Oliver was simply quite unlike anyone she had ever known before (he explained it to her, when she remarked upon it, as the possible result of having to grow up very fast and very thoroughly), and everything she knew of him, each fresh thing she discovered, charmed her more. He was of course very good looking, and that was nice, she really could not have gone out with someone plain; and his liking, his eye for, stylish clothes pleased and surprised her. And she enjoyed his honesty, his surprising independence of spirit; he was never afraid to argue, to hold an unfashionable view, he was for instance surprisingly traditional in his moral outlook, deplored the breakdown of the family, the ever-burgeoning army of single parents, and she teased him about it, called him an old man. And then there were other entirely delightful qualities: his sense of humour (unpredictable and slightly quirky), his capacity for enjoying the most ordinary things (a mediocre film, a walk, the rollerblade lesson she had given him), a rather charming greed, a considerable physical energy. He was never tired; however long and demanding his day, he was always ready to go out, and then to prolong the evening, never wanted it to end. He got up early, went running across Ealing Common, was always in the office before anyone else, worked out three times a week, played tennis and squash regularly (by his own admission with more enthusiasm than skill), and liked to walk briskly round the streets to, as he put it, slow himself down before finally going to bed, never before one-thirty or two. Kirsten, fairly inexhaustible herself (a legacy from her father), found herself frequently defeated by him. She also, putting all these qualities together into the equation – the energy, the greed, the capacity for pleasure – found the thought of going to bed with him increasingly tantalising. And she felt the time had come: she had qualified, she felt, under her own rules; she knew him very well, she liked him very much (although ‘like’ as a label did not seem quite adequate now for the warmth, the intense pleasure of what she felt for him), she found him desirable. And she knew he found her so too, despite his wariness of her, his constant surprise that she was, as he told her, as nice as she was (‘Bit of a half-cock compliment, that, Oliver’), she could feel it, as he kissed her, held her, feel the wanting, the desire in him.
And so how, now, did one go about it, she wondered: it seemed arrogant, presumptuous in the worst possible way, the old Kirsten, the one he had always thought she was, to say to him, however subtly, ‘Right then, Oliver, I’ve decided, it’s time, you can have sex with me now.’
She thought about it a great deal: whether to set up a situation, ask him back to the flat, pretend surprise, sudden ardour, drunkenness even, but that seemed wrong, at odds with the honesty in their relationship that she was enjoying so much. She kept hoping he would make the first move, would suggest they moved on, would try to seduce her, but he didn’t; he seemed prepared to be patient, to wait, to consider her feelings. That in itself seemed charming, a novelty; it was only when she forced herself to realise that few, if any, of the men she had known had been given the opportunity for such delicacy, that she realised also what a strong, an irresistible sexual force she was. And besides, she was not at all sure that the person she now knew to be Oliver would like it, would welcome her usual approach: thinking of the last time she had used it, with Gray, poor, nice, undeserving Gray, she felt abashed, and more than that, ashamed.
Well, she could wait a bit longer, she thought; it wouldn’t do either of them any harm. And they had all the time in the world, after all.
‘Brandy?’ said Gray.
He didn’t know about Clive Hopkins, but he certainly needed one. He had been listening to him for over two hours now, in the dining room of the Palace Hotel, Torquay, and he thought he had rarely come across a man of such overweening vanity.
He had been told of Hopkins’ vision, his foresight, his aesthetic sense; of his willingness to be unpopular, to fight for the buildings he believed in, to set his own inclinations aside for the common good; of the architects he had encouraged, the talent he had fostered, the standards he had set. Had Nash and le Corbusier pooled their resources, worked together for a hundred years, they would not have achieved more — indeed rather less, Gray was given to believe – than Clive Hopkins.
‘I chose not actually to qualify myself, Mr Townsend,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘I felt I could achieve more for the architectural scene in this country in my own way. And I have to say to you, I think I was right. Yes, a brandy would be very nice. Thank you.’
He had drunk a great deal for a man with a heart problem, Gray thought: two gin and tonics before lunch, the lion’s share of a bottle of claret, and now a brandy. Gray, who had been holding back himself, keeping his head clear, had watched him with some awe. Hopkins had remained sober for some time too; but he was just tipping over now, into a slight slurring of speech, a just discernible glazing of the eyes. Gray, practised at observing such things, felt a huge relief; he had thought it was never going to happen.
The first brandy (a double) was half drunk now, the first coffee cup drained. Just a few more minutes of this, then he could move in for the kill. He braced himself.
‘Tell me, Mr Hopkins – excuse me, I have to put a new tape in, this has been so marvellous – yes, tell me, what criticisms would you make of the architectural schools?’
‘Ah, now you’re asking.’
Yes, I am, you little twat, thought Gray, and I’m very much afraid you’re going to tell me.
