ He might as well try and get something positive out of what was clearly otherwise an abortive phone call. ‘It must be a huge adjustment, working without Duggie.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’ Her voice was very uninterested.
‘Is he – in London at the moment?’
‘Oh, I think so, yes. Actually, he’s supposed to be in Ireland, it’s his birthday, Francesca was taking him as a surprise, but Oliver – you remember Oliver Clarke from the funeral? – Oliver said he just saw him in the City. So I don’t know what he’s up to. Going into some bank or other.’
‘Oh really?’ said Gray. This was interesting. Very interesting. ‘You don’t remember which one, do you?’ he added, carefully casual. ‘I was trying to track him down.’
‘Um – no. Something beginning with T. Very high profile, Oliver said.’
‘Trenchards?’ said Gray.
‘Yeah, that’s it. Look, Gray, sorry, I must go. Speak to you some time.’
‘Yes, fine.’ He was so excited at the thought of Bard Channing going to Trenchards, he hardly noticed her cool dismissal. ‘Bye, Kirsten. Take care.’
Alan Ferrers was eating his pasta salad, and wondering how he might fancy a little yen and games, as he called his bolder dealings with the Nikkei, when Gray Townsend called him to ask him what he would say if he told him he had understood there was a vague possibility that Bard Channing had been having an early-morning meeting with Trenchards.
‘I’d say do up your seatbelt, my son,’ said Ferrers. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
Francesca arrived home mid-afternoon; she was shaking violently. She parked her car at least a foot wide of the pavement, ran up the steps, let herself in, praying no-one would be around: her prayers were not answered.
‘Hi,’ came Barnaby’s voice from the kitchen, ‘you OK?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’
He wandered out, grinned at her, then as he studied her, looked more concerned. ‘You don’t look it. You look all shook up. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Honestly.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, of course I’m sure.’
‘OK, OK. It was just that I thought – ’
‘Yes, Barnaby, what did you think?’
‘Well, you know, that as Dad didn’t go to Ireland with you that you might be – ’
‘Might be what?’ Shit, her voice sounded strange, shaky, even to herself.
‘Well, upset, of course. I’m sorry, Francesca, really sorry.’
‘Barnaby, I’m fine. Honestly. It was no big deal. As you would say.’
‘OK. Fine. That’s good.’ He shrugged, turned away from her, obviously hurt at the rejection. She ran upstairs, guilt at that added to the rest, telling herself he couldn’t possibly have known, have told from her face, what had been happening to her: could not have known she had arranged wilfully and calculatedly to go and meet another man, a man other than her husband (her husband’s son indeed, most dreadfully, shockingly worse), had wept, been held, in the arms of another man, been kissed by another man, over and over again, returned those kisses, found them alarmingly, profoundly erotic, had felt the hands of another man on her hair, her face, her breasts, had heard him saying things, dreadful, wonderful things, had fought back words of her own, wicked words of betrayal, had even spoken some of them, had acknowledged desire, longing even, and if not love then tenderness, had sworn both to him and herself that none of it must ever happen again, and known at the same time that it was possible, more than possible, that it would.
Alan Ferrers listened to his new girlfriend giving him a large piece of her rather small mind for as long as he could stand, on the subject of the cancellation of a dinner date at two hours’ notice, and then put the phone down firmly, having told her he would be able to buy her dinner in Barbados in a week or two if she’d only let him get on with his work now. The nature of this particular work was fairly pleasant, and would take place in the wine bars of the City and later quite possibly a restaurant or two; but it was nonetheless essential, and essential that it was done that night. So that within a very short period of time, thirty-six hours at the most, he and a handful of other young fortunates could have earned enough money for their companies to ensure bonuses quite big enough to g
o to Barbados and back with their girlfriends several times over. First class, of course.
Just before midnight, in the boardroom of the Stockholm head office of the Konigstrom Bank after a very long and gruelling day, the directors phoned Bard Channing and told him that it was with great regret they felt they could, despite earlier assurances, only give him another forty-eight hours before calling in their loan. News had reached them, via their spies in London, that Methuens had made the same decision.
The Chief Executive, reporting on this to his wife when he got home, said he had been most impressed by Mr Channing’s response, which had been calm and positive, and that Mr Channing had seemed to think, even at that stage, it was most unlikely that he could not still save his company.
He added that he certainly hoped that would be the case, since not only the bank, but he personally, had staked their reputation on the Channing Corporation, and they would be considerably exposed if Channings did indeed go down. His wife smiled at him soothingly and said she was sure everything would be perfectly all right.
Chapter Nineteen
‘So what would you like to do this evening, then?’ said Kirsten. ‘Cinema again?’
‘No, it’s much too nice for that. What about a picnic in the park, that’d be much more fun.’
‘If you think it would be fun, let’s do it,’ she said. ‘Pick me up here about six, OK?’
‘OK.’
She put down the phone and sat smiling at it slightly foolishly. The feelings that were invading her, increasingly strongly and happily, for Oliver were such as she had not known before. There was no impatience in those feelings, no mistrust, no desire to dominate him, to see her will override his: none of the things that had wrecked so many of her relationships with so many men through her short life. The point being, she supposed, that he was so different from all those men. She had grown up with the ultimate example, in her father, of someone arrogant, demanding, opinionated; had come to see that, inevitably, as the model of how a man should be, and sought it for herself, dislike it increasingly as she might. And then whenever she had chosen the reverse, chosen sweetness, gentleness, consideration, she had found the possessors of those qualities seriously wanting. Oliver managed, somehow, to combine the toughness with the sweetness; he was surprisingly firm with her, said what he thought, did what he wanted, told her when he disapproved of her – when she did something he didn’t like, behaved in a way he found unacceptable: shouted at a taxi driver, talked loudly through a film that bored her, bawled out an incompetent waiter – ‘You sound like your father,’ he had said on that occasion, only the third time they had been out together, and she had promptly burst into tears. But no-one had done that before; the one breed of men (like Toby) had thought it amusing, the others had not dared to criticise.
The Dilemma Page 47
