‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘And how in the name of God did it happen? I really would like to know. When he has so repeatedly refused to see you, to speak to you over the years, how did you manage to end up in his bed?’
‘Well – I went to see him in hospital,’ she said, more quietly still. ‘You know that.’
‘Ah yes, of course. And how many times was that? Once? Twice?’
‘A – a few times.’
‘When you knew, when I had told you, that I didn’t want you to.’
‘That was absurd,’ she said, ‘forbidding me to go and see your own son, when he had nearly died.’
‘My own son, who was quite happy, it seems, to have an affair with my wife.’
‘Bard, you don’t understand – ’
‘Oh, but I think I do. I think I do very well. And from there on you saw him again, did you? Again and again, it seems. Here?’
She thought quickly. If he thought, if he even suspected she had been to bed with Liam in the house, he would surely kill her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, he came here once. A long time – weeks ago. Nothing happened, nothing at all, we just – talked …’
‘You talked! How very charming. For fuck’s sake, what did you have to talk about?’
‘I was – well, I was upset. He – oh God, this is absurd.’
‘I agree. Quite absurd. You were upset, so my son, the son I had always been led to believe hated you as much as he hated me, came to visit you. And then you drank champagne with him, and kissed him. Oh, I have all the details, you see.’
How, how did he know, who had told him? There had been no-one at the house, no-one had seen them.
‘And have you seen him since then?’
Another silence.
‘Francesca, I know you have. I know it. You were at Brown’s Hotel with him, were you not? Only last week? While I was away?’
His voice was suddenly a roar; a wild, almost primitive roar. She was so startled, so shocked, she put her hands over her ears.
‘Stop it. Stop this, Bard, stop it at once.’
‘Why should I stop it?’ he said, coming much closer to her, his voice, his face, menacing. ‘Why the fuck should I stop it, when you’ve done this disgusting thing? Sweet Jesus help me.’
Francesca looked at him, at the black dangerous eyes, the heavy face so ugly in its rage, and something overwhelmed her entirely, a sweet hot courage, and she didn’t feel frightened any more, didn’t want to save herself. She wanted him to know the truth, how she really felt, how it had happened …
‘Yes, Bard, I have. Done this disgusting thing, as you call it,’ she said, and her voice was very steady now, she could hear it, was relieved, drew fresh courage from it. ‘And I feel in many ways quite horribly ashamed, of course I do. And desperately sorry to have caused you such pain.’
‘How very sweet of you,’ he said. He drew away from her, dropped into a chair, sat staring up at her, shaking his head in some kind of incredulity. ‘I would not have believed it of you,’ he said. ‘I really would not.’
‘Well, let me help you to believe it, tell you how it happened.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear. I’ve heard quite enough.’
‘Bard, you will hear. You will. If you had heard me, listened to me before, it wouldn’t have happened.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, ‘so now it’s my fault, is it? I might have guessed that, I suppose. You’ve been listening to that self-indulgent, devious pervert of a son of mine, I suspect. You really shouldn’t, Francesca, he’s extremely dangerous.’
‘Of course he’s not dangerous.’ (Who else had said that? Oh, yes, Granny Jess, at lunch, yesterday, a lifetime ago.) ‘Liam is unhappy, hurt, damaged, you seem completely to miss that point. And in one way, yes, it is your fault. Because of what you have done to me. He has been kind, gentle, understanding, at a time when you have ignored me, humiliated me, treated me like a moronic child, blocked me out of your life, refused to share anything of your life with me, refused to discuss your problems, your troubles, when your secretary was permitted to be far closer to you than I am, when you and my own mother shared a secret that concerned me intimately. You cannot call that a marriage, Bard. And you are not what I thought you were.’
‘Oh I see.’ He looked at her with immense distaste. ‘And what was that, what did you think I was? Some kind of indulgent sugar daddy, someone who’d give you everything you wanted and not demand things in return, turn you into a rich wife, buy you nice clothes, enable you to play all those bloody silly games of yours, the charities, the lunches – ’
‘That is a filthy thing to say,’ she said, quite quietly. ‘I have no interest in your money, I never did, it is of no importance to me. Actually what your money does, has done, is damaging to me, it’s taken away my career – ’
‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, ‘spare me that, Francesca, please, that feminist claptrap. You and your fucking career. What did you want of me, then, or perhaps I should say what did you come to want of me, I seemed sufficient for you in the beginning – ’
‘I suppose,’ she said, very slowly, ‘I wanted to be what you needed. And I wasn’t. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And Liam? Is he what you – need?’ The word was turned into an obscenity.
‘Yes. Yes, he is. Exactly what I need. Which is how and why it has all happened. And for a long time Liam has been no more than a loving friend to me, and the credit for that is entirely due to me and to him and not in the least to you. And you can believe that or not as you wish, it is of little interest to me.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I do find it very hard to believe. So then what happened, in this touching story?’