‘Lack of realism. That’s the first thing. Improper attention to function. Architecture should be function-led. That’s what I tell all my trainees. It’s no use having the most beautiful building in the world if the toilets are in the wrong place. Architects don’t listen, you see, to the people who know. There is no-one more arrogant than the architect, and the schools encourage that. There is not a building in this world that couldn’t have been improved, to my mind, made just that bit better by what I would call editing. By an outside eye.’
‘What, even the Nash terraces?’ said Gray, unable to bear this any longer.
‘Certainly the Nash terraces. Nash went bankrupt, of course. Not many people know that. There is a lot of space wasted in those buildings. A lot.’
‘Well, that’s an interesting view,’ said Gray. ‘Another brandy?’
‘Oh, well – just a small one. Since you’re twisting my arm.’
‘And what developments are you personally proudest of?’
‘Oh – some of the early shopping precincts. A housing development near Croydon, very nice that one. Most successful. One of the Larkston chain. And a very nice residential complex out Romford way, two low-rise blocks and then a mixture of two- and three-storey houses. Very well landscaped, they were.’
‘Was that one you worked on with the Thompson Corporation?’ said Gray.
‘No, not Thompson they weren’t. Forster, that was, I think.’
‘Oh yes, of course. And then you did quite a lot of work with Channings, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, a fair bit, yes.’
Well, he certainly wasn’t sensitive about the name.
‘Wasn’t there something at Easterhope?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Quite a nice estate there. South Farm.’
‘It was from Easterhope you retired, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that is correct. Mother Nature gave me a couple of warnings, and I thought it was time to go.’
‘Did you find Bard Channing easy to work with? I had heard from some other sources he was a nightmare.’
‘Oh no, not at all. I can get on with most of these boys, you know. In my experience, those who complain about people being difficult are difficult themselves. People say Chris Forster, for instance, is impossible to work with, but I never had any trouble with him, all the buildings we put up. No, I liked Bard Channing, as a matter of fact. We go back a long way. He was always ready to listen, you see, take advice. He came to my retirement dinner, as a matter of fact. And I played golf with Douglas Booth very often. Nice chap.’
‘Oh really
? So do you remember Nigel Clarke?’
A different expression came over Hopkins’ face suddenly; wary, cautious. ‘Hardly knew him. Our paths never crossed. He wasn’t in the same league as Bard Channing and Douglas Booth. None too bright, in my view. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, of course, but – ’
‘Of course not.’ This had gone on long enough. Gray moved in on his prey. ‘Er – tell me, Mr Hopkins, and I know this is a bit of a delicate question, but it’s relevant to my premise – ’
‘Ask away,’ said Hopkins cheerfully. ‘I’m not backwards in coming forwards.’
‘What sort of salary would a planning officer, such as yourself, earn these days?’
‘Oh – not a tremendous amount. These days, I suppose about thirty thousand, possibly forty.’
‘Good heavens. That sounds pretty poor to me. Especially compared with what the architects get. Cigar?’
‘Oh – yes, thank you. Well absolutely. You’re quite right. Pretty unfair, some would say. As at least fifty per cent of the responsibility for the developments is down to us. And frankly it riles me. It really does. But there it is – there is no justice, is there?’
‘Not a lot. But it didn’t bother you?’
‘Oh well, I certainly wouldn’t say – ’ He visibly checked himself, hauled himself back into line — ‘No, no, not too much. It was the job satisfaction, you see – ’
‘And the perks?’ said Gray.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said the perks. Surely there must have been some.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,’ said Hopkins. He had become very still suddenly; his hand frozen round his brandy glass, the cigar clamped between his teeth.
‘Oh come on. We all get them,’ said Gray cheerfully. ‘For us guys, it’s the freebies – holidays, that we then write books or articles about, I went on a sailing trip in the Caribbean only last spring – and there are endless lunches, all that sort of thing. People writing biographies of famous people get put up for months in luxury. Bank managers get crates of wine, bottles of whisky at Christmas. Same for solicitors. Now you’re not going to tell me that nothing like that ever came your way. Come on, Mr Hopkins, you seem like a man of the world to me. I’ve heard of all sorts of scams in your business, expensive cruises, luxury cars, houses abroad, all given to planners by grateful developers. I can’t believe you never came across anything like that.’
He was completely unprepared for Hopkins’ reaction. He stood up, his face white with rage, threw his napkin down on the table. ‘I think this interview should end right here,’ he said. ‘And I think moreover, Mr Townsend, you should be extremely careful what you say. There are laws of slander in this country you know, and – ’
‘Mr Hopkins, calm down,’ said Gray soothingly. ‘I wasn’t for a moment suggesting you were personally involved in anything like that.’
‘Well, I’m extremely glad to hear it. But I don’t like your tone just the same. And I do assure you you could not be more wrong. After Poulson, people thought we were all into that and of course we weren’t. Aren’t. We’re professional men, doing a decent job.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Gray soothingly. ‘Now look, Mr Hopkins – ’ he switched off his tape recorder – ‘this is strictly off the record, just chatting. I’m not from the Sun or the Mirror, you know.’
‘And how do I know that?’
