The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  The voice on the other end of the phone did not serve to make her feel any better, being arrogant and ill educated at the same time, the sort she liked least, and the name it gave was only faintly familiar to her.

  ‘So I want him to ring me urgently,’ it said, ‘most urgently, on this number. It’s very important. Now did you get that?’

  It was at this point that a fresh spasm gripped Marcia; the combination of that, the caller’s tone and the fact that he was addressing her as if she were a half-witted school-leaver meant that he got the treatment so familiar to Oliver Clarke and Rachel Duncan-Brown and indeed a large number of other unwelcome callers, and his message was consigned to oblivion.

  If it was really important he would phone again, she told herself, rushing desperately, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth, along the corridor; and Bard Channing would simply not believe him if he told him he had phoned before. He never did. He couldn’t afford to.

  ‘I tell you what I long to do,’ said Kirsten to Oliver, as they sat over a very protracted meal at the Pizza on the Park, waiting for the jazz to begin. ‘Go through the tunnel, go to Paris on the train. Don’t you?’

  ‘Not specially,’ said Oliver.

  ‘You’ve got no soul.’

  ‘I have a lot of soul, actually,’ he said, more than half serious, ‘and I don’t know that I like the thought of that tunnel. We’re not an island any more.’

  ‘Oh Oliver, honestly, you really are an old fogey. Oh, go on, it’d be such fun, such an adventure. And romantic. Let’s go, shall we?’

  ‘All right,’ he said, smiling at her, taking her hand across the table and kissing it. ‘Let’s go. I’ll book the tickets on Monday.’

  It was her using the word romantic that he really couldn’t resist. She was still a constant surprise to him.

  At much the same time, Mrs Clive Hopkins stood in the immaculate lounge of her house in Babbacombe, dialling 999, willing it to answer, her own heart beating desperately hard as she watched her husband enduring the now familiar traumas of a major heart attack. He was lying on the floor, his head supported on cushions, his collar loosened (as she had learnt to do for him on previous occasions). Still held loosely in his hand was the previous week’s copy of the News on Sunday; face uppermost and right across three columns on the front page was an article on the rising economic crisis, the byline of the journalist Graydon Townsend.

  Kitty wasn’t well. She had seemed so much better and for such a long time that Francesca had almost stopped worrying about her. Or at least worrying in an active, gnawing way; it had become a more passive, more background emotion, something she never stopped being aware of, but which didn’t actually dominate everything, overshadow her life as it had in the early days. Also, she thought, looking anxiously into Kitty’s cot, castigating herself for the fact, she had had rather a lot of other things to dominate her life recently. The baby was lying listlessly, snuffling and even coughing a little, instead of bouncing up and down holding the bars as she had started to do, and her eyes were dull and heavy. Francesca looked at her and her heart contracted with fear; she called Nanny, who said she thought it was only a cold.

  ‘And she’s teething as well, I really don’t think – ’

  ‘Yes, but Mr Lauder said colds were dangerous, you know he did.’ She bent down, stroked Kitty’s dark curls; she lay looking up at her mother, smiling rather half-heartedly, rubbing her small fists across her snotty face. ‘I’m going to take her to see him.’

  ‘Mrs Channing, I really don’t think it’s necessary.’

  ‘Nanny, I don’t care what you think or don’t think. I’m going to call him.’

  Mr Lauder was just slightly terse on the phone, carefully polite. ‘Does she have a temperature, Mrs Channing?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. But she’s very listless, and she’s a bit wheezy. I’d really like to bring her to see you.’

  ‘I’m very busy, Mrs Channing. It’s my operating day, I really would rather you saw your GP. Unless you honestly think it’s an emergency, in which case – ’

  ‘No, it’s not an emergency. But I’d so like you to look at her. As you know her case so well, as you spotted it in the first place. Listen to her chest, check her heart. Please. You did say a cold might be a problem.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you might have quite a wait, and I can’t see her in any case until this afternoon. Surely – ’

  ‘Mr Lauder, I want you to see her,’ said Francesca firmly. ‘Please. I don’t mind waiting.’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Channing. Come at three-thirty. But I can’t promise to be there.’