‘Well,’ she said, gathering all her courage about her, ‘well, then what happened was that I did – we did – ’
‘Let me help you here,’ he said, ‘since you seem to be having trouble finding the words. You fucked him. How will that do? You went to bed with him and fucked him, didn’t you, Francesca, that’s what you did?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘yes, I did. And it was terribly wrong. I know that. But in my defence, I can only tell you that you had hurt me once too often. It was beyond endurance, Bard, I’m afraid. In the end it was as simple as that.’
‘Simple!’ he said. ‘Simple! An incestuous love affair, and you call it simple. Dear God. Well, at least now I know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Why you won’t help me, do what I’ve asked of you. It would suit you rather well, wouldn’t it, to have me in jail, locked up for a few years? While you carried on your little romance – ’
‘Bard, that is ridiculous. A vile thing to say. How can you even imply such a thing?’
‘Quite easily,’ he said, ‘quite easily actually. It makes perfect sense to me. You’ve been having an affair. An affair with my own son. Think you’re in love with him, no doubt. And here, dropped into your lap, is a nice, neat way for you to be able to pursue it. Now that is what I would call vile, Francesca. Absolutely vile. You horrify me. You really do.’
She sat there absorbing this, absorbing this view of her, this dreadful, ugly view, and thought that whatever she had done, she did not deserve it.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘well, I won’t horrify you any longer, Bard. I won’t continue in this farce of a marriage. I’m leaving you, now. But I want you to know, not even that has any bearing on my decision. Any bearing at all. If I decided it was right to – to help you, then I still would. Not for myself, or for you, but for the children, your mother, my own even. Perhaps that might serve to convince you I’m telling the truth, about that at least.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Francesca. I can’t.’
‘Well, and I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘that is your problem.’
And she walked past him out of the room, went up to their bedroom and packed a few things into a bag, and was in her c
ar, driving away from the house, before she even realised quite what she had done. And remembered then Liam’s words of only a few hours earlier: ‘I’m here for you, any time, any time at all, if you really need me.’
She really needed him now.
Barnaby decided he had better walk home. Home to St John’s Wood, rather than Kirsten’s flat. He needed to sober up, to think a bit. What he’d done hadn’t been very clever. Not very clever at all.
He’d looked pretty terrible, Oliver had, when he told him. A lot less like a shop window’s dummy. Just for a moment it had been worth it, to see that smug, concerned expression wiped off his face; but then it hadn’t been so good. He hadn’t said anything for a bit, just sat down and stared at him, and his face had gone from its usual colour, changed first to white, then grey.
‘Is that what she told you?’ he’d said. ‘Is that really what she told you?’
‘Well – yes,’ said Barnaby, just slightly uncertainly. ‘Well – ’
And while he was trying to think, to form some coherent words, to get his brain in sync with his mouth, which seemed extremely difficult, Oliver had stood up, and walked out of the bar.
‘Oh God,’ said Melinda, standing up too, ‘I’d better go after him. Sarah, Nick, I’m sorry. Please excuse me.’
She glared at Barnaby, her pretty little face set with distaste – and he thought in that moment it was the first time ever he’d seen her looking really sexy – and ran out into the street. He saw her look up and down and then, obviously seeing Oliver, start to run in the direction of the Strand. Barnaby had sat down, and looked rather helplessly at Sarah and Nick.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I hope I haven’t spoilt your evening.’
He thought as he walked home it really was the most cretinous remark he had ever made.
He started walking: up to Long Acre, into St Martin’s Lane, up Tottenham Court Road. He’d always hated Tottenham Court Road, with its endless line of greasy kebab bars, video shops and knee-deep litter; it looked like his vision of hell.
He cut across Marylebone Road, up into the sudden sweeping elegance of Regent’s Park, walked on. His head was clearing a bit now. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was even good. At least Oliver knew now. It might not have been the best way to tell him, but he had needed to know, Francesca had been quite right. And now he could decide what he wanted to do. He might even want to – Christ, suppose he wanted to marry Kirsten! At that thought Barnaby stood stock still. That would be really gross. To have Oliver in the family! Oliver with his perfect manners and his goody-goody ways. And not just him, but Melinda. Oh God. He wasn’t sure if he could face that.
He looked at his watch: it was still only ten-thirty. He felt as if whole days had passed since he’d left Kirsten. He wondered if he ought to tell her. He supposed he should. But she probably wouldn’t be terribly pleased. Maybe he could ask Francesca about that. Yes, she’d know what to do. Thank God for Francesca. He was where the park met the top of Baker Street now: not much further. He’d be home in another twenty minutes. His legs were feeling pretty weak, but his head was clearer. Yes, Francesca would know what to do. No doubt when he’d calmed down a bit, Oliver would go and talk to Kirsten and they could sort something out. He’d probably done them a favour really.
He walked, his legs almost buckling with weariness, past Lord’s, down Garden Road and into Hamilton Terrace. But when he finally reached the house, Francesca’s car was not outside, and when he knocked cautiously on the drawing-room door, seeing through the crack that his father was lying back on the sofa, listening – in a way most unlike him – to some very heavy, classical music, he looked at him in an almost dazed way and said that Francesca had gone out.