Christ, he was sharp. ‘Well, you have to take it on trust, I’m afraid. You could ring them and check. And surely you got the letter. From my publishers.’
‘I did, yes.’
Nice one that. Good old Tricia. The letters she’d written in her time. ‘Well then. And I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. It’s just the psychology of it, if you like. It intrigues me.’
‘Well, you’d better find something else to intrigue you. All right? Good afternoon, Mr Townsend. And I think you should know, I do have a very good solicitor.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Gray. ‘Anyway, you get off now, to your golf course.’ He paused. ‘Your membership of Gleneagles, that you’ve had for years.’ This was a wild card, but it was time to play it. ‘That can’t be cheap. Does Bard Channing pick up that tab for you? That and the timeshare in Portugal, on the golf complex there?’
He could see by the dazed look on Hopkins’ face, the full flat flush, that wild as it was, it was right. He smiled at him very sweetly. ‘Sorry if I startled you. Don’t let me keep you now. You get off to your nineteenth hole. And thanks a lot for your help. I’ve enjoyed it very much.’
Long after Clive Hopkins had disappeared, without a word, long after he had paid the immense lunch bill even, Gray sat at the table, gazing over the lovely blue of Torbay and thinking. So Bard Channing had been – no doubt still was – into bribery: that in itself was not so spurprising or even shocking. It was an important element in the story, insight into the man and how he operated. But he still felt a very long way from an explanation of Nigel Clarke’s death – and why Channing felt so extremely guilty about it.
It was not until he was halfway back up the M5 that he remembered Hopkins’ contemptuous dismissal of Clarke, and realised what it probably meant.
It was a rather chilly evening for July: Marcia Grainger, who had arrived home late after a particularly difficult day, discovered that was not only the thought of the hard-boiled egg salad she had planned to make distinctly unappealing, but she was also extremely hungry. After a brief struggle with temptation, temptation won, and she picked up the phone and ordered a chicken vindaloo from the Indian takeaway just down the road. She changed into a tracksuit, took a can of lager out of her fridge (thinking as always how astonished those whom she dealt with all day would be to see her now), and picked out Brief Encounter from her vast selection of videos.
The curry was a little while arriving, and she had opened a second can of lager before she settled down to it. She was feeling a little light headed by then, and told herself therefore that the very slightly odd flavour of the chicken was due to that, rather than anything more sinister.
And at eleven-thirty, the traumas of her day having been most effectively banished, she had a hot bath and went to bed.
Liam was uncertain what to do next. He had, since his marriage, had several affairs, and in each of them had been in bed with the woman in question within a couple of weeks. This was quite different: more difficult, more complex and a great deal slower. There had, of course, been considerable complications and impediments: not many seductions were conducted from a hospital bed in a public ward, and over the considerable physical obstacle of a badly broken leg; few potential mistresses were their putative lovers’ stepmothers. But that made the situation all the more interesting, gave it a raw, sexual edge; the combination of the genuine desire he felt for Francesca, and the joy of knowing its fulfilment would hurt and damage his father irreparably, was intense. But he did have to be very patient with her. He knew she wanted him, knew that she was charmed, very seriously tempted, by him, knew that by her swift, physical response to him the day before. She was like a tentative small bird on the edge of the nest, the nest of her marriage, the nest that had become so uncomfortable; almost ready, but still afraid to try her chance on the air, for a short while at least. If he started nudging her too hard, she would tumble back determinedly into it, and refuse even to look out of it again. Especially as the situation was, by any standards, so extraordinarily complex.
This was not, he decided, hobbling across to the sideboard to pour himself a drink, a seduction at all: it was a piece of psychological warfare, and timing was everything.
He stood, glass of whisky in hand, thinking now about his father: he was clearly in serious trouble, any fool could see that, obviously yesterday there had been some immense crisis that he’d had to attend to. Possibly, probably even, he had the skids under him, was about to go right under. He had always sailed extremely close to the wind; it was his instinctive style. Liam could remember, dimly, early discussi
ons with Duggie Booth, Nigel Clarke, with Granny Jess, just casual ones, outlining his philosophy, over the kitchen table, across Jess’s parlour, could remember him saying, ‘You have to take risks, you have to go out there, nobody ever achieved anything sitting by the hearth.’ But it looked as if he had risked too much this time, strayed too far from the hearth. If he lost his wife at the same time, that would be very painful for him.
The racing pulse, Liam thought, contemplating this course of events, was not just a vividly descriptive phrase; it was a physical fact. He could feel his racing now. Very fast indeed.
Marcia Grainger sat in her perfectly ordered office, thanking heaven that Bard was not coming in that morning, and trying to concentrate on her work and ignore the persistent rumblings of her stomach, a growing nausea, and an increasingly vivid memory of the chicken vindaloo of the night before – and its just slightly odd taste.
By half-past ten, she had had to rush into the ladies’ several times, and when at a quarter to eleven she heard Bard Channing’s direct line ringing, she could scarcely find the strength to get across his office to answer it.
The Dilemma Page 48