  ‘No. I mean yes. That’s fine. Thank you very much, Mr Lauder.’

  He rang off without even saying goodbye.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ said Nanny when she went back into the nursery.

  ‘Oh – that yes, of course he would like to see her.’

  ‘He didn’t suggest the GP?’

  ‘Nanny, Kitty isn’t an ordinary baby,’ said Francesca, struggling to keep her voice from rising, ‘she has a hole in her heart. We have to take enormous care. The GP missed that in the first place. Of course I want her to see Mr Lauder.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nanny, ‘of course you do.’ Her tone and her expression made it very plain that Francesca’s opinion was entirely foolish.

  When they reached Mr Lauder’s consulting rooms, his receptionist said she was very sorry, he was still not back. ‘The hospital phoned with an emergency admission. I’m sorry, Mrs Channing.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Francesca, looking at the hour ahead with foreboding, Kitty wailing and fidgeting endlessly. ‘He did warn me. We’ll just sit here and eat a few magazines.’

  The receptionist smiled knowing at once what she meant. ‘Mine were just the same. I’ve got a few old ones she can tear up. I’ll go and get them. And would she like some orange juice or something?’

  By the time Mr Lauder returned, Kitty had cheered up enormously; a drink and a few magazines, shredded carefully across the waiting-room floor seemed to have cured her, apart from her small nose, which was by now extremely red and runny. Francesca looked at her with a degree of irritation. ‘You seem to be fine,’ she said aloud. ‘Looks like Nanny was right, damn her.’

  Nanny had indeed been right; a weary-looking Mr Lauder, clearly struggling to be patient, examined Kitty, listened to her chest and pronounced her perfectly well. ‘She has a cold. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. But – ’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right, Mrs Channing,’ he said, smiling at her with a distinct effort. ‘Quite understandable, that you should want to have her checked. And it’s always wise to make sure. But next time, if it is a cold, then there’s really not too much need to worry. Especially now her medication seems to be working so effectively.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I see,’ said Francesca humbly.

  ‘Anyway, I should take her back home now if I were you. Give her a nice long bath, the steam will help to clear those tubes, and I think you’ll find she’ll be right as rain in the morning.’

  Maureen Hopkins sat by her husband’s bed in the hospital; his breathing was laboured and he was a ghastly colour, but she had been assured he was almost certainly going to be all right. She found it hard to believe.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her; she smiled into his face, took his hand. He pulled her down towards him.

  ‘You must – ’ His voice was hoarse, hard to hear. ‘You must ring Mr Channing.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ She patted the hand soothingly. ‘Yes, I will. You rest now.’

  ‘Promise.’ He seemed agitated. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Yes, dear, I promise.’

  ‘Tell him – tell him I must talk to him. Tell him I’m here, that it’s very important.’

  ‘Yes, darling, I will. Next time I go home.’

  ‘The number’s in my address book. His home number. On the desk. Don’t wait, Maureen, go home now and do it.’

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nbsp; ‘Yes, dear, I will.’

  When she got home, she found the number, and dialled it. After three rings an answering machine came on. Maureen Hopkins didn’t like answering machines, they made her nervous. She rang off and marshalled her thoughts, jotted down what she needed to say and then rang again. She did her best but she was afraid it wasn’t very impressive. Anyway, she could report to Clive that she had done what he had asked and perhaps now he would now calm down a bit. It really coudn’t be very important, probably about some dinner or other. He hated letting people down.

  The house was very quiet when Francesca got home; Sandie had gone out, and the dull thud of rock music that indicated Barnaby’s presence was still. Nanny had obviously taken Jack out somewhere. He was filled with restless energy these days; more and more like Bard.

  Kitty had fallen asleep in the car and she managed to ease her into her cot without waking her. Little fraud, she thought, smiling indulgently down at her; frightening me like that. Making Mr Lauder cross with me. Well, next time she’d know. If it was a cold.