Well, it was all much too late to sort anything out now, and he really didn’t have the strength. Barnaby said goodnight to Bard and went up to his room.
Kirsten had gone to bed with two aspirins as a defence against her horribly throbbing head; the noise of the doorbell, ringing insistently, finally broke through her sleep.
She sat up, confused, shaking her hair back. Bloody Barnaby, must have forgotten his key. She pulled on her robe and walked rather unsteadily over to the intercom.
‘Barnaby,’ she said, ‘you’re hopeless.’
‘It’s not Barnaby,’ said a voice. ‘It’s Oliver. I have to talk to you.’
The room seemed to shift round Kirsten; she leant against the door, feeling faint. ‘Oliver? Why, what do you want?’ she said.
‘I told you. I have to talk to you.’
‘But – ’
‘Kirsten, open the door. It’s important.’
‘OK. Just – just a minute.’
She pulled her robe round her more firmly, wishing she hadn’t lost the cord, and pushed the buzzer. The door opened slowly, and Oliver was standing there.
He looked terrible. Really terrible. His face was grey, his eyes dull and heavy. He just stood there, staring at her, his eyes moving over her face and then her body. Heavy, hostile eyes.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he said finally.
‘What?’
‘I said what are you playing at?’
‘Oliver, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Of course you do. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’
She waited, trying to think, trying to work out who might have told him. Then: ‘Yes,’ she said very quietly, ‘yes I am.’
‘And who’s the father?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘But you’re telling everyone else, aren’t you?’
‘What? Oliver, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re telling everyone else it’s me. That I’m the father of your baby.’
‘Oliver, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I swear, I swear, I’ve told no-one who the father is. Not one person.’
‘Maybe you don’t know,’ he said, and his voice was bitter.
‘Oliver! Don’t!’
‘Why not? It seems to me that’s quite likely. All that stuff about not sleeping around any more, saving yourself until you knew you really liked someone. Not letting me near you – ’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It’s true.’
‘Oliver, I wanted to, I wanted to so much. But – oh, this is ridiculous. I think you’d better go.’
‘I’m not going,’ he said, moving towards her, ‘until you’ve told me who the father of your baby is.’
‘Then you’ll be here a very long time,’ she said.
He stopped, looked at her; she met his eyes very levelly.
‘And why, in God’s name, let people think it’s mine? I suppose it’s quite likely really, isn’t it, the poor relation you’ve been slumming with, your father’s protégé, quite convenient too – ’ His eyes were glittering now, fixed on hers, his face ugly with rage, with bitterness.
She swallowed, steadied herself. ‘Oliver, stop this. Please. How did you get this idea?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’
‘Your brother told me,’ he said finally, ‘very charmingly, very loudly, across a crowded wine bar.’
‘What?’ It took a while for the words to make any sense. She sat down abruptly on the chair in the hall.
‘Oliver, I just can’t believe this.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if it’s not true, why do you think I’m here?’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel too good. Can we go into the kitchen?’
‘Yes, all right.’
He followed her in; she sat at the table, her head on her arms.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘Yes. Yes please.’
She drank it, then sat back in her chair, looking at him. ‘Oliver,’ she said, ‘I swear to you, I did not tell Barnaby you were the father of my child.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and sat down opposite her. He looked slightly nonplussed now. She
could see he was almost ready to believe her.
‘I’ll get my Bible if you like,’ she said with a ghost of a smile, ‘would that help? You know how I feel about all that.’
‘No,’ he said, and almost smiled himself, ‘no, it’s all right. I – well, I do believe you. But you must have told someone.’
‘I haven’t. I swear. They must have – well, they must have put two and two together. And added it up all wrong.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Barnaby and Tory. Nobody else knows. Nobody at all. And I’ve told them, both of them, again and again, there’s no question of my telling the father. No question at all.’
‘Oh,’ he said again. ‘But why not? I just don’t see.’
‘Because it would be absolutely – ’ she hesitated – ‘inappropriate.’
And then, most unexpectedly, for she had thought she was feeling quite in control, calm even, tears welled up, filled her eyes; she brushed them away impatiently. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said, and then, as she made a rather feeble effort to smile, groped for a tissue in her pocket, ‘here. Have a hanky. Add it to your collection.’
‘Thank you. I’ll send it – ’
‘Don’t. Keep it. Doesn’t matter.’
There was another long silence, then she said, ‘And I’m so sorry, so dreadfully sorry you should have had to go through that. It’s appalling. When I see Barney I’ll screw him to the wall.’
‘Well,’ he said, smiling suddenly, briefly, ‘I expect I’ll get over it.’
‘Was anyone else there?’
‘My sister. Two of her friends. And like I say, just about the whole of Covent Garden.’
‘Oh, God. Oliver, I’m so sorry.’
‘Do you think he’s told a few thousand other people?’
‘What? Oh God, I don’t know. I’ll speak to him in the morning. I don’t know where he is now. At some party, I think.’
‘With the most charming people.’
‘What? Oh, of course, the terrible Morag …’
The Dilemma Page 64