  She went slowly back downstairs, and as she passed the study she heard the answering machine bleeping. She went in and pressed the button: three messages. One was clearly for Barnaby: short and to the point. ‘Take your invitation, Channing,’ it said, ‘and stuff it up your own arse.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Francesca aloud: she supposed Barnaby couldn’t really be held responsible for his friends, but he’d have to ask them not to leave obscenities on the phone in his father’s house. Jack might listen to them, or still worse, Nanny.

  The second was from Diana Martin-Wright, saying she was very surprised that Francesca had still not reached her advertising sales target for the ball programme – ‘I bet you are,’ said Francesca aloud – and wondering if she and Bard would like to come to a charity performance at Covent Garden on 9 September. ‘Let me know as soon as possible, won’t you, I have a huge queue of chums wanting to come.’

  Francesca decided two others from the huge queue could accompany the Martin-Wrights, and concentrated on the third message. It was from a woman, a very nervous-sounding woman.

  ‘This is Maureen Hopkins. I’m very sorry to bother you, Mr Channing, but my husband is ill. He’s in hospital, getting better now, and he wanted you to know that. Oh, and the hospital is St Mary’s, Torquay, if you want to go and see him. Thank you.’

  Poor Maureen Hopkins, thought Francesca, she was obviously very worried about her husband. She wondered who she or indeed who Mr Hopkins was: probably someone who had once worked for Bard. Well, she could pass the message on to Bard; presumably he would appreciate the significance of it.

  She went down to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich and some coffee, and to wait for Kitty to wake up.

  ‘Damn damn damn,’ said Kirsten, ‘where is the bloody thing?’ The bloody thing in question being her camera, which she really wanted for the weekend and for their trip to Paris (booked by Oliver for a fortnight’s time), and which she had turned her flat all over for. And then she remembered: she’d lent it to Tory, who had wanted to take some pictures of Jack on his pony one day in the summer; and Tory had managed to leave it behind, assured her she would ask Francesca to bring it up to London.

  She phoned her at the scruffy boutique in the Fulham Road where Tory was earning some holiday money and asked where it was now.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Tory, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot, it’s still at the house.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to go and get it for me, I don’t want to run into either of them, specially Dad after our last little encounter. I don’t think that’d be a good idea. I told him I’d never speak to him or see him again, and I meant it.’

  ‘Very unlikely you’d see him, I should think,’ said Victoria. ‘He’s hardly ever home at the moment. Barnaby says he comes home to sleep occasionally, and leaves again at dawn. He’s having a nightmare time,’ she added. ‘I wonder if the company’s going to crash.’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Kirsten.

  ‘Kirsten! That’s horrid.’

  ‘Tory, I don’t give a shit if it crashes. And even if it does, Dad’ll rise from the wreckage, holding a gold watch, you know he will.’

  ‘You might give a shit if it did crash.’

  ‘Why? I don’t get anything from him. And I certainly don’t care about him, or his precious little family.’

  ‘Oh, Kirsten,’ said Tory with a sigh, ‘all right, have it your own way. What does Oliver say about it?’

  ‘Oliver? How should I know?’ said Kirsten carelessly.

  ‘Because you’re seeing him, that’s how you should know.’

  ‘I’m not seeing him.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Tory, ‘I could have sworn that was him in your car the other night, when I drove past your flat, holding hands over the steering wheel. Poor Oliver.’

  ‘Why poor Oliver?’

  ‘Because he’s so nice. And so vulnerable. And you’ll break his heart.’

  ‘He’s not all that vulnerable, actually,’ said Kirsten, ‘and I have no intention of breaking his heart. Look, don’t worry about the camera, I’ll ring Sandie and ask her to find it, and post it or something. I’ll never lend you anything again, Tory, I really won’t.’

  Sandie found the camera.

  ‘I’ve got it here, with your sunglasses. Want me to post it to you?’

  ‘My sunglasses! God, she must have taken them too. Well, you certainly can’t post them. Look – is Mrs Channing there?’

  ‘No, she’s out, getting her hair done and God knows what. They’ve got a big dinner party this weekend. In the country.’

  ‘And my dad’s not there?’

  ‘No, course not. He’s never here, I’ve almost forgotten what he looks like. He works much too hard, poor bloke.’

  ‘Right. Well, I think I’ll pop up at lunchtime, Sandie.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Sandie.

  She took a taxi from the office, ran up the steps. Sandie let her in.

  ‘Here you are. And I found that T-shirt you were asking about last time. I think Tory had that as well.’

  ‘Bitch. Thank you. Thank you very much. How are you, Sandie?’

  ‘I’m fine. D’you want a quick coffee?’

  ‘Um – yes, why not? As long as you’re sure my stepmother won’t suddenly appear?’

  ‘She won’t. Not till much later. Then tomorrow she’s off to the country. I’ve got to go down there too, help with the flowers and so on. And I’ve got to do some puddings for the dinner party. She asks a lot of me, I must say. One house is enough, I’d say.’

  ‘I would too. Surely they have someone down there?’

  ‘Well, yes, they do, but I don’t think she’s much of a cook. Usually they get someone in to do it, but she’s away. And Mrs Channing is very strong on the flattery. You know, there’s a lot of “Oh, Sandie, that is just wonderful, thank you so much,” and “Oh, Sandie, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” It’s all very well, but she never seems to think of giving me extra money.’

  ‘You don’t terribly like her, do you, Sandie?’ said Kirten casually.

  ‘Well, she’s all right. But she’s a bit thoughtless. And high handed. Been worse lately. Ticking me off for giving Jack sweets, went mad because I’d not got her dry cleaning. Well, she didn’t say it was urgent. “I have to have the red dress for the dinner party, Sandie, and that’s that,” she said. “You’ll have to organise it somehow.” ’

  ‘Silly cow,’ said Kirsten. She knew it was silly, to badmouth Francesca to someone who worked for her, and who didn’t like her very much, but she found it almost irresistible. ‘Why can’t she get her own dry cleaning? She can’t have that much to do. She’s got Nanny as well, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said Sandie. She got up, fetched the coffee pot, refilled Kirsten’s cup.

  ‘Oh I know, all that crappy charity stuff of hers and her dinner parties. Big deal.’

  ‘I didn’t just mean that.’


  There was something in her voice that caught at Kirsten’s attention. She looked at Sandie sharply.

  ‘What did you mean, then?’

  ‘Oh – nothing much. She seemed to find plenty of time to go and visit Liam in hospital.’

  ‘Liam! Francesca visited Liam in hospital?’

  ‘Oh, two, three times a week.’

  ‘Good Lord. What did my father have to say about that?’

  ‘I don’t think he knew,’ said Sandie, carefully casual. ‘Well, certainly not how often she went.’

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes.’ She paused, looked at Kirsten over her coffee mug, then said, ‘He was here the other day.’

  ‘Liam! Here? You’re kidding.’

  ‘No, he was here.’

  ‘Was my father?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Sandie, ‘your dad wasn’t here. He was away. Everyone was away. They were here on their own. He was just leaving when I came round the corner. Blowing each other kisses, they were. Drinking champagne too, empty bottle on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Kirsten. This was the most intriguing, unlikely thing she had ever heard. Liam, who so famously hated Francesca he would never even speak to her, coming to the house, visiting her alone. How bizarre. What on earth was going on? Surely, surely not – But no. That really was unthinkable. And then she suddenly felt, intriguing as this was, it had gone far enough, even for her. She stood up.

  ‘Sandie, I must go. Could you possibly call a cab for me? Put it on the account, no-one’ll ever notice.’

  ‘Course I will.’

  All the way back to the office, and indeed all afternoon, she kept turning this extraordinary conversation over and over in her head, trying to make sense of it, wondering if what Sandie clearly saw as the explanation could be at all possible, and deciding again and again it simply couldn’t be. Simply couldn’t. Could it?